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

DEEP, DARK NIGHT. She got out of bed without looking at the time. Before sleeping, she asked Mrs. Dalloway to activate night mode, which switched off the automatic lights. Night mode also meant Mrs. Dalloway could not disturb her by announcing an incoming email; she could only manifest herself in case of a fire or a break-in. Clarissa had dreamed of the lake again, of its cool depths, deprived of Virginia Woolf’s drowned face. Tongues of water caressing her skin in a sensual motion had awakened her; around her hummed the echo of a gentle voice, but she couldn’t make out to whom it belonged. And yet it had sounded familiar. A voice she loved. A voice that wanted no harm.

After a few weeks, Clarissa was used to walking along the dark corridor leading to the kitchen. She took fruit juice from the refrigerator, poured it out. Holding her glass, she went to the large window. It was late, but there were still lights shining out through the night. After drinking the juice, she took her field glasses and stepped back, not wanting to be seen. That lamp, on the sixth floor, straight ahead, was always lit. She could make out a desk, letters, a chair. That person was just like her: She or he did not sleep. But night after night, Clarissa never saw anyone sitting there. She ended up thinking the lights were turned on to simulate a presence and discourage burglars. There must be someone, however, because the leaflets on the table were frequently shifted. One night, there was even a steaming mug set on the desk’s wooden surface. She kept thinking about the voice she heard in her dream as she examined the room with her field glasses. She was convinced she had actually heard it; it was as if the voice had spoken to her in the middle of the night. She still felt the peacefulness it left in its wake.

As she adjusted her binoculars, she noticed with fright that a motionless silhouette had risen by the desk. She just had time to glimpse a pallid, bespectacled, uplifted face that appeared to be staring back at her. With a whimper, she stepped back, put the field glasses down, but even to her naked eye, the face seemed to follow her, lenses gleaming like two small headlamps riveted to her. Her heart thumped wildly. She moved backward again, let the darkness enfold her. The cat meowed; she had nearly stepped on him.

For a long moment, she remained motionless in the obscurity. Then she got a grip on herself. What was she doing? What was she frightened of? This was ridiculous! She was at home; she could watch whom she pleased. Being scared was not her style. She glided back in front of the window with a determined step, glanced down to the sixth floor. The lights were off. No one could be seen. She grabbed the binoculars, focused the lenses. In the dimness, she could see the outline of the desk. Paperwork, a pen. There was a tiny red dot glowing in the blackness like a strange beacon. Whatever was it? She watched it thrive, then abate. How odd. She suddenly understood, with another thump of her heart. It was a cigarette. The person facing her was smoking with the lights off. He—or she—was probably watching her, immersed by her binoculars. This time, she felt stupid. Her cheeks burned. Blushing! At her age! She couldn’t help laughing. It felt wonderful. She hadn’t laughed out loud in ages. Not since she had left her husband. The merry feeling warmed her up. She laughed so much, tears came to her eyes and she had to dab at them. With the cat on her heels, she went back to her room.

It was impossible to sleep. This was happening more and more often. A shower? Why not … The bathroom was small but well designed. Above the shower, a large skylight revealed a starry night. The water gently flowed along Clarissa’s tired body. Dr. Dewinter had explained that the bathroom was equipped with specific captors capable of monitoring her health, and that she didn’t have to do anything particular, apart from using a slim set of scales every morning, placing her palm daily on a square inlay situated near the washbasin, and glancing morning and night into a part of the mirror marked with a luminous speck. Her weight, her blood pressure, and her overall well-being were, consequently, recorded. She imagined the data was stocked somewhere, diligently inspected by Dr. Dewinter and her team. Had she been right to entrust them with intimate matters like her heath and to allow them such a hold? She hadn’t had the choice, she recalled. She had signed the C.A.S.A. contract blindly. A mistake? She had no idea. All she knew is that she felt free at last. Recently, she had looked up the meaning of C.A.S.A. in the file sent to her when she moved in. Center for Adaptive Synergy for Artists. Which meant everything and nothing.

She soaped herself unhurriedly, eyes glued to the dark blue patch of sky above her head. Now what? Get the divorce procedure moving. Think of positive things. There were many of them! Jordan. Andy. Her treasures. Writing her novel, in two languages simultaneously. Working again with the keen young screenwriters she wrote her TV series with. Listening to the music she loved, especially Chopin. Watching her favorite movies, finding new ones to see. Spending time with her dad. How lucky she was to have such a witty and sparkling father at nearly a hundred. Her friends also had aging parents, but hers was by far the one in the finest shape. Rereading Woolf, Gary, and all those other writers she still had to discover. Making the most of the sun pouring into her studio. Not letting herself get down. Banishing François from her mind.

Back in her room, she lay on her bed. Chablis snuggled up against her