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

shaft of light playing with her spoon. Then she sprang forth. She said she had never translated her own writing. She had written some books directly in French, others in English. There was invariably a pang of regret from having to choose one over the other. She then worked with translators, a task she often found difficult. Recently, she’d decided to experiment: writing simultaneously in both languages, two documents opened up on her computer, one in English, one in French. It was bewildering at the start, and then all of a sudden, there had been a revelation, acting upon her like a boost, heightening her energy. She had shifted from a quiet country path to a motorway. She wrote her text, no longer paying attention to the language she was writing in. She wrote. That was it. Language no longer mattered. Or rather, both languages now had their significance, because each of them bestowed on her the sentences or words she was seeking, which she then had to transpose with care, perfecting them with the patient and meticulous fine-tuning used on an antiquated receiver, so that the frequency she obtained was the same in English and in French. She perceived herself as a voracious foraging bee harvesting pollen for two separate hives, another pleasing image.

“How amazing!” exclaimed Mia White, dazzled.

Heartened, Clarissa went on. The manuscript was coming along like a two-headed monster, thriving homogenously. She didn’t favor one language over the other, and wanted above all for the text to end up identical in both. At times, as she labored over a description, she switched directly to the other language, which instantly gave her a new boost. It was like playing out Jekyll and Hyde in an unprecedented scientific experimentation. Who was Hyde? Who was Dr. Jekyll? English or French? It didn’t matter. She wasn’t certain she’d go on writing in this way. All she knew was that she certainly didn’t regret giving it a go.

“I’m sure you’re aware Samuel Beckett wrote in English and French, as well,” said Mia White. “And so did Julien Green.”

“Yes, that’s right. And did you know Romain Gary also translated himself?”

Mia White looked surprised. No, she had no idea. Clarissa explained that Gary wrote White Dog in English first, like Lady L, and other novels, and then adapted them to French, which was unexpected, considering he was brought up learning Polish and Russian, and that neither French nor English had been his mother tongue.

“His real name was Kacew?” asked Mia White.

“Yes.”

“Pronounced like your pen name?”

“That’s right.”

“Clarissa for Virginia Woolf and Katsef for Romain Gary.”

“Yes. I started writing because of those two writers.”

“Yes, I read that. I hope you’ll tell me about Woolf next time we meet.”

“With pleasure.”

Oh, come on, said the inner voice. Because you’re going to see her again? Seriously? You’re going to go on prattling? You don’t know anything about her. You have no idea who she is. You think she’s sweet and charming, but perhaps she’s none of that. Wake up.

“This is my mobile number,” said Mia White, with her enchanting smile. “I’ll let you get back to me.”

Later, on the phone, Clarissa told her daughter she had made two new friends. A young reader, barely older than Andy, and her fourth-floor neighbor, with whom she was going to have a drink at the end of the week. Jordan congratulated her, and told her about the brooch belonging to Aunt Serena, sent by Mimsy and Pimsy, which had just arrived.

“It is pretty?”

“Hideous.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

“No idea. Sell it? Andy doesn’t want it. I’ll have it appraised, but I’m sure it’s not worth much.”

“I’ll thank Grandpa and Arthur on my end.”

Clarissa hung up after lovingly saying good-bye to her daughter.

She hadn’t told Jordan she felt more and more tired, that she still slept badly, that her dreams were beginning to disturb her.

She hadn’t told Jordan about the infinitesimal dark zone behind Mia White’s luminous smile.

As she made her way to her room along the corridor, she heard a metallic clicking sound. Startled, she stood still. Was this the sound that had frightened Andy?

Then she noticed Chablis.

The cat was frozen to the spot, its fur bristling. Arching its back, it was staring up toward the ceiling, petrified.

 NOTEBOOK

I spent some time hanging around in front of the building on rue Dancourt. There was a small café just in front of the passageway railing, from where I could see all the way into the courtyard to the main door.

I knew she was a long-haired blonde. That was all. I had to see her. To see her with my own eyes.

How long had this double life been going on for? I had no idea. I remembered how often my husband had recently been away for business trips. Did she go with him? Did his coworkers know? Who knew anything about this?

I had never checked to see if he really left Paris. I trusted him.

The little café on rue Dancourt was a quiet place. The manager was nice and not too chatty. I always had my notebook with me. I pretended to work, but to tell the truth, I was incapable of writing anything. My eyes never left the railing.

A lot of people passed by there. Day after day, I became familiar with the residents. The elderly lady and her dog. The trim gentleman with his briefcase. A tall and handsome bearded young man. A mother and her teenaged daughter, not speaking to each other. A grouchy old man. A woman of my age with her grandchildren.

I’d see my husband go by with his shopping basket. He’d come back all chirpy-looking, with tarts from the bakery and flowers. I’d watch him, incredulous.

I longed to tear out of the café, run after him along the passageway, insult him and fling his pastries and bouquets into the gutter.

He was always alone. No woman by his side. I waited for a blonde to appear. There was one, but she had short hair and a boyish look.