Daguerreotypes are currently in fashion again. They produce certain effects that aren’t possible with modern methods. It’s possible one of the earliest forms of photography will yield the first ever image of an alien. It may even be the only method that reveals their particular halo. If he knew any other alien hunters, he’d offer them his services too. Wherever he goes, he always leaves the telephone number of the space hotel he’s staying in. The screenwriter smiles in a self-satisfied way for being the one who gave the girl this idea. He finishes his coffee, crushes the cigarette in the ashtray, and has a look around. When he feels he’s come back to Earth, he goes for a walk by the river and then crosses a bridge onto one of the islands. He’s always had a fondness for the smallest of them — now a haven for the wealthy, although he once stayed in a shabby hotel on its main thoroughfare; subsequent development led to a rise in its real-estate value, which means he can barely afford to walk up a side street now. He goes into a bookstore and looks with curiosity at some of the titles on the table of new releases. Then he decides to spend the rest of the time before the store closes browsing the other shelves. He’s pleased he’s able to find an open bookstore in the neighboring country’s capital on a Sunday, and in the city center, of all places. He checks his watch. It’s late, he reflects. He got out of bed late, and he’s still a little drowsy. He doesn’t want to eat at a restaurant on the island and then have to walk all the way back to the hotel. He’s traversed such distances before, but only by walking very slowly because of his limp, and by stopping now and then under the pretext of having a cigarette, but really to catch his breath and recover his strength. Now he’d prefer to just take a taxi. Unfortunately, he has a bad feeling he’s running out of cash, and will have to forgo certain luxuries for the time being — like taxis or paying women for sex. When he eventually does get back, he sees his room’s been tidied in his absence. He pulls open the curtains and looks at his neighbor’s apartment. Empty. No sign of the children playing, or of his neighbor painting their little toy soldiers. He wonders if he’ll wake up late again tomorrow and lose another day. He starts feeling a little depressed at the thought because he knows how badly it affects his concentration. He even starts wondering if he’ll ever be able to concentrate again. He tries to banish the negative thought, but it keeps popping into his head. He even starts wondering if, in the event he never writes another line, he’d be able to find another job. Although he had various jobs when he was younger, he didn’t acquire any useful skills. He’s spent almost his whole life teaching and writing scripts. He remembers as a kid he did an internship working in an office, but the whole experience came to nothing, and he hasn’t worked in an office since. Besides, at his age, no one would hire him as an intern. Maybe he could supplement his pension by getting a job as a resident caretaker, or perhaps a night watchman in a seedy hotel. Or possibly a waiter, he thinks. He won’t even consider a job as a photographer, because he refuses to let himself be confounded with a mere literary creation, that old philosophy professor the girl is writing about. Perhaps he’d enjoy working as a waiter. He’s waited tables before, he remembers, many years before, shortly after his internship in fact. The screenwriter needs the fingers of both hands to count all the different jobs he’s had in his life. He couldn’t stomach working at any of them now, though, especially the jobs of his early youth. Who’d hire a cripple anyway? The image of himself carrying a briefcase and going around billing customers makes him shudder. He wouldn’t have the energy to go hobbling from office to office with his cane. Besides, nowadays, everyone pays their bills electronically, through a bank, unlike when he was an intern. He hasn’t a clue really, so he’ll just have to make do with his script. He remembers giving advice to the kids of some friends and acquaintances who had aspirations of becoming writers, screenwriters, or film directors. He told them to work at several different jobs, to never hold one down for longer than six months, because then they’ll have lots of experiences to draw upon later when they come to write. Now he thinks that this advice is total bullshit. Why did all those kids want to be writers and directors anyway? It came from breathing the same air as their parents, clearly. Perhaps it’s the same for the children of soldiers and athletes, he thinks, all wanting to be soldiers and athletes like Mom and Dad. What became of his own son? What advice did he give him? This causes the screenwriter to think of the girl’s father. He gives advice to his daughter as he would a multinational company. He knows he’s written something like this before. Maybe he shouldn’t use the simile again. The screenwriter likes to think of himself as a fugitive, except no one has come looking for him yet. He abandons the thought. All in good time. He sits in his chair and grabs the newspaper. If he’s lucky, there may be something he can crib for his screenplay. Although it doesn’t matter very much if there isn’t. He’s too tired to write, so he may as well see what’s going on in the world. After reading the headlines and personals, he puts the newspaper down. Only bad news, as always; and there’s nothing in the personals to suggest a secret meeting of chosen ones is being arranged. The police are holding two guys who were found with a stash of plutonium. There’s no news about the star of the soccer team the girl supports. He takes a look outside. The streetlights are flickering on. They remind him of the day he’s wasted, give him the impression he’s spent it in front of the TV, not watching anything in particular, just flicking through the channels to alleviate boredom. After honoring his daily promise to call his wife, he decides to allay his professional conscience by going over a scene that’s been nagging at him. He decides to write it out, since he thinks he’s found a suitable place for it in the script. It’s set in the morning in the girl’s father’s hotel room. Sundays are strange, thinks the screenwriter, passing a hand over his unshaven cheek. At least he’s no longer tired. He may find an idea in some corner of his brain that will stimulate his writing. It’s nearing midday, and the father is shaving in the bathroom. The girl has returned from her strange excursion to the cemetery. The bathroom door is open and she talks to her father from the jamb. She fears there’ll never be an end to all the concerts, all the interviews, that there’ll never be a break from doing one radio show after another, and never a rest from the endless traveling. A world from which she rarely has the opportunity to escape — something she must remedy soon, or it may take over her life. Perhaps it already has, she says, and she’s sick to death of it. Her father nods his head without saying a word, carefully shaving under his nose, but he seems to have heard what she said, and perhaps for the first time in his life, sympathized with what she said. She wants to be a writer, not a piano prodigy who travels the world filling auditoriums. She no longer wants to be part of the Little Sinfonietta that will shortly be selling itself out, abandoning its position at the vanguard of music to become a mere spectacle, a troupe of traveling musicians negotiating for TV contracts, making albums that put a premium on virtuosity and vulgar showing-off instead of music, who perform every night in a different city, in a different amphitheater, all with one and only one end in mind: money. The girl’s father throws her a sideways glance as he carefully negotiates the blade down his cheek, his eyes flitting back to the mirror as he finishes the task, then downward as he cleans the blade under the cold running tap.