Flowers of Darkness Tatiana Rosnay (chromebook ebook reader TXT) 📖

into a smaller room, equally white and luminous. In front of her were a chair and a desk. A large screen took up the entire wall. Quentin motioned for her to be seated. He carefully placed earphones on Clarissa’s ears. Then he went to sit behind a partition. She could hear his voice in her headset. He asked her if she was ready. She said yes.

The screen in front of her turned gray. Two large eyes faced her now. They were wide and blue. They blinked slowly. They reminded her of the billboard horn-rimmed eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg in the opening pages of The Great Gatsby; a solemn, intense gaze, which saw everything, never missing a beat, both reassuring and alarming. An amiable male voice, which was not Quentin’s, asked her to say her name out loud. She did so. She was asked to speak more slowly and to repeat her name three times.

In the beginning, it was easy. She had to state her date and place of birth, her nationality. Her age, her height, her weight. The eyes blinked and glowed back at her like those of a gratified cat. Then she had to pronounce a sequence of specific orders. She was asked to repeat them clearly, over and over again.

“Lock the door. Set the alarm. Check the air-conditioning. Turn on the shower. Close the blind. Turn off the light. Set night mode. Turn on the oven. Read my emails.”

She was asked to choose the name of her assistant. She had thought about this before, of course. When she said, “Mrs. Dalloway,” she then had to say it out loud six or seven times very clearly. She then had to choose what kind of voice she wanted Mrs. Dalloway to have. They could clone any type of voice, she knew. She picked a British accent with mellow, gentle tones.

Quentin appeared from behind the screen. He told her he was going to leave the room. He’d be right outside. She was alone with the setup process. If there was a problem of any sort, she just had to press the pause button. Clarissa nodded. He left, closing the door behind him.

Clarissa felt slightly apprehensive. She remained silent, straight-backed on her chair.

The billboard eyes gleamed back at her.

“Are you ready, Clarissa?” asked the new female voice with the very British accent.

“Yes,” she said, “I am.”

“Please relax, Clarissa.”

“How can you tell I’m tense?”

“Your body language. You don’t have to sit up so stiffly. And you can uncross your arms.”

Clarissa couldn’t help smiling.

“There. That’s better. I’m going to be asking you all sorts of questions. Do not be surprised. This is just for me to get to know you better. After all, I will be with you all the time. I need to be able to watch over you. As soon as you walk into the C.A.S.A. residence, and then into your apartment, I will be in charge of your well-being and your security. Nobody can come into your home unless you allow the person to. If I detect an intruder, I will react very quickly. An alarm will go off and security services will arrive on the spot. Now. Are you comfortable, Clarissa? I need you to be comfortable, because it might take a while. No, don’t be alarmed; this will be painless. You don’t have to answer in great detail. You don’t even have to answer at all if you don’t want to. But remember this: The more answers you give me, the better I will serve you. So let’s get going. Here’s my first question, Clarissa. Would you rather set me up in French or in English? I’m aware that you are perfectly bilingual.”

“I’d like to be able to speak to you in both languages interchangeably, and have you answer me as you wish, in English or in French.”

“Very well, Clarissa. Let us go on. What is your present state of mind?”

Clarissa glowered back into the T. J. Eckleburg–like eyes. How on earth could she answer that? And what had it to do with the setup of her voice assistant? She felt disillusioned, then irritated. Maybe all her reactions were being processed and analyzed by the same hidden people who had been there the day of her interview. She wasn’t going to let herself be impressed.

“I don’t wish to answer that question and I don’t see why it’s important to you.”

“I see. Can you explain, Clarissa?”

“I don’t want to discuss personal matters. I don’t know you and I don’t know who is listening to all this. I don’t see why you need this sort of stuff from me.”

“I understand. I will try to explain, Clarissa. I need to know who you are. I need to understand your personality. The more I know it, the more I will be able to help you.”

Clarissa grumbled.

“Help me? You’re only supposed to oversee security and management of the flat. Why would you need details about my present state of mind?”

“Please remain calm, Clarissa. No one is listening to this except for me. And I can do much more than just looking after your housekeeping and your security.”

“Such as?”

“If you answer all my questions, Clarissa, you will understand how I can help you. I’ve been programmed to do this. To make your life easier. In every way. To take charge of things. So you can write. So you can create.”

The minutes ticked by slowly. The blue eyes blinked. The voice was silent, too.

“Are you unhappy, Clarissa?” asked the voice at last.

“Yes,” she said tersely. “I’m unhappy. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to explain. I don’t know who or what you are, but I just want to get on with this. I want to move into that apartment. I want to feel safe. I want to write my book. Is that clear?”

“It is indeed, Clarissa. Please say my name when you talk to me. That way, I’ll know you’re addressing yourself to me.”

“Okay. Listen up, Mrs. Dalloway.” She barked