That night, she enters the writer’s café in front of the church where the young conductor of the orchestra and brilliant composer are sitting at the back. They ignore her. There are no more disputes, just cold dismissals. This is a new feeling, this drifting away, as if being dragged out to sea by the current, farther and farther away from those who were once so close, who are now starting to become a memory. Perhaps their coldness is a new strategy, a part of their game. The young conductor’s latest conquest is sitting next to him. They know, the girl thinks. Her mother must’ve told them that she won’t be joining them on tour. She finds her mother sitting on a stool at the bar. You’re late, she says. You’re not going to believe it, says the girl emphatically, grinning with relish before exulting: I spent the afternoon with your cousin, Dedalus.
Her mother’s attitude softens as she hears about the details of their encounter. She says nothing during her daughter’s energetic narration, answers none of her cursory questions, just listens quietly, taking economical drags on her cigarette. The two women are sitting alone in the corner of the café. There are many people walking back and forth in the shot, but only we are privy to this one conversation. As she speaks, the girl is suddenly overcome by the same anxious feeling she gets when she hears those voices calling to her. Should she give her mother time to digest this news, to get used to the fact that it was her daughter who found him, the one who got the prize deer, so to speak, and not her? No, it must be something else. She looks straight into her mother’s eyes. You knew exactly where he was, didn’t you? In fact, I think you’ve known for years. Her mother breaks eye contact and looks elsewhere, a gesture the girl takes for assent; and although the smoke from her cigarette may be the real culprit as far as her refusal to put the matter into words, the truth seems about to transude from her mother’s pores. Perhaps they were lovers. Why else would she keep his whereabouts a secret for so many years? Are you finished? asks her mother, who insists they end the conversation. Now it’s the girl who doesn’t answer. She can’t think of anything to say that will prolong her victory. Her mother gets up from the stool, slinging her handbag over her shoulder. The screenwriter imagines a large handbag, matching a short, loose dress. You should focus on the concert, she advises the girl, before turning around and walking away.