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

tell them more. Aptly, she was planning to write about just that: what it meant to have a hybrid brain that wrote in two languages simultaneously. It was a new project and it was too early for her to talk about it. Her editor wasn’t even aware of her project. It was difficult to describe an idea as it was thriving. But she knew how deeply the subject touched her, how personal it was, and she intended to get to the bottom of it. She had always found bilingualism and its mechanisms riveting. She wanted to take time to explore it, to take ownership of it.

“A fascinating topic,” said the man.

Clarissa was expecting to leave. She was due to visit a two-room apartment this afternoon, near La Fourche Métro station. A neighborhood she barely knew.

“We will be back shortly,” announced Clémence with a wide smile. “Please wait for us here.”

She was left alone in the large room with its mirrored walls. What had they gone to do? To discuss her candidacy with their team? Did she have a chance? She appeared to have attracted their attention with the bilingual-writing business. Was she still being filmed? For a short moment, she sat motionless. Then she got up, walked across to the terrace. She didn’t care if they were still watching her. The garden was beautiful, but artificial, with fake perfumes floating over the false hedge. Box trees had never recovered from the destructive Asian moth attacks years ago. They had been utterly defoliated and had not been able to regain their past splendor. She fingered lavender, sea oat grasses, bonsai, daylilies. She had to admit the plants felt almost real. She hadn’t seen a genuine garden in such a long time. This one was almost like the real thing. Almost. There was something too perfect about it. Nature, she remembered, was messier. The silence was eerie. No more insects. Not the faintest hum or buzz. No more birds. No chirping, no twittering. From down below, very little noise, either. Parts of the new neighborhood were entirely pedestrian, served by self-driving electric cars. Occasionally, the quaint clip-clop of hooves could be heard. Police patrols had taken to riding horses since the attacks, and she loved the sound. It gave the city an old-fashioned feel she treasured.

She glanced northward, to Montmartre. François’s secret studio was near there. What was he going to do about it? He probably continued going there. She forced herself not to think about him. She still felt devastated by the trauma she’d endured in that place. She must obtain a flat in the C.A.S.A. artists’ residence. Otherwise, she was not going to make it. She was going to drift away. There was no way she could keep her chin up anymore. All her vulnerabilities became apparent, rising up to overwhelm the barricades she had patiently built up, year after year, since the baby’s death, all that time ago. She felt desperate, weak. Never had she endured such intense loneliness. Whom could she confide in? What she had to say was unspeakable. She felt ashamed, too, and she resented her husband for inflicting that shame upon her. She hated him. She despised him. Her disappointment was colossal. She hadn’t even been able to tell him that. She had nearly spat in his face. All she had been capable of doing was to pack in silence, hands trembling, while he wept. Not finding an apartment worried her. She was haunted by the prospect of a new home, just for her. A new place, with no past, no traces of anything. Her shelter. An intimate space. Her fortress. She thought of all the flats she’d seen. The idea of having to see more of them depressed her.

“Here we are!”

Clémence’s voice made her jump. They were standing in front of her. In the bright daylight, she noticed the creases in their clothes, the fine dandruff on the man’s shoulders. She was invited to come back inside. She was offered another cup of tea. She took it, intrigued by their leisureliness. They didn’t seem in any hurry. What did they want? What were they expecting from her?

“We’d like to show you something,” announced Clémence.

A screen materialized on one of the mirrors. Photos of a luminous apartment with a skylight appeared. The C.A.S.A. logo was clearly visible on the bottom left.

“This is our artist’s studio,” said the man. “Eighty square meters.”

“Facing northwest and south. Full of light,” added Clémence. “Top floor, the eighth.”

Why were they showing her these photographs? A floor plan showed up now: a large main room, an open kitchen, a small study, a bedroom, and a bathroom. It all seemed low-key, tasteful, elegant.

“Preparation will be necessary; it will take half a day,” said the man. “You’ll have to come back. Nothing complicated, no need to worry. All you’ll have to do is answer a series of questions. Security, maintenance, and a personal assistant for the apartment need to be set up. Then you’ll also meet Dr. Dewinter, who’s in charge of the artists of the residence. She runs the C.A.S.A. program.”

Wild hope surged through her. Had they chosen her? Had she made it? Was she going to be able to get on with her life, away from François? These people were so odd. What sort of game were they playing?

“I haven’t quite understood why you are mentioning the apartment.”

“Mrs. Katsef, your candidacy has been accepted. We’re delighted.”

She wanted to dance around the table. But she held back. Her age, her experience. She gave them a charming smile. She said she was delighted, as well. Could she see the place? She was told she could, and no later than this evening. When could she have the keys? Move in?

Clémence Dutilleul beamed again.

“You can move in shortly. But you won’t be needing keys, or a pass.”

Clarissa looked at her, baffled.

“Your retina will be your key to enter the lobby on the ground level. And your right index finger will open up the door of