At night, there are scarcely any tables available, but the screenwriter scours the café terrace and eventually manages to find one. So he sits down, and waits to be served. He still doesn’t understand the significance of the aliens for the girl. He considers whether she herself might be an alien hunter. But there wouldn’t be many female hunters, he speculates, before dismissing the idea completely. Yet another ideation about which she daily obsesses, like the voices she thinks she hears, or the shadow that stalks her at all hours of the night, or the necessity to write. He thinks about the scientist, his radio telescopes roving the heavens for signs of intelligent life. Unlike the scientist, the girl must think along different lines. He’d almost say in terms of a game. What if things could be done much more simply? If they were still among us, perhaps a simple announcement would suffice. The right announcement need only contain a few key words to be understood, perhaps in code, since it would be naïve to publicize communications directly. Maybe they’d use special magazines with a limited circulation instead of popular newspapers. But the girl needs to get to the bottom of some mysteries before committing to a rigorous search. She doesn’t want to lose track by attacking on too many fronts simultaneously. She doesn’t know if she’ll be able to finish her book while doing recitals and preparing to record the
5 Pieces for piano. If she incorporates her search for extraterrestrials and her attempts to make contact with them into her writing, she’ll end up with a kind of detective novel. But she shouldn’t blur the line between her real-world obsessions and the things she considers only fiction. Still, combining two endeavors in this way could save her some time and effort. The screenwriter now sees the waitress on the other side of the terrace and is surprised when she seems to notice him at almost the same moment. It’s the first time she’s held eye contact with him for longer than an instant. Perhaps it’s a sign, a golden opportunity, he thinks, and yet the waitress continues avoiding his table. He knows by now she won’t come to take his order unless he signals her, and it needn’t be an elaborate gesture. Moments later, she approaches, and the screenwriter can’t help himself: What time do you get off work, beautiful? She keeps walking, pretending she hasn’t heard him. If only you knew what you were missing, he says aloud, while reaching for the packet of cigarettes in his pocket. You’d swear I was a goddamn alien. ., he adds as he puts the filter between his lips.