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

Perhaps, Clarissa reflected, it was at last time for her to banish the solitary mood tailing her since she’d moved here. She’d cut off ties with her friends, not responding to their calls, texts, or emails. She was well aware she couldn’t go on like this. Hiding, turning into a hermit was not going to help. She had to face things at some point. She had to get on with her life. She had always done that. She had never been afraid to do that. Her new frailty encumbered her, and this exasperated her.

Every morning, when she looked at her phone, there were texts from François sent during the night. They were all the same—begging for her forgiveness. She had thought of blocking his number. She never had, although she was itching to. She was still waiting to figure out how to talk to him, how to express her disgust, her resentment. That moment hadn’t come. Would it ever? she wondered. Was it important to voice her anger? The marriage was over. The trust was broken. So what was the point of talking to him? A part of her wanted to understand what had driven him to this, even if that meant delving into the darkest nooks of François’s secrets. Was she ready to hear these secrets? Not for the moment. And would she ever be? She had spent over twenty years with this man. Twenty years! François Antoine, her husband, was a stranger. A stranger she no longer wanted to have anything to do with. Was it possible to erase a person from your life? she wondered. Nothing linked them to each other, apart from the apartment near the Luxembourg Gardens, half of which belonged to her. They had not had children together. And she was very glad, today, that they hadn’t. There had been ups and downs, like for many couples. When François discovered he had cancer, she had helped him fight it and recover. She had been there for him. He had encouraged her to write, had helped her find a publisher for her first novel. Now that she had pulled away, she could pick out all the shady areas of their marriage, the snags, the traps, as if she had been poring over one of her beloved maps, spotting marshes, precipices, and ravines. It was all there. How could she have been so blind? How could she not have seen this coming?

“Clarissa, would you like to answer Mia White now?”

“Yes! However, I’m not going to dictate it to you, Mrs. Dalloway. I’m going to go sit in front of my computer, the good old-fashioned way, and write it myself!”

“Very well, Clarissa.”

Dear Mia White,

Please forgive me for not answering you sooner. I was in the middle of a move. Thank you for your emails. Welcome to Paris! You asked what I thought of the new district. In my opinion, it’s rather a success. The ruins caused by the attack were left there for years, as you know, as if no one had any idea what to do with the ghastly mess. It was abominable. An entire Parisian neighborhood, wiped out. This new area is white, modern, with lots of greenery. It’s quite well done. As for the Tower, I’m eager to see the hologram this week. I read the reconstruction work is going to take longer than they planned, and be more complicated, too. I think it’s a pretty good idea to re-create what the Tower looked like at nighttime. My granddaughter, nearly fifteen, is impatiently waiting for the moment the hologram goes up. She is too young to remember the real Tower.

I’d be very happy to meet you! I have time right now. I’m not totally invested in the new book yet. If you wish, we could meet in front of 108, rue du Bac, our pal Gary’s place. (Every time I walk past there, I see him raising his eyes to the sky to make them look even bluer, the way his mother asked him to.) We could then walk to the Seine and chat for an hour or so. What do you say to that?

All best,

Clarissa Katsef

The next morning, there was an ecstatic email from Mia White. She suggested meeting in two days’ time, at four, in front of Romain Gary’s last home.

Andy was at last coming to spend her first night in her grandmother’s flat. She was overexcited. She was going to sleep on the sofa in Clarissa’s small office, but Clarissa knew perfectly well Andy would end up in the big bed with her and Chablis. Not that she minded. She had to admit she missed the warmth of François’s sleeping body. They had always shared the same bed, even when he had been ill. She wondered: Was she finding it difficult to sleep because she was alone?

Mrs. Dalloway’s voice rang out melodiously.

“Clarissa, your granddaughter, Adriana, is in the lobby. Do you confirm access?”

The screen near the front door showed Andy’s face. Andy stuck out her tongue and squinted.

“Yes, Mrs. Dalloway. Please let Adriana up.”

Clarissa had prepared Andy’s favorite meal: tomato soup, baked potatoes with ham, cheese, and cream, chocolate cake. She remembered cooking it for Andy when she was three years old. When there were just the two of them, Andy wouldn’t have anything else. The doorbell chimed. Clarissa opened up and Andy came flying into her arms. Oh, how she loved this kid. They hugged as if they hadn’t seen each other for years.

“Why can’t I be as tall as you?” whined Andy.

“Because you haven’t stopped growing, missy. Give it time.”

“Mummy says that when you were fourteen, you were already a giant.”

“Your mum wasn’t around when I was fourteen!”

“Well, she saw old photos of you. She says you were taller than your brother.”

“I still am. He hates that.”

Andy pranced around the living room, waving her hands in the air.

“I’m so happy! I can smell the soup and the cake!”

The