It’s not true that everything’s been said and written. The problem is, as time goes by, and bevies of writers come and go, there’s less and less scope for even the greatest among them to be truly original. It’s not going to be easy writing a dodecaphonic novel, thinks the screenwriter, especially if it’s a first book. The mingling in a text of words and sentences that lack all restriction, in terms of concinnity and arrangement on the page, may lead to something quite beautiful, but there’s also the risk of creating something grotesque. Structurally, he thinks the novel has too much in common with what the Serialists did many years before. And whether it turns out to be beautiful or grotesque, the idea behind it still won’t be original.
How long can a person survive without food or water if they’re tied to a bed and gagged? wonders the screenwriter before getting down to work. That night, in the church, it appears the girl performed her best interpretation yet of the 5 Pieces for piano. It’s as if her decision to abandon music gave her a more devil-may-care attitude in these last performances, and liberated her from the exigencies of having to stick slavishly to the score. Now she’s performing the recitation part of the show, and once again seems to be surpassing herself. The clown’s nose is like an extra appendage, so convincing is she in the role. And her delivery is magnificent. Now it’s not just her voice but her whole personality that’s become one with the cosmic clown. Now it’s the girl herself that wanders through a desolate landscape pitted with craters, carrying a bloody dagger in her hands. The young conductor of the orchestra can scarcely believe his eyes, and neither can the rest of the people in the audience. After the concert, they follow their usual ritual of going to the cafés and trendy nightspots of the neighboring country’s capital. On the way, they’re joined by some people unknown to her and rest of the group. They’re probably friends of the new manager, says her mother, unconcerned. As usual, they’re also joined by someone who was sent by the promoters to attend to them during the night. The young conductor is dancing with his latest conquest, and the brilliant composer, having met a famous makeup artist, is hoping the grown-ups are going to be getting seriously drunk and so leave them alone. The girl’s mother has been waiting for an opportunity to speak with her daughter. She wants to elaborate on the note she gave her, and to give her a chance to explain why she left in the middle of the meeting, and why she’s been hanging around her father. She doesn’t understand her daughter’s sudden need to write, or why she thinks time spent on music is time lost on writing. She wants to have a serious discussion with her. But the girl would rather discuss it another time, and she leaves before the night’s even begun. Back at the hotel, the girl is alone in her father’s room, writing. She writes longhand first, and then transcribes what she’s written on her father’s laptop. “2.012 In logic nothing is accidental. Close-up of the female student seated at a small white desk organizing her notebooks. The camera slowly zooms out to reveal her in the middle of a classroom just before the lesson begins, surrounded by students still taking their seats. A collective murmur redoubles as the room gradually fills up. The scene takes place long before the old professor cum alien hunter flees to the City in Outer Space, where he’ll probably finish setting himself up as a photographer.” The girl stops writing for a moment. She doesn’t know why she’s narrating things as though she’s writing a screenplay, or why she’s enumerating her propositions as though this were a philosophical treatise. She hadn’t given the least thought to these details before, perhaps because she didn’t believe them very important then. She continues: “We picture no facts to ourselves. Some students are seated around the female student, while others are standing, chattering, using up the moments before class begins. 2.211 For the few that pay attention, there is no logical distinction between a no picture and what it depicts. Still immersed in her notes, a student with a freckled face stands in front of her desk and pronounces her name with a ‘ka.’ The female student looks up with a surly expression on account of being disturbed. I’ve been waiting, he says reproaching but timidly. I wasn’t sure you’d show up, she says, her eyes returning to the notebook. He remains in front of her a few moments, staring at her silently, awkwardly, his growing discomfort becoming apparent. Unable to think of anything to say, he turns and goes to his seat on the other side of the room. 2.22 What a no picture represents it represents independently of its truth or falsity, by means of its pictorial form. A few minutes later, the old professor of philosophy shows up. He’s the same old guy that in another scene will be seen in bed next to the girl, the same old guy who’s already been described as an alien hunter.” The girl wrote “the girl” when she should’ve written “the female student,” although of course the female student is in fact a girl herself. “The murmur in the room dies down as the professor removes his coat. He looks around the room for the female student. On seeing her, he feels reassured and is ready to begin the lesson. He takes a booklet from his jacket pocket and spends a few moments scanning it, in order to remind himself where he left off the last time.” The girl stops to inquire into her current state of mind, and whether it’s influencing what she’s writing. No, she hasn’t got the time to waste investigating the whys of things. She’s writing, and that’s all that matters. The pills have enhanced her powers of concentration, but perhaps they’ve also put her in a state of sustained agitation. Perhaps she’s taken too many to be writing on. Yet, in this state, she can focus on several things at once. She hears her father’s footsteps in the corridor. She can never predict his comings and goings. He enters and mumbles a perfunctory greeting, as if his mind’s on other matters. She doesn’t respond, but continues writing — her mood exalted, her thinking expansive — believing she’s found the inspiration that’s been lacking until now, the thread of the story that’s been eluding her. She’s writing the alien hunter’s backstory, the life he had before fleeing to the City in Outer Space. Perhaps he flees because chasing aliens is forbidden at home. No, it won’t be like Cousin Dedalus’s story, the girl tells her father, because the character’s an old guy, an alien hunter and philosophy professor who’s having a relationship with one of his female students. She points out that, although the story’s fictitious, she really believes an alien civilization has colonized the Earth, and that she’s finally discovered the reason behind it all. The girl then decides to shut herself in the bathroom so she can continue writing undisturbed. The girl’s father stands perplexed, not saying a word, having hardly uttered a sound since his arrival, as he watches her shut the bathroom door behind her.