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

“Did you already know you were going to write about that moment?”

“No,” said Clarissa impulsively. “Writing came much later to me, via another angle, via Virginia Woolf and what I felt when I visited her home. But the fascination with this place, for this room, has never left me. Telling you this story all these years later revives it all.”

The two women were now walking up the rue du Bac toward the Seine. Mia White’s long chestnut hair rippled in the light breeze.

“Are you working on a new book?” she asked.

“More or less. I haven’t gotten very far because of my move.”

“Which area did you move to?”

Her beguiling smile. Her wide blue eyes.

The small inner voice murmured: Never get specific with a reader, remember, nothing about where you live. Cloud the issue. It’s okay to lie. Don’t give any indications, addresses, street names.

“I’m in the new district, at the top of avenue Gustave-Eiffel, near the Tower Memorial.”

Too late.

“Oh, I never would have thought you’d choose to live there! I thought you didn’t like modern buildings.”

“On the contrary, it’s a nice change, being somewhere brand-new. No one’s lived there before me.”

“You like it, then?”

Don’t tell her about Mrs. Dalloway, about the cameras, about the spooked cat. Shut up.

“Very much so.”

Mia White was shorter than Clarissa. She moved gracefully. Pedestrians often turned around to stare at her, Clarissa noticed. They strolled along the river, toward Île de la Cité. Clarissa asked her if she’d made some new friends. The young girl said she’d met a couple of nice people. She missed her boyfriend. He lived in England. They saw each other every other weekend.

The conversation became slightly idle. Time was ticking by. Clarissa knew one should never spend too much time with a reader. At times, they became inquisitive, asked too many questions, turned out to be clingy. This wasn’t the case with Mia White. She seemed to be enjoying Clarissa’s company, and nothing more. Clarissa asked her about her own writing. The young girl blushed.

“How sweet of you to remember that! Yes, I’m writing. But I’d never dare show you anything.”

“What language do you write in?”

“For the moment, in English. It’s not easy making a choice, when you’re bilingual. And yourself?”

“Ah, well, I’ve decided to no longer make that choice, you see.”

Mia White’s eyes grew even larger.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve decided to write my new novel in two languages at the same time.”

The inner voice again. What the hell are you doing? Why blab about your writing projects with a stranger?

“How are you doing this? It sounds amazing!” exclaimed Mia White.

They had turned back and were now standing in front of the rue du Bac Métro station. Clarissa could have added nothing more, said good-bye, and departed. She didn’t feel like being alone, returning to her silent flat, her fearful cat. This smiling young girl did her good.

“What about a break at that café?” she suggested. Mia White agreed, with pleasure. She ordered a Coke, and Clarissa, some tea.

“What do you speak with your family?” asked Mia White. “Me, it’s English with my dad, French with my mum, a mix of both with my sister.”

“My first husband is an American, so I spoke to him in English. And to make sure our daughter became bilingual, I always addressed myself to her in French. My second husband is French, but I sometimes speak to him in English, Lord knows why!”

They laughed in unison and Clarissa ignored the annoying inner voice: What the hell are you doing, pouring your life out? Rambling on about your husbands, how ridiculous! She was letting go at last. She hadn’t chatted with a friend for such a long time.

“I get the oddest questions,” said Mia White, and Clarissa noticed for the first time what a pleasant voice she had. “I’m asked what language I dream in. That stumps me. I think about it, and I just don’t know. Isn’t that strange? What about you?”

Clarissa couldn’t bring herself to tell Mia White about her recent dreams. Ever since she had started living in the residence, they seemed more and more vivid. In the past, she’d had difficulty remembering them. Now she didn’t have to write the dreams down. Now, when she awoke, they lingered, shadowing her all day long. She kept on hearing the voice as well, the reassuring murmur that whispered to her while she slept. She couldn’t recall what it was saying. All she knew was that it meant well. And, come to think of it, she had no idea which language it was using.

“I wish I knew, but I’m like you, I don’t have a clue,” she said, not wishing to discuss her dreams any further. She wondered if Mia White perceived her hesitancy. “Do dreams have a language, in your opinion?”

“Well, they must. But perhaps, to people like us, our unconscious doesn’t decipher language. I’m also asked what I swear in. I had never really noticed that before. But when I paid attention, I realized it was French. God knows why! And you? Do you prefer cursing in French, as well?”

Clarissa smiled again, but with a touch of bitterness this time. She thought of the expletives that had rushed to her lips while she had been packing her bags, François standing next to her, begging and pleading for her to stay. She hadn’t pronounced a single one of them; she had remained wordless, but they stormed around inside her head, loud, blunt, and obscene. English? French? Probably French, because that was François’s mother tongue.

She said nothing of all this to Mia White, who seemed to take in every one of her movements and reactions with her intense, unwavering gaze. To escape it, Clarissa looked down at the sunbeam caressing their hands. Mia White’s were tiny and golden.

“A mix-up, isn’t it?” Mia White said lightly. “And what about your book, then? I’m so curious to know more.”

The young woman was waiting for her to speak. For a few seconds, Clarissa stayed quiet, watching the