No World Concerto (22 page)

Alone in the room, the girl is writing in her notebook, doing some literary exercises in observation — writing a series of short, descriptive vignettes — as she resolved to do whenever she wasn’t making any progress with her novel, as a form of self-resuscitation. She describes the old hotel room she’s staying in: how the balcony looks, shrouded by timeworn curtains, barely translucent with all the stains; the high, flaking ceilings raining plaster on the carpet; the walls, the wallpaper, once kitsch, now obscenely discolored; and finally, of course, the room’s furnishings. She describes what she sees because she believes the exercises will hone her skills as a writer, and whenever she gets writer’s block, she exercises. More of a writer every day, she thinks. On her father’s nightstand are some jazz CDs, some magazines and newspapers, which partially cover the monumental tome of his favorite author — a man obsessed with jealousy, solitude, and the passage of time — and a paper on the social responsibilities of the scientist, as well as another about the search for life beyond our solar system. The latter outlines methods to search for life at every stage of evolution, from primitive to intelligent. The girl lies down on the bed in order to compare all these coincidences that seem to be mounting, to see if there’s any relationship between them: the voices that pronounce her name with a “ka,” the extraterrestrials both inside and outside her novel, the documentation her father keeps, the domes of countless cathedrals and churches that act as transmitter-receiver stations, the astrophysicist. . she lies back on the bed with her arms crossed, her eyes screwed to the ceiling. Is there life out there? she asks. She knows there are dots to connect, but she can’t seem to focus at the moment. She thinks about the gravely ill scientist again, who’s not only a friend of her father’s but seems to have been acquainted with her mother in her youth. What’s her mother up to right now? she wonders. After some deliberation, she calls her. It doesn’t take long before they’re arguing over why she was axed by the Little Sinfonietta. Her mother repeats the same warning as the day before. Is it so hard for you to understand why it happened? she asks, you’re too distracted, you’ve lost your focus. Then she asks if the girl’s with her father. He’s just gone out, she responds. What are you up to, then? her mother asks. I’m writing, she says. It’s a piece of dialogue between two people who are struggling to keep a conversation going, and which ultimately ends in silence. Her mother gets the message and the phone call ends. The girl’s annoyed whenever anything reminds her of the young conductor and brilliant composer. But then she thinks she should have the courage to leave. Leave who, what? Everything, she says in haste, as if the answer had erupted from the very depths of her. But it’s no use. Running away from everything is like running away from nothing; and besides, she doesn’t exactly know why it is she wants to run away at all. She can’t imagine herself packing her bags then hailing a taxi to the airport. Before she even thinks about going anywhere, she must wait for a reply to her ad. It will surely come any day now. There are too many coincidences telling her that contact is imminent. She returns to her position on the bed, lying back with her arms crossed, her eyes screwed to the ceiling.

She’s not getting into any taxi. She’s not running away from any world. The young conductor pops into her head. If she did run away, at least she’d never have to see him again. She’ll never have to think about him either. She then immediately contradicts herself by imagining a hypothetical dialogue between them. They’re talking about her novel. How do they know they’re aliens? he asks. She says they don’t know. The question you should be asking is: How
don’t
I know they’re aliens? The young conductor says this is like asking how do we know what we see is real — that we’re not just the product of inconceivably sophisticated software, or the creation of an over-arching consciousness, a part of a game created by that consciousness for its own amusement; a consciousness that some have called God? The girl closes her eyes. Once again, someone’s trying to steal her thoughts. I’m sorry, she says, but I think you’re just regurgitating something I’ve already said. The words have hardly left her mouth when, deep within, the girl hears the sound of a thousand voices speaking in unison, growing louder and louder, saying every idea in the world has been thought of, that there’s nothing she’ll ever conceive or imagine that hasn’t been spoken of or written about before. Then the voices fall silent, and the conversation with the young conductor of the orchestra comes to an end. She won’t be having these kinds of discussions again, she thinks. They’re finished for good. An inner voice reminds her, “The clown, in an ecstasy, drinks deeply from the holy chalice, to heaven lifts up his entranced head. .” Yes, they’re finished for good, as is her friendship with the young conductor. They didn’t miss her at all, said the brilliant composer. The statement could be the straw that breaks the camel’s back. For a nobody, he certainly has a good way of gauging the situation. They didn’t need her, she repeats. Perhaps she should pay them a visit. The girl dismisses the thought and concentrates on a single point on the ceiling. She doesn’t want her imagination to wander. “3.11 The method of projection is to think of the sense of the No World.” She writes about the old professor, says he only acquires full significance when he’s thought of as part of a much bigger picture, as in that terrible image of him staring out through the windows of a control room at the vast emptiness of space. When her father gets back, tired after a long vigil in the station, they converse on a number of trivial topics, after which he asks her how the writing’s going. It would be better to ask if she knew the beginnings of certain novels. But that would be expecting too much of him. She’s content to just record them in her notebook. “One summer afternoon Mrs. Oedipa Maas came home from a Tupperware. .” “Stately. .” The girl decides to leave the room and go for something to eat — not knowing exactly where to go, or perhaps, unconsciously, she does know, but it won’t occur to her until she reaches the lobby, when it will suddenly dawn on her, as if by chance, as if spontaneously — except it won’t be by chance, for the knowledge has always been there in her unconscious, and it only needed the right moment, the right suggestion, to bubble up into her conscious mind, and perhaps entering the lobby was all the suggestion it needed. It’s not the first time the thought occurred to her, she just hasn’t dared follow through on it. She knows it’s one of those things her father forbids her to do, although he doesn’t say it directly, because he doesn’t have to, and she doesn’t ask, because she knows better, because his answer’s implicit. The Grand Central Station looms imposingly before the girl, with its vaulted glass ceiling, its huge displays announcing the arrival and departure of trains, whether they’ll be on schedule or delayed. It reminds the girl of an airport, although a gray, old, and filthy one. The place is crowded, and the girl suspects that all these people are getting back after a short weekend away somewhere. Even a train station knows Sundays are horrible, she thinks. She passes a kiosk on her way to a café in which, seated at the back, watching her as she enters, is the elusive cousin Dedalus. The girl can’t help suspecting that Cousin Dedalus and McGregor are in fact the same person. That would explain why McGregor seems to want to avoid crossing paths with her, and why her father was so surprised when she told him she met Cousin Dedalus. She walks right past him, close enough to say hello, to sit down and interrogate him about the churches and cathedrals, those transmitters and receivers of intergalactic messages, but he turns his face as she passes, as if to avoid being seen by her, and she ends up sitting far away from him. The girl takes notes in her notebook. She wants to describe the behavior of someone who has nothing else to do with his time but wait. Wait for what? she wonders, still convinced the answer will mark a turning point — although she knows simply asking herself the question won’t yield an answer. She finishes her meal without having thought of a single particular quality to distinguish Cousin Dedalus from McGregor. So what will she call him from now on, this Dedalus/McGregor? She looks around the station. She can’t think of anything that makes him stand out from the crowd, and no one around her in the station is acting strangely — acting like someone who has nothing to do but wait — although she knows every single one of them has something about them that they don’t want the rest of the world knowing. The girl thinks she’ll never again be able to enter a train station without thinking about her father and his associate, the man she’s now convinced is Cousin Dedalus. Perhaps she’ll never be able to enter a train station again without thinking the way they do about the commuters — that some of them aren’t really commuters at all.

He can’t sleep. So he leaves the light off and gets up, moving through the darkness toward the window, and looks down at the street below. He then looks at the building opposite, then the bakery, the lingerie store, and the shoe and handbag store that’s closed for the August vacation. Sundays are pointless, he thinks. Fortunately, he missed this one. He got back late from his assignation with the black prostitute and spent most of the day sleeping. He then got up and ate some leftovers from the fridge, drank lots of water to defuse his hangover, and even managed to write a little. He doesn’t have the stamina for drinking he once had, but he can’t help himself when he’s around the black prostitute, or any prostitute for that matter. He finds he has to drink when he’s around them. The girl’s different though. He doesn’t drink when he’s with her. There’s a car waiting in front of the hotel. Its droning engine is distracting him. The streets are dimly lit but he can still see the white envelope in the driver’s hands. He gets dressed and goes down to the lobby, limps nervously with the help of his cane toward the receptionist, and asks if there’s a letter for him. There is. He sits in the nearest chair and tears open the envelope. It’s a scene in which the girl illustrates the connection between two different characters, the quality that brings them together, making them one. “4.1 Connections represent the existence and nonexistence of states of affairs. The female student is lying next to the window smoking. The old professor of philosophy is standing with his hands in his pockets on the other side of the room, thinking about his wife, who’s threatening to report him to the Academy. He lights his own cigarette and starts walking back and forth in the room, toward and away from her. There’s a guilty silence between them. We should make love tonight, and not stop until we die, he says. She doesn’t respond. He looks at the ground. She doesn’t know whether he’s being serious or ironic. Nobody can keep making love until they die, thinks the female student, smirking. She looks out onto the street. She’s in a cynical mood. How can she die making love when she hasn’t finished reading the philosopher W? The cigarette smoke bothers her. She waves her hand to dissipate the plumes moving toward her face. He wants to know if she still loves him, if he can at least count on that. The female student keeps looking out the window as if she hadn’t heard the question, as if there was a guilty silence between them. I could easily dump her, he says. The female student shudders, but she tries to ignore his use of the word ‘dump’ to describe divorcing his wife. 4. A thought is a proposition with a sense.” There are more pages, but the screenwriter decides to stop reading and return them to the envelope, which he folds in two, and puts in his jacket pocket. He stays seated, thinking a while, alone except for the receptionist — perhaps more a night watchman than receptionist. A couple of tourists ring the doorbell. So he plays the night watchman himself by letting them in and accompanying them to the elevator. Good evening, they say in passing, but the screenwriter doesn’t answer; he just nods his head. Back behind the desk, the receptionist turns the radio on and lowers the volume until it’s practically inaudible. I won’t sleep now, the screenwriter says as he exits onto the street. The fresh air calms him, clears his lungs. He walks slowly in the direction of the river, the sound of his cane on the pavement echoing in the evening silence. As he approaches the bridge, he notices a dim light flickering under it. He gets closer, and sees a group of tramps sleeping around a candle. The screenwriter thinks the place resembles a campsite. There are cardboard boxes and rags piled up beside the piers. Sundays are vile, he keeps thinking, although he’s not sure these poor guttersnipes would agree with him. It’s probably a special day for them, a day when they receive alms from their parishes, or something. He laughs at the notion, turns, and begins the slow walk back to the hotel. Once in his room, he continues reading where he left off. “4.2 The sense of an accusation is its agreement with the possibilities of existence of states of affairs. The woman has followed through on her threats and reported the professor to the board of the Academy. The director considers an immediate dismissal, but decides to allow him to finish his classes, since the school vacation is drawing near, and at that point, the old professor’s contract will be up. Of course, he won’t be offered a new one, but the director’s still anxious to avoid a scandal. Perhaps the female student’s parents will agree to keep the matter under wraps. The director calls her mother twice, but no one’s at home, so he leaves a message after the second attempt. He’s never met her father, and he’d rather discuss the matter with someone he knows. He doesn’t have his phone number anyway, he says aloud, as if to offer himself an excuse. A scandal will harm the Academy’s image, he thinks. He needs time to plan ahead for damage control.”

Early the next morning, the screenwriter finds himself beginning again the old ritual of doing nothing except lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, and listening to the noises outside. He only vaguely recalls last night’s perambulation, the streets whose silence seemed to swallow the echoes of his cane, the candle beleaguered by vagrants, his tiredness, his finally falling into the bed and going asleep. Now, he wants to pick up the thread of the story. First, he wants to conjure, in his mind’s eye, an image of the girl, and where he thinks she’ll be that very moment, for in situating her, his feet find the ground on which he’ll have to slog until he reaches the end of his story. He sees her in the hotel, writing in her diary while looking at the balcony. The screenwriter wonders if she has breakfast with her father. They’re rarely in the same room together, but they must surely eat together on occasion, he thinks. He wonders what these two people, who can barely say more than a few words to one another other, would talk about if they had to sit together in the hotel café, or wherever else they might choose to go and eat, and endure each other’s company for longer than it takes to exhaust the available small talk about school or the weather. He stands with the help of his cane and takes a look out the window, as if he’s been entrusted with a mission to monitor his neighbor’s movements in the building opposite. She seems to be deliberately avoiding him. He then looks at the lingerie store, at the people walking past it, to see who goes in, then at the stores that are closed for the August vacation, and at the people waiting at the bus stop. He concludes the world’s still in its orbit. While shaving, he thinks of the girl’s father sitting on a café terrace in front of the Grand Central Station. The girl, sitting at his side, asks him about the terrorist who’s just been captured, and about whom all the newspapers are reporting. Her father would rather talk about the star of her favorite soccer team, a player who doesn’t seem to want to rejoin his teammates; or perhaps he’d like to ask her why she’s stopped practicing piano. But the girl is insistent, and she finally risks broaching the subject of Cousin Dedalus, a man who disappeared in the neighboring country’s capital years ago, and for whom the police are still looking. What will the press say when they capture him? she asks. Her father looks over his newspaper at her. That has nothing to do with the terrorist, he says, as he folds the newspaper and puts it to one side. He then takes a sip of his coffee and fixes his eyes on his daughter. The screenwriter cleans his razor under the running tap and leaves it dripping to air-dry next to the soap. He then dries his face with a towel and examines the results in the mirror. His face refuses to accord with the image he has of himself. Not that he despises the reflection staring back at him, but it’s not the face of the man he imagines himself to be. Alas, he’s gotten used to it at this stage of his life. Suddenly he remembers the producer: a man who seems to be avoiding him. But he’s running seriously short of funds, he thinks, so he decides once again to try calling him. Which he does, and yet again, there’s no answer. He must be on vacation, he thinks. There’s no other explanation. Either way, he’ll have to prepare some material to send him. He can’t ask for an advance without sending something. Where was I? the screenwriter wonders, sitting at the typewriter and scavenging through his papers. He left off at the station, where the girl and Cousin Dedalus/McGregor — he still doesn’t know which name to keep — are sitting in the same café. The girl had been starting to feel the same as her father and cousin do during their long vigils. No it wasn’t that, he thinks, recalling a more recent interaction. Before he called the producer, he happened on an interesting idea. He lights a cigarette. He knows he shouldn’t be smoking before breakfast, but he’s a little anxious, and the tobacco helps to calm him. He remembers exactly what it was, although he hasn’t written it down yet. He notes it down quickly before it recedes into his unconscious. The girl’s sitting on the terrace of a café in front of the Grand Central Station, having breakfast with her father. She’d like to know what the press will say when the police catch Cousin Dedalus. Her father says that has nothing to do with the terrorist, and takes a sip of coffee. Meanwhile, she’s looking past him, perhaps at the steps outside the station, and she hears him say he doesn’t want her interfering either with him or his associate while they’re working. The girl looks at her father again, intending to demur, but the face she meets warns her against any rejoinder, against any demand for further explanation. He cautions her not to interfere in any of his affairs. He simply won’t tolerate it. She nods reluctantly, again looking away, this time at the foyer she can see just inside the station. Affairs. . she thinks, repeating her father’s euphemism as she looks at the station’s frontage. Don’t even try interfering, he said. She tries to think what affairs he might mean: the vigils, the astrophysicist’s illness, making contact with aliens? Are these the things he won’t tolerate her interfering in?