In the morning, the screenwriter takes a seat in front of the typewriter and casts a couple of glances out the window before beginning. He wants to work on a scene in which the girl and mother are alone. Besides tying up some loose ends, he wants to show the kind of relationship that can exist between two women — in this case, a mother and daughter — which he believes is best revealed when they’re alone. Until now, every scene in which they’ve appeared together has been brief, their interaction brusque and tense, and they’ve always been surrounded by an entourage. The mother is a strong character who feels she has the prerogative to talk about anything she wants with her daughter. Perhaps this has already been hinted at, but the screenwriter would like a highly charged dramatic encounter between the two to bring the point home. It’s set in the morning. The screenwriter types forcefully, his fingers almost rebounding from the keys, the sound of piano music playing in his head. The girl is practicing in the room at the hotel with the English name. Her mother sits in one of the chairs, listening with enjoyment, thinking that all may not be lost. Beforehand, the girl had carefully placed some objects on the piano strings to distort the sound — some metal clips, a few pieces of her mother’s jewelry, and even a copy of the philosopher W’s greatest work, and then played, imagining how it would sound on a recording. The girl prolongs the practice session in order to avoid going out shopping afterward with her mother. She feels they have nothing in common. Nonetheless, in the very next shot we see them in the street together quarreling over some trivial matter. Perhaps it’s because the girl insists on wearing her chosen livery of a white shirt and trousers, which her mother detests, thinking it unbecoming a celebrated pianist. She tells her to go back and change; such attire may be suitable for other people, but not someone who moves in her social circle, someone who’s regularly accosted by strangers in the street asking for autographs, and who may report back to other strangers, perhaps even to the newspapers, the strange fashion statement she seems to be making. Such things can make or break a reputation. Right now she’s quite popular, her mother says, but it won’t last if she carries on like this. The world isn’t the kind of place the girl imagines it is. The mother then changes the subject and starts talking about music while scanning potential purchases in the shopwindows. They didn’t have far to travel. The hotel with the English name is located in one of the more fashionable streets in the neighboring country’s capital, where one can find various stores only a few meters from each other selling all the major brands. They’ve often walked these streets together and the girl knows them like the back of her hand. There’s nothing strange about wanting to shop on streets where only luxury and elegance are found, or that her mother should expect to find such streets in the neighboring country’s capital, a city that cultivates a perception of itself as being the bastion of haute couture, and although the girl’s mother blindly adheres to her own fixed standard of elegance, she admits that only here, in the neighboring country’s capital, can the highest standard be found. Luckily, there’s a fresh breeze and the temperature’s low. The mother is curious about her old literature teacher. Do you know what his screenplay’s about? she asks. No, he hasn’t told me anything about it, says the girl. Then her mother starts singing the praises of the Little Sinfonietta’s new manager. The young conductor and brilliant composer speak highly of him, she says. It’s the best thing that could’ve happened. It hasn’t been easy up till now, especially with all this twelve-tone music and experimentation, but things will be different from now on. The girl listens, silently. The screenwriter continues typing furiously, fleshing out the mother’s character. She stops to point out a lovely dress on display in a shopwindow. The girl pays no attention. The woman in the building opposite the screenwriter’s hotel lifts her blinds and looks up at the sky, as if to determine the kind of day she’s going to face. Aping her, the screenwriter looks up as well. Weather forecast: sunny all day. He looks at her window again, but his neighbor’s disappeared inside. Then he looks at his watch. He ought to freshen up before going down for breakfast. But he figures he still has another half hour. He adjusts his glasses, rereads the last few sentences, and continues typing. We see the pair leaving one store and immediately entering another. The girl takes a deep breath before pushing the door and hearing yet another jingle. Her mother looks at an outfit, checks the quality of the fabric, the label, the size, and, without looking at the girl, asks for her opinion. But instead of waiting for an answer, she goes off to consult one of the saleswomen. The girl’s mother gets treated like a regular in almost every store they visit, which is only right, for she is indeed a regular, and it’s the way her mother expects to be treated. She acts as if she buys everything on impulse, but in truth, she plans every purchase, since she’s mentally created a shopping list beforehand. She refuses to write it down, because she wouldn’t be caught dead with a shopping list in her hands. Next, she pauses in front of a jewelry store and points out a ring and pair of earrings in the display. The screenwriter wonders how a mother could be so blind as not to realize that her daughter doesn’t give a damn about jewelry. You should’ve stayed until the end of the meeting, she says suddenly. Given your experience, your input might’ve been invaluable. The saleswoman solemnly processes toward them carrying the earrings on a garish salver. The mother hopes they’ll bring out some of her daughter’s more positive qualities, although the girl doesn’t know which qualities they might be or how exactly the earrings will help. I’m not interested in your kind of fashion, the girl says, trying not to be too abrupt. Besides, I didn’t come along to watch you to go shopping for a pair of earrings. You have to find some way of filling that emptiness inside you, her mother insists, and by the way, you wear your hair far too short. Next, the two of them are seen standing on a sidewalk, struggling to hold all their shopping bags. The girl takes a couple of hesitant steps toward her mother, as if to ask something; her mother, perceiving this, interrupts her and suggests they talk about it over dinner. But the girl has other plans, all of them to do with her writing. Her mother doesn’t listen, or pretends not to listen, but then jumps in by saying she doesn’t understand this sudden impulse to start writing potboilers for the masses. She doesn’t understand why the girl writes at all. She doesn’t see that her daughter takes it very seriously, that she couldn’t give a damn about the masses. There are people who live for it, breathe for it, would even die for it, but her mother paints every writer with the same brush, dismisses them all as mere fabulists and tellers of tall tales. If you were writing about something practical, an idea that might be of use to humanity. . I’m sorry, her mother says, I know there’s a certain prestige in being a writer, but if you stop to think about it, you’d eventually agree the pursuit is vain and impractical. What’s the point in reading stories about things that never even happened, about people who never existed? The girl was born with exceptional musical talent; that’s what she should be trying her best to foster, not wasting her time on something for which she may not even have an aptitude. So that’s that, thinks the girl sarcastically, I’d better give it up. Her mother pleads with her to reconsider abandoning her music, and suggests they discuss it over dinner. She has a table reserved at the restaurant back at the hotel. But the girl doesn’t want to wait until dinner, so she just tells her mother flatly that she won’t be going on tour with the Little Sinfonietta, before walking away without saying good-bye. She heads for the hotel in front of the Grand Central Station — a hotel where she won’t be greeted at the door by a smiling admiral, a hotel where there are no bellhops to help you with your luggage, a hotel where no one’s even heard of a thing called room service, a hotel where her father happens to be staying. She’s finished with the piano and the Little Sinfonietta. I’m starting a new life! she proclaims loudly, boldly, in the street, once out of her mother’s earshot, satisfied she’s finally taken the first step, glad to have had the opportunity to be honest. I’m starting a new life! she says again, ignoring the astonished looks of passersby. All she has left to do is tie up some loose ends, fulfill a few outstanding commitments, and she’ll be ready to start that new life, ready to dedicate every hour of every day to this vain and impractical pursuit. The life of a writer! she says again, loudly, boldly, ignoring the astonished looks of passersby.