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

“I went to get you croissants, and I met my charming fourth-floor neighbor.”

Andy appeared to be flustered.

“I need to talk to you!”’

Clarissa put the croissants in the oven.

“Mrs. Dalloway, heat the oven to one hundred and fifty degrees, please.”

“Right away, Clarissa.”

“Something happened!”

Startled, Clarissa turned to look at Andy, who was hopping up and down.

“What’s up, missy?”

Andy lowered her voice.

“Mrs. Dalloway talked to me!”

“What do you mean, she talked to you?”

“I was playing with the cat, and I heard her voice!”

Clarissa froze.

“Her voice? And she said what?”

“She asked me how I was, something like that.”

“You’re joking.”

“No, I’m not, Mums, and don’t make that face. I nearly had a fit when I heard her. I was kind of scared. So I just stood there and I shut up and waited for you. But she went on chatting to me.”

Clarissa remained silent, thinking. What did this mean? She didn’t like it. There was something amiss. She felt she was being double-crossed.

Then she said in a clear, forbidding voice, “Mrs. Dalloway, did you talk to Adriana while I was out?”

A slight pause.

“Hello, Clarissa! I obey only you. Remember? I was programmed to do just that.”

Andy opened wide eyes and gaped.

“Are you sure, Mrs. Dalloway?”

“Perfectly sure, Clarissa.”

“Perhaps you don’t recall, Mrs. Dalloway?”

“Everything I say to you is recorded, Clarissa.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Dalloway.”

“You’re welcome, Clarissa. Happy to help.”

“What the…” began Andy.

Clarissa silenced her with an uplifted finger. Her mind was racing. Did this mean she had to be careful now? Should she watch out? No talking? “They” would hear her, right? She picked up her phone, about to send a text message to Adriana. She stopped. Not a good idea. Wouldn’t “they” be able to read her texts, as well? Probably.

Clarissa wondered if she wasn’t overdoing things. Since François, she’d been spotting evil everywhere. Andy was watching her, puzzled. Perhaps she thought her grandmother had gone crazy. Clarissa grabbed a piece of paper and a pen. She scribbled a few sentences, wrote them very small, in case “they” could zoom in to see what she had written.

“What are you doing?” whispered Andy.

Clarissa handed her the paper wordlessly.

Don’t talk. Don’t use your phone. Write down exactly what Mrs. D. said and where you were standing when it happened.

Andy understood instantly. She nodded in silence, took the paper, wrote something carefully, and gave it back.

I was in the living room. She said several things: “Hello, Adriana, did you sleep well?” I said, “Are you talking to me?” and she said, laughing, “Is there another Andy here? I don’t think so.” Then she said, “Do you like Mums’s new home?” and “You enjoyed last night’s show, didn’t you?” And then because I was silent, she said, “You’re not saying anything, Andy. Have you lost your tongue?”

Clarissa read it without a word. She tore up the paper and tossed the shreds into the bin. She said blithely, “How about getting dressed, Andy? We could go for a walk and take the croissants with us.”

Once they were out of the residence, Andy shot questions at her.

“Why are you looking so worried, Mums? Why is this Mrs. Dalloway thing getting to you?”

Clarissa didn’t want to alarm her granddaughter. She briefly explained that during the setup process, she had been told several times that her virtual assistant would respond only to her voice. She suspected they were telling fibs and felt wary. There was something amiss. And being watched persistently was becoming uncomfortable.

“Can’t you turn the Dalloway whatsit off? Put it on pause?” asked Andy.

“I don’t think so. That won’t stop the cameras from filming.”

“What if you stuck something onto the cameras?”

“Good point. I hadn’t thought of doing that.”

They had come to the beginning of the rue de Sèvres.

“I forgot to tell you one last thing, Mums.”

“Fire away, missy.”

“Mrs. Dalloway spoke to me in English at first, and then in French. Isn’t that weird?”

“No, not really; she was programmed to speak to me in those two languages.”

Andy swiveled around to look at her grandmother.

“You know what bugged me? It was like she knew me. She knew who I was, knew I was bilingual, knew everything about me.”

Later, after Jordan had come to pick up her daughter, Clarissa wandered around the flat with a roll of masking tape. She needed to count the number of surveillance cameras, small black globes in each room. There were ten of them. The only place without them was the small room with the toilet. She decided to get going on the one situated near her bed. She took off her shoes, clambered up on a chair, and stuck a piece of tape onto the black sphere. A sense of freedom surged though her. She never would have thought that being filmed constantly could bother her to such an extent. Why hadn’t she reacted when she signed the lease? Perhaps it was time to check.

Installed in the living room, Chablis at her feet, she used her device to pore over the document she’d received when she moved in, as well as the rules of procedure. Artists are required not to cause any noise: no music or parties after 23 hours. Inebriety will be reprimanded and will lead to discharge after three notices. Clarissa could not help but smile. Surely that was a bit over the top! She hadn’t noticed when she had seen the document for the first time that the names of the other artists were all listed. There were two apartments per floor, apart from the eighth, hers, where she was alone. On the list of names, she made out two sculptors, four painters, five musicians, one poetess, and two writers (herself included). C.A.S.A. offered a messaging service, allowing members of the residence to communicate with one another through a specific channel. She decided to test it.

“Mrs. Dalloway, send an internal message to Adelka, fourth floor, left.”

“Of course, Clarissa, go ahead.”

“Dear Adelka, I was very happy to meet you this morning. I hope to see you again soon. Your eighth-floor neighbor, Clarissa Katsef.”

“I sent it,