Near the hotel, there’s a second-hand clothes store, and the screenwriter decides to go inside and have a look. He never used to think of buying anything in a place like this. It’s true they haven’t always been around, he tells himself, but even if they had been, he’d never have thought to enter one, much less buy anything inside. These days, however, if he needed some pants, a jacket, or possibly a new shirt, he might see it as an obligation. Necessity can alter habits, he thinks, remembering it’s already his second visit. He doesn’t even know why he’s come into the store again, but it’s clearly something to do with his financial situation. On emerging from between rows of hangers, he notices a sign announcing, in flawless calligraphy, the sale of second-hand clothing. He goes outside and looks in the display window for a moment. Then he hobbles to the nearest metro station. He’s not traveling far, but at his pace, it would take forever. The screenwriter wants to see the Grand Central Station first hand, that curious place where the girl’s father and his associate McGregor swap vigils, waiting interminably for who knows what. He wants to see the stakeout point, try to determine why they’ve chosen it. Perhaps he should avoid the place altogether though. He knows the territory is forbidden to him. But curiosity, as usual, overrides his better judgment. Sometimes, he wonders if he only writes scripts to live the lives of his characters, beings that only exist in his dreams, people he’d like to be. The mind is a strange thing, full of oddities, he says. According to the girl, nothing exists outside it. But to live the lives of characters that only exist in the mind is to waste one’s life chasing chimeras. There are people that dedicate their lives to research; scientists, both great and minor, who work for the benefit and improvement of our species, whose discoveries are in fact useful. He tries to think of some examples: cars, refrigerators, knives, bread — food in general, he supposes. . These people don’t just make stuff up; they don’t just fabricate a loaf of bread into existence. Nonetheless, the screenwriter can’t help thinking of all the bureaucracy and political skulduggery a scientist has to deal with before he can make these amenities available to the public. Then there are those who work in the dream industry. They don’t deal with reality at all. The screenwriter realizes this is the second time he’s repeated this thought pattern, invoked ideas and images exactly as before. It must be something to do with his age. Dreams, flashbacks, fantasies, chimeras, that which isn’t real, that which once was, that which cannot be, that which he wants to be. To live together with the girl, the greatest adventure of his life. From the steps of the station, he surveys the hotel balconies on the other side of the plaza where, he imagines, the girl and her father, and maybe even McGregor, when he’s not in the station, can frequently be seen looking back. But then he thinks McGregor unlikely to be on the balcony, since he wants to avoid an encounter with the girl. The screenwriter has no way of telling which of the balconies is the girl’s, so he heads inside and sits at one of the station cafés, near the platforms. After ordering a coffee, he takes his notebook and pencil from his jacket pocket and describes in detail various things going on around him, such as the way the people move, the difference between those who pass through the station regularly and those who don’t, those who stride purposefully, their eyes fixed head, and those who look lost, who look left and right then stare at departure boards, scanning for numbers to tell them where they should go, who only deign to ask for directions as a last resort. He wants to immerse himself in those places frequented by the girl, her father, and her father’s enigmatic associate. Right now, the people in the station are like the extras at the peripheries of the shot in which he occupies the center, contemplating everything going on around him. He wouldn’t know the girl’s father if he bumped into him. He doesn’t remember ever having seen him, or the girl’s mother for that matter. They’re the type of people who get other people to take their children to school, like servants or bodyguards. The screenwriter thinks it’s immoral for parents to let strangers take a young girl to school. Near him, some travelers are boarding a train. He pays his bill and crumples the receipt into his pocket along with his notebook. Then he leans on his cane to get to his feet and wobbles slowly toward the main door. Damn leg, he murmurs, as he descends the steps, and surveys again the balconies of the hotels facing the station.
It’s Saturday, in the early hours of the morning. The girl gets back to the hotel in a bad mood. She feels like she’s wasted valuable time with the Little Sinfonietta. Sometimes, she feels like a fool. It’s usually when the young conductor’s nearby. She’s started fighting with him again. If he thinks she’s going to change the way she plays, he’s a bigger fool than her. The 5 Pieces for piano and the No World Symphony are different compositions and they should be performed differently. Both the young conductor and the brilliant composer are wrong. She finds her father sitting in a chair, talking on the telephone. Judging by his tone, she guesses McGregor is on the line. One of his legs is resting on the bed, which is half-covered with newspapers and other documents, and on which two cell phones lie, waiting forever, it seems, for a call that never comes. At the head of the bed is a pistol inside a leather holster. It’s not the gun her father usually carries. The girl knows this, of course. She likes to think of it as a game, guessing whose gun it is. Her father also passes the time playing games — whether in the hotel room waiting for a call, diverting himself with a newspaper or two, or in the station bar when he’s on watch, scrutinizing the faces of people walking past. Life’s full of these little games. It would be unbearable if this wasn’t the case. If something goes wrong, the girl recalls, it only has meaning when it’s considered part of a game. If she’s said it once, she’s said it a thousand times to the young conductor and brilliant composer, when they were still her friends. What is a game? she asks, as if to the female student. It’s dark outside, although light from the plaza still reaches the balcony. If she turns out the light, her silhouette on the opposite wall stretches to the ceiling. It’s never quiet here. It’s too near the station. It doesn’t matter, though, the girl’s not tired. Not going to get some sleep? her father asks. But sleep’s the last thing on her mind. She shakes her head, putting the possibility to bed, and goes to the laptop to write. “3.5 A propositional sign, applied and thought out, is a thought. 4. A thought is a proposition with a sense. The game isn’t a true proposition, thinks the female student. The game is just another way of imposing meaning on something that has no meaning. It’s like trying to perform the part of a certain character that could be the female student herself. To become that character in every sense, to breathe the same air, think the same thoughts, live every instant of one’s life just as that character would. The female student feels she’s an actress, and that she’s playing a certain part. It’s not theater, though, but a way of life. The character speaks with her voice, but it’s as though she herself were something other than the character she embodies. She immerses herself in the character and identifies with her. Some people do this by gathering around tables and performing from a script. But for others, this isn’t enough. They need a stage and props to help them bring a character to life. The female student, on the other hand, prefers to just live permanently in her role: on the metro, at the beach, even here, lying next to the old professor. One moment it’s W, the next Ka. The game then acquires a dimension we didn’t know it had. It’s not that difficult to play, but the amount of pleasure and pain one derives from playing is potentially unlimited, she thinks. There are no pieces to move, no cards to be dealt, no dice that need to be rolled; all one need do is acknowledge that life is a game, and that everything is part of that game. To live such a life is to play.” The girl comes out of her trance, leans back in the chair, and yawns. She looks over at her father, thinks about him and McGregor on their interminable vigils. Who are they waiting for? she wonders, before rephrasing, On whom do they wait? And going further, What type of game are they playing? And further still, what part does the scientist play in it? She doesn’t have an answer for any of these questions. The girl will also have to play. What part does all their waiting play in the game?