No World Concerto (14 page)

It’s not true that everything’s been said and written. The problem is, as time goes by, and bevies of writers come and go, there’s less and less scope for even the greatest among them to be truly original. It’s not going to be easy writing a dodecaphonic novel, thinks the screenwriter, especially if it’s a first book. The mingling in a text of words and sentences that lack all restriction, in terms of concinnity and arrangement on the page, may lead to something quite beautiful, but there’s also the risk of creating something grotesque. Structurally, he thinks the novel has too much in common with what the Serialists did many years before. And whether it turns out to be beautiful or grotesque, the idea behind it still won’t be original.

How long can a person survive without food or water if they’re tied to a bed and gagged? wonders the screenwriter before getting down to work. That night, in the church, it appears the girl performed her best interpretation yet of the
5 Pieces for piano
. It’s as if her decision to abandon music gave her a more devil-may-care attitude in these last performances, and liberated her from the exigencies of having to stick slavishly to the score. Now she’s performing the recitation part of the show, and once again seems to be surpassing herself. The clown’s nose is like an extra appendage, so convincing is she in the role. And her delivery is magnificent. Now it’s not just her voice but her whole personality that’s become one with the cosmic clown. Now it’s the girl herself that wanders through a desolate landscape pitted with craters, carrying a bloody dagger in her hands. The young conductor of the orchestra can scarcely believe his eyes, and neither can the rest of the people in the audience. After the concert, they follow their usual ritual of going to the cafés and trendy nightspots of the neighboring country’s capital. On the way, they’re joined by some people unknown to her and rest of the group. They’re probably friends of the new manager, says her mother, unconcerned. As usual, they’re also joined by someone who was sent by the promoters to attend to them during the night. The young conductor is dancing with his latest conquest, and the brilliant composer, having met a famous makeup artist, is hoping the grown-ups are going to be getting seriously drunk and so leave them alone. The girl’s mother has been waiting for an opportunity to speak with her daughter. She wants to elaborate on the note she gave her, and to give her a chance to explain why she left in the middle of the meeting, and why she’s been hanging around her father. She doesn’t understand her daughter’s sudden need to write, or why she thinks time spent on music is time lost on writing. She wants to have a serious discussion with her. But the girl would rather discuss it another time, and she leaves before the night’s even begun. Back at the hotel, the girl is alone in her father’s room, writing. She writes longhand first, and then transcribes what she’s written on her father’s laptop. “2.012 In logic nothing is accidental. Close-up of the female student seated at a small white desk organizing her notebooks. The camera slowly zooms out to reveal her in the middle of a classroom just before the lesson begins, surrounded by students still taking their seats. A collective murmur redoubles as the room gradually fills up. The scene takes place long before the old professor cum alien hunter flees to the City in Outer Space, where he’ll probably finish setting himself up as a photographer.” The girl stops writing for a moment. She doesn’t know why she’s narrating things as though she’s writing a screenplay, or why she’s enumerating her propositions as though this were a philosophical treatise. She hadn’t given the least thought to these details before, perhaps because she didn’t believe them very important then. She continues: “We picture no facts to ourselves. Some students are seated around the female student, while others are standing, chattering, using up the moments before class begins. 2.211 For the few that pay attention, there is no logical distinction between a no picture and what it depicts. Still immersed in her notes, a student with a freckled face stands in front of her desk and pronounces her name with a ‘ka.’ The female student looks up with a surly expression on account of being disturbed. I’ve been waiting, he says reproaching but timidly. I wasn’t sure you’d show up, she says, her eyes returning to the notebook. He remains in front of her a few moments, staring at her silently, awkwardly, his growing discomfort becoming apparent. Unable to think of anything to say, he turns and goes to his seat on the other side of the room. 2.22 What a no picture represents it represents independently of its truth or falsity, by means of its pictorial form. A few minutes later, the old professor of philosophy shows up. He’s the same old guy that in another scene will be seen in bed next to the girl, the same old guy who’s already been described as an alien hunter.” The girl wrote “the girl” when she should’ve written “the female student,” although of course the female student is in fact a girl herself. “The murmur in the room dies down as the professor removes his coat. He looks around the room for the female student. On seeing her, he feels reassured and is ready to begin the lesson. He takes a booklet from his jacket pocket and spends a few moments scanning it, in order to remind himself where he left off the last time.” The girl stops to inquire into her current state of mind, and whether it’s influencing what she’s writing. No, she hasn’t got the time to waste investigating the whys of things. She’s writing, and that’s all that matters. The pills have enhanced her powers of concentration, but perhaps they’ve also put her in a state of sustained agitation. Perhaps she’s taken too many to be writing on. Yet, in this state, she can focus on several things at once. She hears her father’s footsteps in the corridor. She can never predict his comings and goings. He enters and mumbles a perfunctory greeting, as if his mind’s on other matters. She doesn’t respond, but continues writing — her mood exalted, her thinking expansive — believing she’s found the inspiration that’s been lacking until now, the thread of the story that’s been eluding her. She’s writing the alien hunter’s backstory, the life he had before fleeing to the City in Outer Space. Perhaps he flees because chasing aliens is forbidden at home. No, it won’t be like Cousin Dedalus’s story, the girl tells her father, because the character’s an old guy, an alien hunter and philosophy professor who’s having a relationship with one of his female students. She points out that, although the story’s fictitious, she really believes an alien civilization has colonized the Earth, and that she’s finally discovered the reason behind it all. The girl then decides to shut herself in the bathroom so she can continue writing undisturbed. The girl’s father stands perplexed, not saying a word, having hardly uttered a sound since his arrival, as he watches her shut the bathroom door behind her.

In the morning, the screenwriter takes a seat in front of the typewriter and casts a couple of glances out the window before beginning. He wants to work on a scene in which the girl and mother are alone. Besides tying up some loose ends, he wants to show the kind of relationship that can exist between two women — in this case, a mother and daughter — which he believes is best revealed when they’re alone. Until now, every scene in which they’ve appeared together has been brief, their interaction brusque and tense, and they’ve always been surrounded by an entourage. The mother is a strong character who feels she has the prerogative to talk about anything she wants with her daughter. Perhaps this has already been hinted at, but the screenwriter would like a highly charged dramatic encounter between the two to bring the point home. It’s set in the morning. The screenwriter types forcefully, his fingers almost rebounding from the keys, the sound of piano music playing in his head. The girl is practicing in the room at the hotel with the English name. Her mother sits in one of the chairs, listening with enjoyment, thinking that all may not be lost. Beforehand, the girl had carefully placed some objects on the piano strings to distort the sound — some metal clips, a few pieces of her mother’s jewelry, and even a copy of the philosopher W’s greatest work, and then played, imagining how it would sound on a recording. The girl prolongs the practice session in order to avoid going out shopping afterward with her mother. She feels they have nothing in common. Nonetheless, in the very next shot we see them in the street together quarreling over some trivial matter. Perhaps it’s because the girl insists on wearing her chosen livery of a white shirt and trousers, which her mother detests, thinking it unbecoming a celebrated pianist. She tells her to go back and change; such attire may be suitable for other people, but not someone who moves in her social circle, someone who’s regularly accosted by strangers in the street asking for autographs, and who may report back to other strangers, perhaps even to the newspapers, the strange fashion statement she seems to be making. Such things can make or break a reputation. Right now she’s quite popular, her mother says, but it won’t last if she carries on like this. The world isn’t the kind of place the girl imagines it is. The mother then changes the subject and starts talking about music while scanning potential purchases in the shopwindows. They didn’t have far to travel. The hotel with the English name is located in one of the more fashionable streets in the neighboring country’s capital, where one can find various stores only a few meters from each other selling all the major brands. They’ve often walked these streets together and the girl knows them like the back of her hand. There’s nothing strange about wanting to shop on streets where only luxury and elegance are found, or that her mother should expect to find such streets in the neighboring country’s capital, a city that cultivates a perception of itself as being the bastion of haute couture, and although the girl’s mother blindly adheres to her own fixed standard of elegance, she admits that only here, in the neighboring country’s capital, can the highest standard be found. Luckily, there’s a fresh breeze and the temperature’s low. The mother is curious about her old literature teacher. Do you know what his screenplay’s about? she asks. No, he hasn’t told me anything about it, says the girl. Then her mother starts singing the praises of the Little Sinfonietta’s new manager. The young conductor and brilliant composer speak highly of him, she says. It’s the best thing that could’ve happened. It hasn’t been easy up till now, especially with all this twelve-tone music and experimentation, but things will be different from now on. The girl listens, silently. The screenwriter continues typing furiously, fleshing out the mother’s character. She stops to point out a lovely dress on display in a shopwindow. The girl pays no attention. The woman in the building opposite the screenwriter’s hotel lifts her blinds and looks up at the sky, as if to determine the kind of day she’s going to face. Aping her, the screenwriter looks up as well. Weather forecast: sunny all day. He looks at her window again, but his neighbor’s disappeared inside. Then he looks at his watch. He ought to freshen up before going down for breakfast. But he figures he still has another half hour. He adjusts his glasses, rereads the last few sentences, and continues typing. We see the pair leaving one store and immediately entering another. The girl takes a deep breath before pushing the door and hearing yet another jingle. Her mother looks at an outfit, checks the quality of the fabric, the label, the size, and, without looking at the girl, asks for her opinion. But instead of waiting for an answer, she goes off to consult one of the saleswomen. The girl’s mother gets treated like a regular in almost every store they visit, which is only right, for she is indeed a regular, and it’s the way her mother expects to be treated. She acts as if she buys everything on impulse, but in truth, she plans every purchase, since she’s mentally created a shopping list beforehand. She refuses to write it down, because she wouldn’t be caught dead with a shopping list in her hands. Next, she pauses in front of a jewelry store and points out a ring and pair of earrings in the display. The screenwriter wonders how a mother could be so blind as not to realize that her daughter doesn’t give a damn about jewelry. You should’ve stayed until the end of the meeting, she says suddenly. Given your experience, your input might’ve been invaluable. The saleswoman solemnly processes toward them carrying the earrings on a garish salver. The mother hopes they’ll bring out some of her daughter’s more positive qualities, although the girl doesn’t know which qualities they might be or how exactly the earrings will help. I’m not interested in your kind of fashion, the girl says, trying not to be too abrupt. Besides, I didn’t come along to watch you to go shopping for a pair of earrings. You have to find some way of filling that emptiness inside you, her mother insists, and by the way, you wear your hair far too short. Next, the two of them are seen standing on a sidewalk, struggling to hold all their shopping bags. The girl takes a couple of hesitant steps toward her mother, as if to ask something; her mother, perceiving this, interrupts her and suggests they talk about it over dinner. But the girl has other plans, all of them to do with her writing. Her mother doesn’t listen, or pretends not to listen, but then jumps in by saying she doesn’t understand this sudden impulse to start writing potboilers for the masses. She doesn’t understand why the girl writes at all. She doesn’t see that her daughter takes it very seriously, that she couldn’t give a damn about the masses. There are people who live for it, breathe for it, would even die for it, but her mother paints every writer with the same brush, dismisses them all as mere fabulists and tellers of tall tales. If you were writing about something practical, an idea that might be of use to humanity. . I’m sorry, her mother says, I know there’s a certain prestige in being a writer, but if you stop to think about it, you’d eventually agree the pursuit is vain and impractical. What’s the point in reading stories about things that never even happened, about people who never existed? The girl was born with exceptional musical talent; that’s what she should be trying her best to foster, not wasting her time on something for which she may not even have an aptitude. So that’s that, thinks the girl sarcastically, I’d better give it up. Her mother pleads with her to reconsider abandoning her music, and suggests they discuss it over dinner. She has a table reserved at the restaurant back at the hotel. But the girl doesn’t want to wait until dinner, so she just tells her mother flatly that she won’t be going on tour with the Little Sinfonietta, before walking away without saying good-bye. She heads for the hotel in front of the Grand Central Station — a hotel where she won’t be greeted at the door by a smiling admiral, a hotel where there are no bellhops to help you with your luggage, a hotel where no one’s even heard of a thing called room service, a hotel where her father happens to be staying. She’s finished with the piano and the Little Sinfonietta. I’m starting a new life! she proclaims loudly, boldly, in the street, once out of her mother’s earshot, satisfied she’s finally taken the first step, glad to have had the opportunity to be honest. I’m starting a new life! she says again, ignoring the astonished looks of passersby. All she has left to do is tie up some loose ends, fulfill a few outstanding commitments, and she’ll be ready to start that new life, ready to dedicate every hour of every day to this vain and impractical pursuit. The life of a writer! she says again, loudly, boldly, ignoring the astonished looks of passersby.