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

“I understand, Clarissa. Can you tell me precisely why you’re unhappy?”

“No! It’s none of your business, Mrs. Dalloway. I’m sure you have more important questions to ask.”

“I’m sorry you’re unhappy, Clarissa. You’re right; I have other questions. Many other questions. I’d like to talk about your family. Will they be coming to visit?”

“Yes, Mrs. Dalloway.”

“Their names, please?”

“My daughter, Jordan Vendel-Garnier. Her husband, Ivan Garnier. Their daughter, Adriana Garnier, known as Andy.”

“Thank you, Clarissa. Can you show me photographs of them, please?”

Clarissa picked up her phone, swiped into her photo file, and showed it to the screen, where the eyes appeared to gluttonously drink it in.

“Thank you. Are there any other family members you wish to talk to me about, Clarissa?”

“Yes. My dad. He won’t be coming; he’s ninety-eight. He lives in London. He writes to me a lot. My first husband, Toby Vendel. He might drop in. Not sure yet. And my second husband, François Antoine. He won’t be setting a foot inside my house. Of that, I’m sure. Don’t ask me why, please.”

“Thank you, Clarissa. I won’t. Can you show me a photo of him?… Thanks. I’m now going to fire all sorts of questions at you. Please answer them without thinking too hard.”

“What do you mean, Mrs. Dalloway?”

“I mean this is not a test. This is just for me to understand how you think. How your brain works. Be spontaneous, Clarissa. Are you ready?”

Clarissa nodded. She felt thirsty and tired. The lights around her seemed terribly bright. How her brain worked? She didn’t even know herself. At times, like right now, it felt like it had stopped working altogether.

“What are your favorite colors, Clarissa?”

“Green. Blue. Orange.”

“Your favorite musician?”

“Frédéric Chopin.”

“Your favorite singers?”

“Patti Smith. Soapie Indigo.”

“Your favorite poets?”

“Charles Baudelaire. Emily Dickinson.”

“Your favorite artists?”

“Harald Sohlberg. Pieter de Hooch. Vilhelm Hammershøi.”

Mrs. Dalloway’s voice droned on, and Clarissa let herself be carried away by the questions. She answered quickly, easily. This wasn’t too difficult. It might be over faster than she thought. There was a rhythm to her replies and she gave way to it. It was like playing Ping-Pong, angling her wrist to knock the ball back as swiftly as possible.

“Your favorite song?”

“‘La vie en rose,’ sung by Grace Jones.”

“Your favorite film?”

“All movies by Stanley Kubrick.”

“Your favorite actors?”

“Timothée Chalamet. Salomé Jalon.”

“Your best trait?”

“Compassion.”

“Your worst flaw?”

“Impatience.”

She hadn’t noticed that the questions were gradually becoming more and more personal. She had been too amused, or too busy throwing the ball back.

“Your worst fear?”

“Losing my daughter, my granddaughter.”

“What makes you laugh?”

“Peter Sellers in The Party.”

“What makes you laugh in real life?”

“I don’t know, really.”

“What makes you cry?”

Her mind seemed to have gone fuzzy. The tiredness took over; her mouth felt dry. She found it difficult to speak.

“Intimate … things…”

“What shocked you the most recently?”

“I don’t…” she mumbled. She tried again: “The Tower … The images of the devastation…”

Her throat felt tighter and tighter, as if she were suffocating.

A pause.

“Next question, then. On what occasions do you lie?”

Clarissa stared back into the huge eyes. Perhaps her silence was easier to decipher than her answers. She wondered what would be made of her muteness. She waited. It worked. After a long blank, Mrs. Dalloway spoke up.

“We are going to take a break now, Clarissa. Dr. Dewinter is coming in to see you. You and I will resume later. You may remove the headset.”

The eyes slowly faded from the screen. She felt drained. Before she had time to move again, the door clicked open. She pushed the earphones down around her neck. She didn’t know whether she should stand or remain seated.

The very tall person who entered the room had an arresting physique, with long, wavy chestnut hair and a strapping figure. The skin of her face was as smooth as a bowl of cream, with made-up eyes and a crimson mouth; the jaw was square and the features thickset. A long hand with red nails sailed toward her.

“I’m so honored to meet you, Mrs. Katsef. I’m Dr. Dewinter.”

The voice was low. The doctor sat down in front of her, sliding a tablet from a square white pouch.

“How’s the setup coming along?”

Clarissa smiled, answered it was fine, slightly longish, but interesting.

“You no doubt have oodles of questions for me?” said Dr. Dewinter with an unexpected wink.

A momentary hesitation engulfed Clarissa.

Dr. Dewinter took on a long-suffering expression. Her smile was barely contrived.

“Queries about the C.A.S.A. program, perhaps? I can, of course, say a few words in order to present the project. Our program was created to accompany the creativity of artists accommodated in a residence dedicated to them. We attach extreme importance to the development of art, in all its forms. Artistic creation is our absolute priority. We wish to preserve and support the imaginary input of artists such as yourself within such a disturbing and shifting world. I’m responsible for monitoring your health. I personally developed the protocol that will take you in charge once you move in. Your well-being is crucial to us. Your initial checkup will be done automatically via the bathroom installation. Everything is explained in the booklet you received. As you’ll see, our team is terrific, and much appreciated by our community of artists. I’d like to point out, however, that you enjoy full freedom, Mrs. Katsef. You are absolutely not coerced to interact with other artists of the residence. We know how fragile artists are, as well as their delicate frames of mind, and never would we impinge fake camaraderie upon them like at those holiday resorts where everyone pretends to be friends. We have no control whatsoever, may I add, on your writing. Your future literary creations are yours only and will never belong to C.A.S.A. You’ve certainly wondered why our rental fees are cheap compared to what we have to offer. You must be aware that you were handpicked. We lodge only the most promising, inventive artists. This has nothing to do with celebrity. The intellectual trajectories of artists, their endeavors, their futures, are what we’re interested in.