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

easily pronounce in English and in French. My father rooted for Agatha. My mother, Cécile. Nobody came to an agreement. So they ended up picking the one they gave me. It has hideous diminutives, in both languages. You know, Mrs. Dalloway, if I hear that name in the street, I don’t even turn around. It’s not mine. Don’t ever use it.”

“Duly noted. Let’s get back to the questions. Can you tell me on which occasion you felt the deepest sadness?”

Clarissa realized the irritation she felt at the beginning had fizzled out. She’d lost her wariness, as well. Something inside had let go.

“The death of my son.”

She found it extraordinary that she could actually utter those words so straightforwardly. They had remained locked up for so long.

“Would you care to say a little more?”

“I can say this. When people ask me how many children I have, I always reply, ‘Two.’ I say, ‘Two children.’ I’ve been pregnant twice; I carried babies twice; I gave birth twice. It would be even sadder to say I’ve only had one child. It would be erasing my son’s existence.”

“Could you tell me his name?”

She wondered why Mrs. Dalloway would need to know that, but the words came tumbling out before she could stop them. She said his name out loud.

“Thank you, Clarissa. How did you fight the sadness?”

“The sadness never left me, Mrs. Dalloway. I learned to live with it. Writing helped.”

“Would you say this tragedy shaped the person you are today?”

Clarissa let out a short, curt laugh.

“In your humble opinion?”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand your query, Clarissa. Can you reformulate it?”

“Yes, there were repercussions. And yes, I still do suffer. Hypnosis helped me a lot.”

“Can you confirm your hypnotherapist’s name?”

“She’s no longer with us, I’m afraid. Her name was Elise Delaporte.”

“Would you like to hear her voice, Clarissa? That’s the kind of thing you can ask me to do for you.”

“Hear Elise’s voice? Oh, my God…”

“Please ask me, Clarissa.”

“Mrs. Dalloway, I’d like to listen to Elise Delaporte.”

First came silence. Then from its depths sprang the unforgettable silky, clear tones. Clarissa quivered, moved to tears. Elise! It didn’t matter what she was going on about; this was Elise, her Elise. She was talking to a journalist, answering questions about her profession, how she chose hypnosis, or rather, how it had chosen her. How she helped others. Clarissa closed her eyes and felt as if she were now in Elise’s small, hushed apartment; she could feel the firmness of the chair propping up her back while she surrendered to Elise’s voice, and in front of her eyelids the strange fluctuating white line began to appear, tracing its way ahead like a boundless, enticing path. In her palm, she almost felt the blue china cup filled with warm water that Elise had handed her after each session.

Elise was silent now. So was Mrs. Dalloway. Clarissa opened damp eyelids. The blue eyes vanished from the screen. A few sentences now showed up.

Congratulations, Clarissa Katsef. Your personal virtual assistant was successfully set up. C.A.S.A. wishes you a very pleasant day.

 NOTEBOOK

In the beginning, I did what all suspicious wives did. I went through his pockets. Nothing. I looked in his case. Nothing. His mobile was locked; so was his computer. No way I could get inside.

I started following him, my hair hidden under a baseball cap, a large jacket concealing my figure.

His office was near the Palais-Royal. I went to wait at the café just in front. I saw him come out with his colleagues, go have lunch nearby.

I felt silly. All this took time. I had other things to do than spy on my husband. But when I found another hair on his sweater, just as long, just as blond, I knew I couldn’t sit around doing nothing. It was an unbearable situation. At our ages, to have to face this again. The lies. The concealment.

He had always told me, the other times. It was he who came to see me, ashamed, red-faced, begging for my forgiveness. Nameless women. Unimportant women. One-night stands.

With my first husband, Toby, I had not had that problem. I had not been through that pain. I did what many women do: I forgave, closed my eyes. I had a couple of discreet affairs. Nothing serious. They did me good.

I don’t know why, but I instantly felt that this time, things were different. This affair wasn’t like the others. I didn’t yet know to what extent.

I took it upon myself to say nothing to anyone. I had to find out. I had to be patient. I ended up noticing it was often at the end of the day that I couldn’t get hold of him. His schedule became shady. So I continued to wait in front of his office, hidden under my cap.

There was that afternoon when he came out of his office carrying a small travel bag, in a hurry. He seemed happy. I’d never seen that bag. He rushed to the Métro. It was tough following him. Where was he going? Who was he going to meet?

My husband took a route that had nothing to do with our home. I followed, puzzled and anxious. He took the exit at Anvers station. I tried to think of someone we knew who lived around there, but no one came to mind. I looked at the name of the street: rue Dancourt. He entered a small passage and I was able to slip in before the gate closed behind him.

He went into a building on the left, and at that point, I did not dare follow him any longer. I kept back, observing the façade. It was an old edifice, fissured and dilapidated. I drew nearer to read the names on the intercom.

I had a dreadful shock.

His name was there. Our name. The name I’d been using, in my everyday life, for the past twenty years.

François ANTOINE

6th floor, left.

 3TOWER

So, why?

ROMAIN GARY, December 2, 1980

I begin to hear voices and I can’t concentrate.

VIRGINIA WOOLF, March 28, 1941