Nothing matters now except the writing. It’s all she thinks about since being hypnotized. Nothing else in her life makes sense anymore, and she doesn’t care how the change happened, what the trance did to her, because now not only does she know what she wants to do, she’s determined to get it done. The act of writing has become an end in itself, despite the newspapers back in the screenwriter’s native city acclaiming her success and that of the Little Sinfonietta, publishing loads of pictures, and giving her the kind of coverage usually accorded to more serious, newsworthy topics. The screenwriter knows that only a person with plenty of clout and lots of contacts could make that happen. His leg hurts, a sign it’s going to rain. Even so, he ventures outside and heads for the National Museum of Modern Art. It starts raining, so he seeks shelter in a café. Some of the customers are reading, others conversing, a few are staring at the sidewalk being spattered by rain. The screenwriter thinks he’d be able to write if he were sitting in a café in the neighboring country’s capital. He’s thought this ever since he got home. Maybe the girl will also become one of those people who write in cafés. The windows are open here, allowing sparrows to flutter in and make themselves part of the décor, gadding about competing for crumbs left on the tables or whatever the customers let fall on the floor. If the girl was here, she’d sit beside the window and admire the Museum building, which the screenwriter thinks a singular structure; she’d probably throw crumbs at the sparrows too, while rambling on about the direction her life is going in, and perhaps mention the first chapter of her book or talk about her novel as a whole, with which she’ll confess she’s at last getting somewhere. Perhaps she’d write in her diary that she no longer doubts herself because, since being hypnotized, she feels as if the scales have fallen from her eyes and her literary objectives become completely clear. The screenwriter too thinks he knows where his story should go, but he still deliberates, goes over it again and again, before committing a single thought to paper. It seems the rain’s died down, so he crosses the plaza and heads for the museum, limping slowly, so as not to slip and fall. The clouds are low, the wind cool and blustery. It might start raining again, he thinks while standing in the ticket line with a bunch of tourists, who flock to his native capital, attracted by its fame and allure. Once inside, he goes up to the floor where all the most important works are displayed. He exaggerates his limp, pauses before each painting, affecting a grave expression, while all he’s really thinking about is his script. He wants to plan it out systematically but always struggles to keep the story’s structure in mind long enough to commit it to paper. Occasionally, he gets distracted by the paintings, a few of which he finds totally bewildering. It’s clear to him not everyone on Earth has the same taste in Art, or anything else for that matter. His thoughts return to the script and the girl, whose daily routine has suffered an upheaval. Now, all she wants to do is write, anything else is a distraction. If she practices the piano at all, it’s out of a sense of professional duty, or as preparation for an impending recording session. The screenwriter thinks of a scene he imagines will transpire later in the evening, beginning at the moment the girl arrives at the church in front of the writer’s café. She’s arriving late, the screenwriter thinks. That’s the phrase he’ll begin with, the phrase with which he’ll start his recapitulation of that morning’s events. He goes over to the museum café to sit on a balcony that offers a panoramic view of the lobby. She’s arriving late, he thinks again. A few tables down, a guy is sitting with his legs resting on a chair. He’s facing the other way, scooted up close to the railings, observing the constant procession of museumgoers entering and exiting the building. The screenwriter orders the daily special, about which the only thing special is its reasonable price. Then, before leaving, he strikes his cane hard against the floor and points it at the guy with his legs up. You’re getting that chair dirty, he says. The man puts his feet on the ground, and the screenwriter turns away, smiling. She’s arriving late, he repeats to himself, the phrase that will begin his next scene.