Flowers of Darkness by Tatiana Rosnay (free ebook reader for iphone TXT) 📗

Clarissa took the glass of water the doctor handed her and had a few sips.

“Why?”

“Your writing process seems spellbinding. But your take on places and houses also appeals to us. Your evolution will be monitored closely, believe me. No need to be alarmed! You don’t have to hand in any homework, or pass any tests. Concerning fees, please be reassured. Your rent includes them. As you know, because you signed the tenancy agreement, your rent is worked out according to the sum of your royalties. The rent each artist pays will depend upon his or her circumstances. There is no standardized rent. C.A.S.A. individualizes it all.”

“And what if my royalties thin out, which is the case? What will happen?”

“Don’t worry. You have a two-year lease. That’s enough time for you to plan accordingly. We created this program in order to help artists develop their talents. It’s a long-term undertaking, as well as a special patronage. We invest because we believe in you.”

Clarissa noticed Dr. Dewinter’s countenance seemed deeply heartfelt, like a devoted mother at the bedside of a fragile child. She kept nodding her head, a flurry of manicured fingers pressed against her collarbone.

“Thank you,” said Clarissa, trying not to laugh. “I have another question for you. When you say ‘we,’ whom, exactly, do you mean?”

Dr. Dewinter displayed several images on her device. She showed Clarissa an organizational chart. Clarissa recognized the doctor, Clémence Dutilleul, the man who was with her during the interview, as well as young Quentin.

“We have about twenty people in our team. Most work here, at the headquarters. You’ll find more information in the file that was sent to you. If you don’t mind, I’d like us to come back to your virtual assistant’s setup. It’s a key moment of your integration here at C.A.S.A. Have you any queries regarding this? We attach a lot of importance to this step. Those never-ending questions might seem a little off-putting. Don’t give them too much thought. We want you to feel at ease, above all. This is essential to us.”

Dr. Dewinter’s teeth were large and spectacularly white. While she listened, Clarissa wondered if signing up for this apartment had been a wise choice. She hadn’t taken the time to find out more about C.A.S.A., to comb through the contract. She had been like a full-speed train steaming ahead. She had rushed forward without thinking it over. But had she really had the choice? she wondered. She never wanted to ask anything from François again. She no longer wished to depend on him. Her newfound freedom felt exceedingly precious. What would her run-of-the-mill existence be like now if her application hadn’t been selected? She could picture herself sleeping in her dad’s basement flat or on Jordan’s sofa. She observed Dr. Dewinter’s floppy, moist mouth. She pretended to listen, moving her head up and down. What was Dr. Dewinter’s private life like? Was she involved with a man? A woman? Both? She could picture Dr. Dewinter at home, applying makeup in front of a mirror. It no doubt took ages. What did the doctor look like first thing in the morning? Clarissa imagined her in the nude, choosing clothes in front of her wardrobe. A strange beauty emanated from her weighty yet graceful body. The doctor was talking about a prescription Clarissa was going to get by mail. A prescription? What for? She asked the doctor to repeat this. The doctor arched an eyebrow, with a slightly sour face that clearly meant Clarissa should be listening assiduously. A basic one, with vitamins and food supplements. Now back to configuration. Dr. Dewinter’s gums were exposed in a wide smile. Clarissa was going to have to be obliging, right? The doctor held out her hand one more time.

“I’m sure this will go well. I wish you a wonderful move into your new home. See you soon, Mrs. Katsef.”

The door closed and Clarissa was alone again, facing the screen. The blue eyes swiftly made their appearance.

“Here I am, Clarissa. Can we go on?”

“We may.”

“Good. We stopped at lies. Do you ever lie, Clarissa?”

The break with Dr. Dewinter had renewed Clarissa’s vigor. She felt curious; she very much wanted to know where the setting up was going to lead. She remembered that François had given her her first personal assistant for Christmas, years ago. It was a small gray cone that looked like a microphone. It answered all sorts of questions: what today’s weather was going to be, or tomorrow’s, a country’s capital, how to make gluten-free chocolate cake, calculate a sum, order something online. But the little cone hadn’t needed to get to know her or François any better. It had merely answered their questions. Clarissa suspected her present session with Mrs. Dalloway was imbedded in a far more complex tactic.

“Do I lie? Yes, Mrs. Dalloway, I lie every day. Writers are professional liars. They spend their life spinning stories. If we couldn’t lie, we wouldn’t be able to write.”

“Thank you, Clarissa. Can you tell about how you chose your pseudonym?”

“I’ve already answered many interviews regarding my pen name. Everything is online. Just look, Mrs. Dalloway.”

“Certainly. Here’s what I found.”

Pages and pages of articles filled the screen. Clarissa caught a glimpse of her own features, the face she’d had twenty years ago. A headline shot out: CLARISSA KATSEF’S VIBRANT TRIBUTE TO VIRGINIA WOOLF AND ROMAIN GARY.

“Indeed, I don’t need to know why you chose that particular pen name, Clarissa, since it’s all online, as you’ve pointed out, but I’d rather hear about why you don’t like your real name.”

“I loathe it. I’ve always loathed it. I don’t even pronounce it. Only my dad, my brother, and my nieces still call me that. You’ll find it easily, as it’s in all my identity documents. You probably know it already. It’s tough growing up with a name you hate. Why do I hate it? Where should I start? My parents had looked for a name you could