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  To my father,

  who taught me how to look at the future

  Not only our memories, but the things we have forgotten are “housed.” Our subconscious is “housed.” Our soul is an abode.

  —The Poetics of Space, Gaston Bachelard

  1

  KEY

  So I am doing what seems the best thing to do.

  VIRGINIA WOOLF, March 28, 1941

  This can obviously be held accountable to a nervous breakdown.

  ROMAIN GARY, December 2, 1980

  SHE VISITED TWENTY APARTMENTS before finding the right one. Nobody could imagine what an ordeal it had been, especially for a writer obsessed with houses, with what walls remembered. The building had been completed last year. It wasn’t far from the Tower, or what was left of the Tower. After the attack, the neighborhood had suffered. For years, the place remained a dusty and wrecked no-man’s-land ignored by all. Little by little, the vicinity was able to rise from its ashes. Architects had thought out harmonious neoclassical structures, as well as a vast green garden including the memorial and the space where the identical Tower was yet to be rebuilt. With the passing of time, this part of town had been able to recover its serenity. Tourists came flocking back.

  Mrs. Dalloway’s soft voice was heard.

  “Clarissa, you have incoming emails. One is from Mia White, not in your contact list, and one is from your father. Do you wish to read them now?”

  Her father! She checked her watch. One A.M. in Paris, midnight in London, and the old chap was still awake. Getting on for ninety-eight and full of beans.

  “I’ll read them later, Mrs. Dalloway. Please turn the computer off. And the lights in the living room.”

  In the beginning, she had felt guilty, bossing Mrs. Dalloway around. But she had gotten used to it. It was quite pleasurable, in fact. Mrs. Dalloway never appeared. She was merely a voice. But Clarissa knew Mrs. Dalloway had eyes and ears in every room. Clarissa often wondered what she would have looked like, had she existed. It was believed Virginia Woolf modeled Mrs. Dalloway’s character after a woman named Kitty Maxse, a frivolous party giver who had been a close friend, and who had met a tragic end, tumbling over her own banisters. Clarissa had looked up Kitty Maxse, and discovered photographs of a perfectly groomed lady with an hourglass figure and a dainty parasol.

  She stood in the dark living room, facing the window, clasping the cat close to her. The computer no longer glowed into the deepening darkness. Would she ever get used to this flat? It wasn’t so much the smell of new paint. There was something else. She couldn’t quite place it. She loved the view, though. High up above the ground level, away from the action, she felt safe, tucked into her own private shelter. Was she really safe? she wondered as the cat purred against her and the black night seemed to hem her in. Safe from what, safe from whom? Living alone was proving to be more difficult than she’d thought. She wondered what François was doing now. He was still in their old apartment. She imagined him in their living room, binge-watching a TV show, feet up on the table. What was the point of thinking of François? No point at all.

  Clarissa’s shortsighted eyes gazed down to the street, far below, where tipsy vacationers staggered, their laughter wafting up to her in a muffled roar. This new area of the city was never empty. Hordes of tourists materialized ceaselessly on sidewalks, in a dusty synchronicity that befuddled her. She had learned to avoid certain boulevards, where swarms of sightseers stood, vacuously, brandishing cell phones at what remained of the Tower, and the construction site of the new one. She had to wade through their compact mass, sometimes even had to elbow through them in order to get past.

  Watching the building across the street and all those beings behind each window would never tire her. Within the past weeks, since she’d been living here, she’d learned to pick out each occupant’s routine. She already knew who was sleepless, like she was, who worked late in front of a screen, who enjoyed a snack in the middle of the night. She couldn’t be seen; she was too high up, tucked away behind the stone cornices. Sometimes, she used her field glasses. She never felt guilty, although she would hate it if anyone spied on her that way. She always checked to see if someone was looking back at her. And even if no one was, why did she still feel an eye upon her?

  Other people’s lives unfolded in front of her, enticing alveoli forming a giant hive in which she could forage at her will, fueling her imagination boundlessly. Each opening was like a Hopper painting, lush with detail. The second-floor woman did her yoga every morning on a mat she rolled out with care. The third-floor family never stopped bickering. The slamming of those doors! The person on the sixth spent hours in the bathroom (yes, she could see through panes that weren’t opaque enough). The lady of her age on the fifth floor daydreamed on her sofa. She didn’t know their names, but she knew nearly everything about their daily existence. And it fascinated her.

  When she started to look for her new abode, she hadn’t realized to what extent she was going to trespass into unknown people’s intimacy. Each room told a story by the disposition of its furniture, objects, through odors, scents, and colors. She had only to walk into a living room to extricate a prescient vision of the person who lived there. She could picture the inhabitant’s life entirely in one dizzying and addictive flash. She saw it all, as if she had been provided with special internal sensors.

  She’d never forget the duplex flat situated on boulevard Saint-Germain, near Odéon. The description fit her needs perfectly. She liked the neighborhood, and already visualized herself trotting up the polished stairs daily. But once she was inside, the ceiling was so low, she practically had to hunch her back. The real estate agent had asked, jokingly, how tall she was. What an idiot! She was able to tell right away the owner worked in publishing, because of all the manuscripts piled up on the black lacquered desk. Some editors still revised texts on paper, but they were exceedingly rare. The bookshelves were full of hardcovers and paperbacks, a vision of joy for a writer. She tilted her head to read the titles. Yes, there were two of hers there, Topography of Intimacy and The Sleep Thief. It hadn’t been the first time she’d seen her own books while visiting a flat, but it invariably brought her pleasure.

  The duplex was lovely, but miniature. She couldn’t stand properly in any of the rooms; her body ate up all the space, like Alice in Wonderland becoming larger than the house. It was a shame, because the premises were sunny, quiet, giving on to a pretty interior courtyard. She hadn’t been able to stop herself from looking at the beauty products in the bathroom, perfume and makeup, and when the agent had opened the wardrobe, she had taken in the clothes and high-heeled pumps. Swiftly, the portrait of a woman had arisen: small, dainty, spick-and-span, young still, but alone. No love in her life. Something dry and barren permeated the place, shadowed the walls, upholstered the air. In the glossy brown bedchamber, the mattress had the funereal aspect of a tombstone, where all she
could perceive was a recumbent effigy, petrified by a century-long torpor. No one ever had orgasms within these walls, either alone or in company. A profound gloom oozed from the immaculate and silent rooms. She had fled.

  She began to see a flat a day. One time, she had felt sure she’d found the right home, at last. A cheerful fifth-floor flat with a balcony, near the Madeleine. It was sunny, one of her priorities. It had recently been renovated and the décor suited her. The owner was moving back to Switzerland. Since the attacks, his wife didn’t wish to go on living in the city. Clarissa had just been about to sign the lease, when she noticed, to her dismay, the existence of a rugby pub on the ground floor. She had always come in the morning, and hadn’t paid attention, as the bar was closed. She had returned later in the evening just to get a feel of the area at nighttime and had made the discovery. The pub opened every evening and operated until two o’clock in the morning. Jordan, her daughter, had made fun of her. So what? She could use earplugs, couldn’t she? But Clarissa hated those. She decided to test the noise level by spending the night in a small hotel across from the pub.

  “We have nice quiet rooms in the back,” said the receptionist when she checked in.

  “No, no”, she replied, “I want to be in front of the pub.”

  He had stared at her.

  “You won’t get much sleep. Even if there’s no game on, you’ll still get a lot of noise. And in the summertime, I can’t even begin to tell you what it’s like. The neighbors complain all the time.”

  She had thanked him and held out her hand for the card. He was right. Clients chatting on the sidewalk, pint in hand, had awakened her steadily until two in the morning. Every time the pub doors opened, loud music could be heard, very clearly, in spite of the double glazing. She called the agency the next morning and said she wouldn’t be taking the flat.

  Everything she ended up seeing failed to suit her. She began to lose hope. François had tried to hold her back. Didn’t she want to stay? She hadn’t wanted to hear a single word. Had he gone crazy? After everything he’d done? Did he really think she was going to shut up and stick around? Act like nothing had happened? When she had become desperate, and was even contemplating moving to London, into the dismal basement flat rented out to students in her father’s house in Hackney, she met Guillaume at the inaugural cocktail party for a bookstore-café in Montparnasse. She hadn’t planned to stay long, but the owner, Nathalie, was a fervent supporter of her work. The opening of a shop that sold books was such a rare event that she decided to go, and also out of friendship for Nathalie.

  She was introduced to a trim young man called Guillaume, a friend of Nathalie’s. He swiftly explained he had nothing to do with publishing, that calamitous business; he was into real estate. He offered her a glass of champagne, which she accepted. After the attack, the major part of the seventh arrondissement had to be rethought and rebuilt: everything situated between the Tower and the École Militaire, and between avenue de la Bourdonnais and boulevard de Grenelle. His firm had been chosen in order to reconstruct the area along the old track of avenue Charles-Floquet. Like most Parisians, Clarissa was aware that the streets and avenues that had been destroyed had been rebuilt differently, with new names. There had been an emphasis on foliage and vegetation. A peacefulness much needed by all, Guillaume had pointed out.

  Clarissa had never envisaged that recent neighborhood. It was probably expensive, she said to herself, out of her league. Guillaume proudly described the accommodation he’d created with his team, showing her photos on his mobile device. She admitted it was magnificent. Verdant, contemporary, striking. He chimed his number and emailed it to her phone. All she had to do, if ever she wanted more information, was to send him a text.

  “Are there any flats available?” she asked tentatively.

  “That’s complicated,” he said. “Yes, technically, there are, but they’re reserved for artists. There’s a quota we need to keep to.”

  She asked what he meant by “artists.” He shrugged, scratched his head. He meant painters, musicians, poets, singers, sculptors. There was a special residence just for them. But no one publicized it; otherwise, they’d be swamped. In order to get in, there were interviews, presentations, in front of a committee. Quite a thing. Serious stuff! Not many people made it.

  “What about writers? Haven’t you forgotten them?”

  She was right; he had forgotten writers. They were indeed artists, just as much as the others.

  “Can you tell me how I can sign up?”

  Obviously, he had no idea who she was, what she did. She didn’t mind; after all, her latest success had been published a while ago. She pulled him by the sleeve, all the way to the bookshelf labeled “K,” slid out Topography of Intimacy, and handed it to him under Nathalie’s curious gaze as she chatted a little farther away. He leafed through it, and said he was sorry he did not know more about her and her work. He never read books. He didn’t have time to read. Politely, he asked her what it was about.

  “It’s about writers and the link between their work, their homes, their intimacy, and their suicides, particularly Virginia Woolf and Romain Gary. It’s a novel, not an essay.”

  He was taken aback, staring down at the cover, where Gary’s blue eyes made an interesting contrast with Woolf’s dark ones.

  “Ah, yes” was all he could bring himself to say. He looked at her for the first time, and Clarissa knew what he was thinking, that she must have been good-looking once, and that, curiously, she still was.

  He suggested she contact a woman named Clémence Dutilleul, via a specific website, of which he gave her the address. She was the person who dealt with admissions concerning the artists’ residence. Clarissa had to hurry. There were very few vacancies. When she returned to the studio she rented weekly in order not to endure her husband’s presence, she went online to the website. She was certain she didn’t stand a chance, but why not register? That same night, she filled out a detailed questionnaire and sent it through a link to Clémence Dutilleul. She was most surprised to get an answer the next morning, and a proposal for a meeting scheduled the day after.

  “Do you really want to live where all those people were killed?” Jordan’s voice was ironic. “Especially you, obsessed with places? You’ve written about that over and over again. Won’t you be getting into trouble? You’ll never be able to sleep!”

  Clarissa tried to defend herself by stating that living in a city like Paris meant she walked over bloody tragedy every day, in every step she took. The new buildings attracted her because they had no past.

  * * *

  Clarissa went into the kitchen; the lights turned on as she glided by. Light switches had disappeared years ago, and she rather liked it. She had been told, when she moved in last month, that she could name the apartment’s virtual assistant with a term of her own choosing.

  “Mrs. Dalloway, turn on the kettle.”

  Mrs. Dalloway complied. Clarissa left most household matters to her. The heating, air conditioner, alarm, shutters, lighting scheme, automatic cleaning system, and all sorts of other tasks were under Mrs. Dalloway’s expert supervision. Clarissa was still getting used to it. She had hesitated between “Mrs. Danvers” and “Mrs. Dalloway” at first, before her unconditional veneration for Virginia Woolf had prevailed. And there was something rather frightening about Mrs. Danvers in Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca. Clarissa was alone now, in this flat, without her husband of many years. The tall, gaunt black figure of the devoted housekeeper, Manderley’s disquieting sentinel, was not a reassuring one. She was still trying to find her marks in this brand-new dwelling. Clarissa Dalloway seemed a far more comforting character, and she had inspired half of her pen name, after all.

  She prepared herbal tea, added a dollop of honey. It was artificial, of course, and tasted sugary and creamy. The real stuff was impossible to find. She had obtained a tiny treasured amount last year, through a clandestine connection, but at what price! Honey was now more expensive than cavia
r. So were flowers. Sometimes she pined for the smell of real roses, like the ones that had grown in her mother’s garden long ago. Fake roses were rather cleverly manufactured; they even boasted drops of false dew, twinkling like diamonds in their crimson hearts. The petals felt velvety at first, but soon a rubbery consistence took over. After a while, their pungent perfume revealed a nasty chemical whiff she could no longer stand.

  As she sipped the herbal tea and looked out to the rooftops across from her, she thought, not for the first time, that perhaps she had chosen this apartment too hastily in the wake of her sudden decision to leave François. Perhaps she should have given the move more thought. Was this the right place for her? The cat was her daughter’s idea. Jordan had told her cats were the perfect pets for writers. For solitary writers? Clarissa had asked. But just how solitary had she really wanted to be? The living room stretched out in front of her, its elegant minimalism still an enigma to her unaccustomed eye. It looked beautiful, but empty.

  Once she had decided to leave her husband, it had been a mad rush. She had believed, and how wrong she had been, that a new lodging was going to be easy to find. She wasn’t set on anything big, or fancy; she simply needed a room to work in. A room of one’s own, as her dear Virginia Woolf said. A living room and one bedroom, so that Adriana, nicknamed “Andy,” her granddaughter, could still come and spend the night. She wasn’t fussy either about the area she wanted to live in, as long as shopping was easy and public transport available. Nobody drove cars in the city. She had even forgotten how to drive. Another thing François and Jordan had done for her, on holiday. Now it was going to be Jordan’s job.

  The cat rubbed against her shins. She stooped to pick him up, catching him clumsily, as she wasn’t used to handling him yet. Her daughter had shown her how, but it hadn’t seemed easy. The cat’s name was Chablis. He was a three-year-old Chartreux with a mild nature. He’d belonged to one of Jordan’s friends, a woman who had moved to the States. It had been tough in the beginning. Chablis had stayed in his corner, never responding to her calls, and only deigned to nibble at his nuggets when she wasn’t there. She thought maybe he was sad and missed his mistress. Then one day, he came to sit on her lap in a very dignified manner, as still as a gray sphinx. She had hardly dared pet him.