No World Concerto (18 page)

The screenwriter goes over the scene in which the girl discovers the guy in the classically-cut suit is in fact a seriously ill scientist. The girl reads about him in the newspaper as she waits for her mother to collect her for the interview. It seems a little different compared to the article she saved in her diary, so she goes to a kiosk to check what the other newspapers have to say. Her mind races as she riffles through the pages, wondering what this guy was doing with her father just before he fell ill. She doesn’t expect the newspapers will tell her. Each newspaper sketches its own portrait of the man, although they all agree in one respect, that he’s an old eccentric who, in recent years, had withdrawn almost completely from public life. The girl doesn’t remember her article saying this. In fact, she thinks it said quite the reverse. The screenwriter senses the girl’s fascination with the man: a fascination they share, although their thoughts hardly converge in any other way. The scene then blurs into three or four parts he can’t quite distinguish. He looks at his watch. It’s late, and he’s sleepy. What’s the girl doing right now? Perhaps sitting beside her mother in a taxi; or beside the young conductor in that small theater, wondering what would’ve become of them had twelve-tone music never been invented; or beside the brilliant composer, who repeats the same answer he already gave to the question, whatever it was. She could even be helping to train the new conquest, demonstrating for her on the piano in exchange for answers to personal questions. But whatever it is she happens to be doing, her thoughts are the same, for she’s only thinking about those newspaper articles, and the strange feeling that’s suddenly come over her. She used to unload her agitation on the young conductor and brilliant composer, but now that those relationships have ended, she feels alone, and has no one else in the world to confide in. She imagines being strong, capable of creating layers of protection against the unknown entities lurking in the shadows, entities she senses could leap out at any moment. She feels uncomfortable, has lost her focus. The church is full, as usual, but she doesn’t see anyone she knows. It’s a magnificent church, with a high belfry for communicating with other civilizations, although it looks far less imposing compared with the large cathedral towers. For an instant during her recital, she thinks she sees her cousin Dedalus flashing by, like lightning that was absorbed into the crowd, and she wonders whether she just imagined it, although she does remember inviting him on the day they met. She searches for her mother’s face in the audience, who might be able to corroborate what she saw, but she can’t find her in any of the tiers. Her thoughts turn again to the gravely ill scientist. The articles stress his condition has worsened, which means he must have already been sick when she met him. She’d have liked to talk to him about the cathedrals transmitting and receiving messages to and from space. One of the articles speculated on why he retired from public life and abandoned his cutting-edge research to become a recluse. Something prevents her from talking to her father about it — a gut feeling, or something like it, tells her not to do so. Others obtain an advantage over you if they know too much about what goes on in your life. She’ll admit to any foibles he might deem typical of a teenager, and update him on the musical career he shows little interest in, but nothing more. There are no such things as coincidences, she says to herself, not knowing why she’s said it again: a proposition that’s become a platitude.

He can no longer stand the solitude. Once again, it seems, the girl won’t be coming, and even the disturbing dream he had only hours before has now left him. She thinks they’re following her, so she must be breaking her usual routines. She’s probably sorry she can’t make it. After primping himself in front of the mirror, he takes his jacket out of the closet. He’d feel naked without it. It’s a sultry night, perhaps too warm to go cruising, but his desire burns even hotter. As he closes the door behind him, he smiles to himself. They say old age vitiates desire. His whole life he’s been hearing such lies. As the elevator descends, he taps the floor with small impatient strokes, thinking he’d strike anyone in the street who got in his way. He’ll restrain himself, though, because of his cultivation, his manners, his savoir-faire: the kinds of things they used to teach in school, which no one teaches anymore. Or perhaps the real reason he’ll restrain himself is fear. He walks in the direction of the boulevards until he manages to hail a taxi, telling the driver to take him to the street where he first met the black prostitute. A few meters above the sex shop, he finds her leaning at the entrance to the stairway, as if she’s been waiting for him. He greets her with a hug, tells her how miserable his life is, that he no longer understands the world, and that the world no longer understands him. She strokes his hair, and asks him about his work. She’s asked him the same question before, but it doesn’t matter, she knows why he came: to be disburdened, to be allowed to repeat the same story as before about himself, the same rant about the rest of the world, until he’s satisfied, or until she can’t bear to listen anymore. After telling her how he became a screenwriter, he starts talking about the old days, how they’re invariably better than the new ones. Then he talks about the screenplay he’s writing. Do you know why I called it
No World
? She has no idea. Because the world we’re living in isn’t real. It doesn’t exist. You and I don’t exist. Is that what you mean by No World? she asks. But the screenwriter isn’t listening to her, or perhaps he doesn’t want to be waylaid during a monologue, or perhaps he’s still trying to figure out why the girl apposes those two words, what exactly she’s referring to. So he ignores the prostitute’s question because he doesn’t know the answer himself. And it doesn’t end there, he says, continuing as if she’d never asked it, there’s also the matter of truth and falsity. Let’s imagine nothing around us is real. The screenwriter pauses, allowing her time to conceive of the scenario, but the prostitute instead takes advantage of the pause to ask him if
No World
is the definitive title for his movie. He nods his head, says it’s a title he borrowed, but then insists nothing is definitive in this life. She keens pityingly, combing his gray hair with her fingers.

The screenwriter thinks, or perhaps he’s hoping against hope, that if he’s more prudent with his spending, he’ll manage to struggle out of the financial quandary he’s in. In any case, a creditable screenwriter ought to know, or at least have a good idea, how to finish the story he proposes to write. He pays for breakfast and takes a long detour to the river on his way back to the hotel. Today’s a good day, even his limp has relented somewhat, and he feels he can walk any distance with ease. He buys fruit, cheese, and hamburger buns, food that’s easy to prepare, in case he doesn’t feel like leaving his room again later when he’s hungry. The newspapers are piling up on the bed. On their front pages, he’s written notes such as: today, it rained; or, the heat was unbearable today; or, interesting article today on the star of that soccer team. He looks out the window at the building opposite, at the floor exactly level with his. It seems like an eternity since the woman showed her face. He’s not happy with the phrase, “showed her face,” and tries to think of another. “Made an appearance,” perhaps. Today’s newspaper has an article about the trafficking of radioactive material, another on the soccer star, who still hasn’t said when he’ll be returning to training, and another on the worst terrorist in history, whose lawyers have filed a lawsuit against the government for kidnapping their client on territory outside their jurisdiction. The screenwriter reads a long article about the general who succeeded in capturing him, the head of the team of lawyers who’ll be defending him, and the judge who — assuming he’s found guilty — will be sentencing him. The general is depicted as an agent provocateur, the perfect spy, a person no one’s succeeded in photographing. The screenwriter puts this newspaper on top of the pile and lights a cigarette. The kind of work the girl’s father might do, he says. He imagines him in the hotel in front of the Grand Central Station, doing whatever it is he does there — spying, monitoring. The screenwriter’s beating around the bush. But the girl’s notes aren’t very clear about it either. Perhaps her father’s been especially cautious around her, concealed his activities well, or perhaps she knows all and doesn’t want anyone else to. He exhales some smoke while standing up, goes to the bedside table, and picks up the receiver. He dials the producer’s number, listens to the rings, not counting, but murmuring to himself: money; another advance; I’d appreciate whatever you can give. Not asking for a specific amount makes his situation seem more desperate. Oh yes, it’s a magnificent screenplay, reminiscent of those legendary scripts written during the golden age. Perhaps he shouldn’t boast, he thinks while waiting for the phone to cut out — these aren’t the words the producer wants to hear. No one believes in magnificent screenplays anymore. Of course he wants a perfect script, but “perfect” for the producer doesn’t mean a work of art. It means a work that has all the qualities that betoken commercial success. That’s what people today seem to mean by words like “great,” “perfect,” “magnificent,” etc. And they all mean the same thing to the producer. So if the script is described as magnificent, it had better be with this understanding in mind. The screenwriter didn’t notice the phone cutting out, or the fact he’s gone on holding the phone notwithstanding. He hangs up and dials his home number. Fucking August, he complains. Like a Sunday protracted to the length of a whole month. A month when the world seems to come to a standstill, when no one does anything productive, when even eating may be thought a supererogation. If I hate Sundays, I fucking hate Augusts, he says while hanging up the telephone, and angrily crushing his cigarette in the ashtray.

She prepared her question carefully: concealed the question mark, transformed it into something subtler. Her father’s busy putting his papers in order. She watches him, mentions she saw Cousin Dedalus in the crowd. He seems too distracted to notice she even said anything. So she just silently watches as he puts certain documents in order, perhaps the same documents she saw before: photographs and reports from the space agency relating to sightings of aliens and flying saucers. He holds up an old black and white snapshot of the scientist and some other people. He flips it over, sees “1st Hunter Brigade” clearly written on the back. He then puts it among some other photographs, as if the title had revealed to him its proper classification. Although she’s a little nervous, the girl feigns a lack of interest in what he’s doing, and keeps talking about her cousin. Don’t you think it’s extraordinary I keep bumping into him? Her father asks her how she could’ve picked him out in the shadows of the dimly lit church, and from so far away too. She doesn’t tell him about her sixth sense, that she’s also detected
him
under similar circumstances. Her father continues working away, not paying much attention to her, so she turns to her diary. She plans to go snooping through his papers later on. Why didn’t she do it earlier when she had the chance? The timing wasn’t right. She grabs the newspaper and continues scouring through the articles. She’s suddenly developed a great interest in the neighboring country’s newspapers. She always reads the one she buys her father every morning in the lobby downstairs, and others she might see in any bars, cafés, or restaurants she happens to come across. Indeed, whatever else she might be doing, whether it’s sitting down to eat or drink, taking notes for her novel, or simply relaxing, she always has a newspaper at hand. Her father wants to know why she doesn’t buy all the newspapers together at the kiosk and stop all the running around. She doesn’t answer but instead asks her own question, trying her best to conceal the question mark: Dad, what if all the churches and cathedrals were really centers for transmitting and receiving messages to and from space? Her father doesn’t think it’s a bad idea. She might be able to use it in her novel. The girl returns to the newspaper. She’s looking for some news on the scientist. She has a bad feeling any news will be a confirmation of his death. But there’s nothing about the scientist in today’s papers. So the girl decides to go out and lock herself inside the rehearsal booth with the young conductor’s latest conquest and help her with some of the pieces she’s having trouble with; in fact, the very same pieces the girl performs as a clown. Afterward, back in the hotel, she continues her story about the female student, although it’s not really her story at all, but that of the old professor of philosophy, the alien hunter who hasn’t even got a license to hunt. The female student only represents an idea, albeit the main idea of the story. “2.221 What the no picture represents is its sense. The female student walks breezily along the street, unaware that the young guy she cold-shouldered back in class is following her, a potential witness of her assignation with the professor.” The girl looks up from the computer screen. She catches her father watching her. But he quickly lowers his eyes to the newspaper. Who knows what’s going on in his head? “2.222 The agreement or disagreement of its sense with reality constitutes its truth or falsity. After some time has elapsed — perhaps only a few hours or so, because the female student’s classmate isn’t a dolt, and was quick to figure out what was going on — the professor’s wife receives an anonymous phone call. She hangs up, and sits down slowly — as if sinking, but hesitatingly — into an armchair, her expression transitioning as she sits, becoming forlorn; her open eyes letting fall two tears, unsynchronized, which run unevenly down her cheeks. It’s not the first time her husband’s cheated on her. He’s been having affairs with women almost from the day they were married. Some were even close acquaintances. She wasn’t expecting him to change. At his age, most people have learned to rein in their desires, to control their rage, moderate their passions, but with him, it seems, old habits die hard. It seems he’s entered a strange phase in life, a desperate clinging onto what he imagines is slipping away — his youth, his vitality, his sexuality — and he overcompensates for the growing lack instead of rationing what’s left, like most people. It’s as if he believes it’s his last winter, and wants to burn down the storehouse to experience a final day of summer. Now that she thinks about it, he’s been acting strangely the past few months. But, then again, perhaps she’s only thinking this because she’s jealous. Maybe he’s had enough of her. It could be as simple as that. Even so, for the woman, it’s nothing new. What really disturbs her is the fact he’s having a relationship with a minor: a student of the Academy. She doesn’t know why, but she thinks there’s something different about this one, despite the fact she’s so young. She’s probably not even the first teenager he’s had. Maybe she’s thinking as a mother would, imagining what she’d do if she discovered her daughter was having an affair with an older man — a much older man; a retired much older man who gives classes to supplement his pension.” When her father finally goes out, the girl searches the hotel room for his documents. The room isn’t very big, so it doesn’t take her long to realize her father took them with him. She can’t even begin to guess where he might have gone, or why he took the documents. She should’ve paid more attention. All she can do is lament another lost opportunity and return resignedly to her writing. Her vocation should preclude her being distracted by what goes on around her anyway. She considers the old professor’s wife. “There’s no doubt about it. What the anonymous voice just told her is the truth. But she hasn’t decided what to do about it, so she’s going to keep quiet. She won’t even mention a word about it. 2.224 It is impossible to tell from the picture alone whether it is true or false. When the old professor finally gets home, he finds his wife taciturn, so he suspects something isn’t right. She gives the excuse that she has a terrible headache. Later, in the kitchen, he resolves to break the silence by asking about her day.” The elevator stops on the landing, and she hears the sound of McGregor’s footsteps approaching in the corridor — slowing, hesitating as they pass the girl’s door, before receding as they proceed toward his room. The girl listens as he secures the latch of his door, thinking about their inevitable meeting, a man with whom she’s only ever exchanged a few words on the telephone. But she won’t leave anything to chance. She’s already let too many opportunities slip through her fingers, so she intends to plan the meeting exactly. She’ll interrogate him about the cathedrals, railway stations, and airports. The idea of using cathedrals as meeting points isn’t a bad one, but there wouldn’t be any privacy. The young conductor thinks if aliens really are among us, maybe she should try arranging a meeting by putting an ad in a newspaper. She returns to her writing. She needs to persist if she’s to continue making progress. She still has to consolidate the relationship between the female student and old professor — two beings from another galaxy. They must come from another galaxy. It wouldn’t make sense if this wasn’t the case.