No World Concerto (19 page)

At night, there are scarcely any tables available, but the screenwriter scours the café terrace and eventually manages to find one. So he sits down, and waits to be served. He still doesn’t understand the significance of the aliens for the girl. He considers whether she herself might be an alien hunter. But there wouldn’t be many female hunters, he speculates, before dismissing the idea completely. Yet another ideation about which she daily obsesses, like the voices she thinks she hears, or the shadow that stalks her at all hours of the night, or the necessity to write. He thinks about the scientist, his radio telescopes roving the heavens for signs of intelligent life. Unlike the scientist, the girl must think along different lines. He’d almost say in terms of a game. What if things could be done much more simply? If they were still among us, perhaps a simple announcement would suffice. The right announcement need only contain a few key words to be understood, perhaps in code, since it would be naïve to publicize communications directly. Maybe they’d use special magazines with a limited circulation instead of popular newspapers. But the girl needs to get to the bottom of some mysteries before committing to a rigorous search. She doesn’t want to lose track by attacking on too many fronts simultaneously. She doesn’t know if she’ll be able to finish her book while doing recitals and preparing to record the
5 Pieces for piano
. If she incorporates her search for extraterrestrials and her attempts to make contact with them into her writing, she’ll end up with a kind of detective novel. But she shouldn’t blur the line between her real-world obsessions and the things she considers only fiction. Still, combining two endeavors in this way could save her some time and effort. The screenwriter now sees the waitress on the other side of the terrace and is surprised when she seems to notice him at almost the same moment. It’s the first time she’s held eye contact with him for longer than an instant. Perhaps it’s a sign, a golden opportunity, he thinks, and yet the waitress continues avoiding his table. He knows by now she won’t come to take his order unless he signals her, and it needn’t be an elaborate gesture. Moments later, she approaches, and the screenwriter can’t help himself: What time do you get off work, beautiful? She keeps walking, pretending she hasn’t heard him. If only you knew what you were missing, he says aloud, while reaching for the packet of cigarettes in his pocket. You’d swear I was a goddamn alien. ., he adds as he puts the filter between his lips.

He’s seen it dozens of times in X-rated movies. Sometimes, it’s done with two men and a woman; sometimes, two women and a man; he’s only rarely seen three men. Instead of hearing about it from the girl’s lips, the screenwriter would rather be watching from behind a screen, or by applying his eye to a peephole. Even a photograph would be better than a verbal account of her sexual encounter with the young conductor and brilliant composer. She asks him to imagine her naked on her knees, straddling the young conductor, while the brilliant composer probes her from behind with his tongue. They begin slowly, gently, gradually becoming more frenetic, while their breathing gets heavier, their moans louder, until their movement, breathing, moaning, seem to synchronize, as if they were performing one of the brilliant composer’s pieces, in which each has their own part to play, but all have the same end in mind. The girl plays with the young conductor’s penis, occasionally putting it in her mouth, and the screenwriter imagines her doing so wildly, hungrily, as if her life depended on it. The brilliant composer maintains his position behind her, holding her legs with one hand, since she keeps moving about uncontrollably, while using his free hand to pleasure her. Finally, she gets on her back and lets the other two cum on her face. And thus the performance concludes. The screenwriter can’t take any more. A mixture of love and anguish is causing his stomach to churn, and he feels like throwing up. He hasn’t felt this sickness in years, he thinks, this pain. And yet, he searches her features, replaying in his head the scene she just described. The two of them lie back on the sheets. Weren’t you fighting with them? he asks her. The girl says they were all drinking and taking drugs when it happened. Perhaps they were taking revenge on me, she speculates, although she says it without conviction.

The first thing he does in the morning is call the producer. Money, another advance, I’d appreciate whatever you can send, he keeps repeating to himself, as if every time he calls he needs to persuade himself of his desperate situation in order to sound more convincing. Oh it’s a magnificent screenplay, he murmurs, I’d say it’s as good as anything written in the golden age. Then, he changes his mind. His insecurity always causes him to change his mind. But he doesn’t think the producer wants to hear about the golden age, and he doesn’t want any magnificent screenplays either, unless, by “magnificent,” the screenwriter means a guaranteed box-office hit. In fact, nothing would delight the producer more than talking about a potential box-office hit. The screenwriter knows he’s gone through this scenario before, had the same thoughts about money and the producer the last time he tried to call him. He hangs up and goes down to have breakfast. Afterward, in the lobby, he’s reading in the paper about a Nobel Prize winner who’s died. The screenwriter doesn’t recall ever reading his works. But there are so many great books that reading them all would leave him with little time to do anything else in life. After perusing the personal ads, he gets up and limps to the elevator. Damn leg, he grumbles on the way to his room, impatient to get back to his writing. Today, the girl’s wearing sunglasses. It seems the circles around her eyes, which the screenwriter finds so endearing on a teenager’s countenance, are now looking particularly bad to her. She’d prefer not to linger on the events of the past few days. She likes to think they were part of a game; that everything’s part of a game; the game of the world, the universe perhaps, but a game nonetheless. She’s repeated this same mantra ad nauseam. Everything’s a game, life’s a game. If nothing exists, or if nothing is true, then why not think of it as a game? Her theory’s plausible. She could return to the hotel and speak with her father, offer to help him, but she has her own plans. She wanders the streets of the neighboring country’s capital immersed in her usual thoughts about her novel, about her mother, and the young conductor. . She should’ve gone to rehearsals but was too lazy. So she goes into a library instead, and walks past books of every sort, from well-thumbed new releases piled up on tables near the front, to dusty old classics on inconspicuous shelves in the back. She’s baffled at not knowing any of the fashionable authors. Their new books are always announced with fanfare and tickertape, because in the neighboring country’s capital, there are authors who sell in the hundreds of thousands. The girl has certainly not sold so many records. She wonders which contemporary authors she should read, how to separate the grain from the chaff. She’s always avoided reading her contemporaries. But a writer should know the works of other writers, both old and new, develop a kinship with both the past and present. She doesn’t recognize any of their names. Maybe it’s a defense mechanism, a means of avoiding a contest with the living. It’s easier if the opponent’s already dead. She takes a book from a shelf and reads the beginning: “One summer afternoon Mrs. Oedipa Maas came home from a Tupperware party whose hostess had put perhaps too much kirsch. .” Then she reads the beginning of another: “In the town there were two mutes, and they were always together.” There’s a writer whose name has a K or Ka, and he happens to be one of the most important writers of the century; who knows, perhaps the voices she hears are directing her on a literary path, pointing out new things for her to read, new approaches to writing, new perspectives on literature in general. This writer may in fact be an extraterrestrial. She checks a book with a photograph of him, but it must’ve been retouched, because she can’t decide whether or not she sees a faint halo around him. She reads the beginnings of several more books before leaving the store and continuing on her way, a way without a particular end, for she hasn’t one in mind — the way of a vagabond, in other words. A foosball bar would be an end, she thinks, but she can’t think of any that are nearby. She starts walking in the direction of the river, but then changes her mind and turns back. Maybe she should just go to rehearsals after all, shut herself away in a rehearsal booth with the Little Sinfonietta and the young conductor’s latest conquest. She doesn’t know why she mentioned the group and the conquest as separate entities. It seems the girl still can’t accept her as a member of the group, as she’s yet to even set foot onstage. Perhaps she’s more of a member than the girl at this point — or at any point for that matter, for the girl has never really conformed to the role of orchestra member. Being the concert starlet she is, perhaps she thinks she’s different from the rest. Perhaps she didn’t want them having too great an influence on her. She can’t remember who was responsible for inducting her — her mother, the young conductor, or the brilliant composer: it was probably all of them, but she always felt that being an orchestra member stifled her individuality and creativity. The girl is at a counter writing a personal ad to be published in all the major newspapers. She has trouble with the text of the message, though, because it should be phrased in a way that disguises its meaning to all but the intended recipients, a code that only the aliens are able to decipher. She decides to leave it as simple as possible, and writes: “I hear voices. 1. The No World is all that is the case.” Then she debates whether to sign it K. or Ka. She hears Ka instead of K, hears the difference between them, perhaps it’s a clue. She signs her name Ka. At the exit, next to a window, a shadow tries passing her unnoticed. The girl walks into its path and the hairs on her arms bristle, detecting a presence. Suddenly, she has the feeling again of being followed. She decides, once and for all, to get to the bottom of the mystery, so she turns around and goes back to where she felt the presence. She then considers if it’s ill advised to confront an unknown entity unarmed. But it doesn’t matter. When she reaches the agency window, the unknown entity’s already vanished. For how long has it been following her? she wonders as she heads for the next block to hail a taxi. The rehearsal space isn’t far, but she asks the driver to take a detour. When she passes the classifieds office again, she can’t help darting another glance at the window. A few meters further on, she sees cousin Dedalus strolling casually while reading a newspaper. She watches him, wondering if he’ll catch sight of her. But he doesn’t see her — or if he has seen her, he’s doing a good job pretending he hasn’t.

Near the hotel, there’s a second-hand clothes store, and the screenwriter decides to go inside and have a look. He never used to think of buying anything in a place like this. It’s true they haven’t always been around, he tells himself, but even if they had been, he’d never have thought to enter one, much less buy anything inside. These days, however, if he needed some pants, a jacket, or possibly a new shirt, he might see it as an obligation. Necessity can alter habits, he thinks, remembering it’s already his second visit. He doesn’t even know why he’s come into the store again, but it’s clearly something to do with his financial situation. On emerging from between rows of hangers, he notices a sign announcing, in flawless calligraphy, the sale of second-hand clothing. He goes outside and looks in the display window for a moment. Then he hobbles to the nearest metro station. He’s not traveling far, but at his pace, it would take forever. The screenwriter wants to see the Grand Central Station first hand, that curious place where the girl’s father and his associate McGregor swap vigils, waiting interminably for who knows what. He wants to see the stakeout point, try to determine why they’ve chosen it. Perhaps he should avoid the place altogether though. He knows the territory is forbidden to him. But curiosity, as usual, overrides his better judgment. Sometimes, he wonders if he only writes scripts to live the lives of his characters, beings that only exist in his dreams, people he’d like to be. The mind is a strange thing, full of oddities, he says. According to the girl, nothing exists outside it. But to live the lives of characters that only exist in the mind is to waste one’s life chasing chimeras. There are people that dedicate their lives to research; scientists, both great and minor, who work for the benefit and improvement of our species, whose discoveries are in fact useful. He tries to think of some examples: cars, refrigerators, knives, bread — food in general, he supposes. . These people don’t just make stuff up; they don’t just fabricate a loaf of bread into existence. Nonetheless, the screenwriter can’t help thinking of all the bureaucracy and political skulduggery a scientist has to deal with before he can make these amenities available to the public. Then there are those who work in the dream industry. They don’t deal with reality at all. The screenwriter realizes this is the second time he’s repeated this thought pattern, invoked ideas and images exactly as before. It must be something to do with his age. Dreams, flashbacks, fantasies, chimeras, that which isn’t real, that which once was, that which cannot be, that which he wants to be. To live together with the girl, the greatest adventure of his life. From the steps of the station, he surveys the hotel balconies on the other side of the plaza where, he imagines, the girl and her father, and maybe even McGregor, when he’s not in the station, can frequently be seen looking back. But then he thinks McGregor unlikely to be on the balcony, since he wants to avoid an encounter with the girl. The screenwriter has no way of telling which of the balconies is the girl’s, so he heads inside and sits at one of the station cafés, near the platforms. After ordering a coffee, he takes his notebook and pencil from his jacket pocket and describes in detail various things going on around him, such as the way the people move, the difference between those who pass through the station regularly and those who don’t, those who stride purposefully, their eyes fixed head, and those who look lost, who look left and right then stare at departure boards, scanning for numbers to tell them where they should go, who only deign to ask for directions as a last resort. He wants to immerse himself in those places frequented by the girl, her father, and her father’s enigmatic associate. Right now, the people in the station are like the extras at the peripheries of the shot in which he occupies the center, contemplating everything going on around him. He wouldn’t know the girl’s father if he bumped into him. He doesn’t remember ever having seen him, or the girl’s mother for that matter. They’re the type of people who get other people to take their children to school, like servants or bodyguards. The screenwriter thinks it’s immoral for parents to let strangers take a young girl to school. Near him, some travelers are boarding a train. He pays his bill and crumples the receipt into his pocket along with his notebook. Then he leans on his cane to get to his feet and wobbles slowly toward the main door. Damn leg, he murmurs, as he descends the steps, and surveys again the balconies of the hotels facing the station.

It’s Saturday, in the early hours of the morning. The girl gets back to the hotel in a bad mood. She feels like she’s wasted valuable time with the Little Sinfonietta. Sometimes, she feels like a fool. It’s usually when the young conductor’s nearby. She’s started fighting with him again. If he thinks she’s going to change the way she plays, he’s a bigger fool than her. The
5 Pieces for piano
and the
No World Symphony
are different compositions and they should be performed differently. Both the young conductor and the brilliant composer are wrong. She finds her father sitting in a chair, talking on the telephone. Judging by his tone, she guesses McGregor is on the line. One of his legs is resting on the bed, which is half-covered with newspapers and other documents, and on which two cell phones lie, waiting forever, it seems, for a call that never comes. At the head of the bed is a pistol inside a leather holster. It’s not the gun her father usually carries. The girl knows this, of course. She likes to think of it as a game, guessing whose gun it is. Her father also passes the time playing games — whether in the hotel room waiting for a call, diverting himself with a newspaper or two, or in the station bar when he’s on watch, scrutinizing the faces of people walking past. Life’s full of these little games. It would be unbearable if this wasn’t the case. If something goes wrong, the girl recalls, it only has meaning when it’s considered part of a game. If she’s said it once, she’s said it a thousand times to the young conductor and brilliant composer, when they were still her friends. What is a game? she asks, as if to the female student. It’s dark outside, although light from the plaza still reaches the balcony. If she turns out the light, her silhouette on the opposite wall stretches to the ceiling. It’s never quiet here. It’s too near the station. It doesn’t matter, though, the girl’s not tired. Not going to get some sleep? her father asks. But sleep’s the last thing on her mind. She shakes her head, putting the possibility to bed, and goes to the laptop to write. “3.5 A propositional sign, applied and thought out, is a thought. 4. A thought is a proposition with a sense. The game isn’t a true proposition, thinks the female student. The game is just another way of imposing meaning on something that has no meaning. It’s like trying to perform the part of a certain character that could be the female student herself. To become that character in every sense, to breathe the same air, think the same thoughts, live every instant of one’s life just as that character would. The female student feels she’s an actress, and that she’s playing a certain part. It’s not theater, though, but a way of life. The character speaks with her voice, but it’s as though she herself were something other than the character she embodies. She immerses herself in the character and identifies with her. Some people do this by gathering around tables and performing from a script. But for others, this isn’t enough. They need a stage and props to help them bring a character to life. The female student, on the other hand, prefers to just live permanently in her role: on the metro, at the beach, even here, lying next to the old professor. One moment it’s W, the next Ka. The game then acquires a dimension we didn’t know it had. It’s not that difficult to play, but the amount of pleasure and pain one derives from playing is potentially unlimited, she thinks. There are no pieces to move, no cards to be dealt, no dice that need to be rolled; all one need do is acknowledge that life is a game, and that everything is part of that game. To live such a life is to play.” The girl comes out of her trance, leans back in the chair, and yawns. She looks over at her father, thinks about him and McGregor on their interminable vigils. Who are they waiting for? she wonders, before rephrasing, On whom do they wait? And going further, What type of game are they playing? And further still, what part does the scientist play in it? She doesn’t have an answer for any of these questions. The girl will also have to play. What part does all their waiting play in the game?