By the early hours of the morning, there are only a few survivors from the previous night, and they continued drinking heavily long after the girl’s mother left. At some point during the night, the screenwriter suggested the girl read S’s sonnets, and that, instead of writing, she should study the piano works of B, H, M, or C. They say you run out of time, that after the age of twenty, if you haven’t already mastered the whole repertoire, something will be lacking for the rest of your life. At some other point in the evening, the screenwriter told the girl about an early film by the director of the movie in which an angel can hear other people’s voices. He wants to listen to the soundtrack of the film. The music is ideal for his screenplay. The brilliant composer, overhearing the conversation, proposes writing an original soundtrack to supplement the one the screenwriter’s talking about. It would be a simple mathematical exercise, he says. Then the screenwriter gets the impression he must have lost consciousness for a moment, because when he comes to, the girl is no longer beside him. He must have dozed off. He checks his watch. It’s gotten late. Too late to do anything, he says, without quite knowing what he means. He doubts she’ll show up back at the hotel tonight, but what worries him the most is the possibility he ruined everything with his intrusion. A simple mathematical exercise, repeats the brilliant composer, his back against a wall at the other end of the table, his legs stretched out along the length of a bench. He’s no longer talking about the soundtrack, though. The screenwriter stopped paying attention when he started thinking about the girl, or perhaps it’s because he fell asleep. Each successive number in the series is the sum of the two that preceded it, the composer continues, and if you pick a number far enough along and divide it by the number immediately following it, the result approximates the golden ratio, or 1.618. If he hadn’t had so much to drink, the screenwriter might be able to get his head around the compositional method the young man is talking about. He’d probably even ask a couple of questions, if only to be polite, but he’s too tired, and the words aren’t coming. Besides, who said he’s even talking about a compositional method? The screenwriter has only ever heard the golden ratio spoken of with reference to architecture or painting. He decides to leave his queries for another day and, instead, feigns comprehension by nodding his head a couple of times, biding his time until the opportunity comes for him to leave without saying good-bye. The brilliant composer watches him as he skulks away, but maintains his decumbent position on the bench, too comfortable to move or even say good-bye himself, although, eventually, languidly, he raises his arm and mumbles good-bye, as if bidding farewell to a vanishing ghost. Then he takes a cough-syrup bottle filled with cognac from his pocket and empties it to the dregs. Maybe he’s had too much to drink, the screenwriter hears someone say on exiting. They could be talking about him; they could be talking about the brilliant composer; either way, the screenwriter thinks, they’re telling the truth. On his way back to the hotel, he writes a scene in which the girl and young conductor quarrel over her interpretations of the
5 Pieces for piano and the No World Symphony. It’s an argument provoked mainly by jealousy: his for the girl’s fame, hers for the young conductor’s philandering. It’s the same one from last night, the brilliant composer assures the girl, referring to the young conductor’s latest conquest, who’s been stuck to his hip all night. Perhaps what’s going on between the girl and young conductor of the orchestra is only a game, the screenwriter muses, as he imagines the girl back at the hotel with the English name, sitting alone in her room, restless, distrait, looking out the window, deep in thought perhaps, remembering the strange looks exchanged between the young conductor and her mother. He’s finding it difficult to pin down the essentials of his story. He’s certain it’s because he drank too much. But if not today, he’ll do it sooner or later, he promises himself. In an alcoholic haze, the screenwriter sees the girl and young conductor as being completely devoted to the game. After each of their battles, they probably keep a tally of all their victims, he thinks; perhaps by making notches in their instruments. The screenwriter thinks he might well be one of the girl’s pawns, but he quickly sweeps the thought from his mind, unable to imagine he’s merely the victim of a jealous tit-for-tat between young lovers. He turns to look at the streets below, dark, empty, on which he’s still hoping the numinous figure of the girl will appear. Suddenly, he hears a taxi approaching; but it passes without slowing. He raises his eyes to the building across the street, sees only a rectangular void where he hoped to catch sight his neighbor. Then, as if for the first time, he examines the front of the building and notices, as if for the first time, there are in fact two different buildings. He looks at the storefronts again: the real estate agency on the corner, the bakery, the shop selling women’s lingerie, and the shoe and handbag store that’s closed for the August vacation. He thinks about his wife again; remembers the sexy panties he bought, which are lying idle in the back of the closet. But it doesn’t matter, the girl isn’t coming.