He’s left his clothes at the laundry. Now, he finds himself slogging uphill, leaning precariously on his cane, but once he reaches the end of the road, he can see the finish line, as it were, the seats and tables of the café in the plaza. The screenwriter limps slowly. There are days when he has to drag his leg like a dead weight, he thinks. It depends on the mood he’s in when he wakes up. On crossing the finish line, he flumps into the nearest seat and looks out for the waitress, hoping she doesn’t take too long. He puts both hands on the pommel of his cane and rests his chin there. But he immediately alters his posture, since he thinks that position makes him look older. He’s seen people do it who look as if they’ve got one foot in the grave. Perhaps he does it because he’s tired, he thinks. Watching the waitress serving a table not too far away seems to reinvigorate him. He then looks over at the plaza. He wishes he knew the names of the people he regularly crosses paths with, simple people with simple habits, he imagines: the girl who walks her dog, the pensioner on his way to buy groceries, the gardener. . The waitress approaches. One day, we’ll have to go on a date, he says. The girl’s expression doesn’t change; she doesn’t even betray a slight grin. The usual? she asks, after an awkward silence. I’m bewitched by you, he continues, ignoring her question. Is it because I’m older than you? You know, maturity is indicative of experience. . he says, beginning an apologia on the virtues of senescence. She quickly loses patience. The usual then, she says, turning around and leaving him mid-sentence. You’ve no idea what you’re missing, he mutters, unfolding the newspaper. One of the detained terrorist’s ex-girlfriends says the police have been harassing her for twenty years, and that the relationship ruined her life. The soccer player still hasn’t returned. Sure you won’t change your mind? he asks the waitress when she brings his coffee. After she stonewalls him a second time, he goes fumbling for his cigarettes in his jacket pocket, whereupon his fingers touch the envelope the girl sent him. He recalls that he hasn’t read all she’d written. The Principal of the Institute in which he once taught had also tried to prevent a scandal, and the screenwriter wonders whether what he’s reading is hitting too close to home. He lights a cigarette and removes the pages from the envelope. “4.3 The possibility of uncertainty does not mean that finally such a possibility exists or does not exist. Classes are over, and the director of the Academy is deliberating. He would like to avoid a scandal, but the old professor of philosophy simply can’t continue teaching there. Do you know the female student’s parents? the professor asks the director. He says he doesn’t. Perhaps he doesn’t care to after what’s happened. The old professor asks if he can gather his things and leave. Deep down he knows that sooner or later her parents will find out. If some persona incognita managed to find out, then surely it’s only a matter of time. 4.4 An accusation is an expression of agreement. 4.41 The mere possibility of being accused is the condition of the truth and falsity of the accusation. The old professor leaves the Academy, incensed at his wife. It had to be she who betrayed him. He can’t stand the thought of continuing to live under the same roof as that woman. For an instant, his alien hunter’s instinct leads him to suspect both his wife and the director of the Academy come from another world. But he needs to find a photo of each to verify whether or not they have a special halo. 4.5 It now seems possible to give the most general propositional form. We can start all over, he says to the female student that night. We can begin a new life. Let’s get out of here, run away together. What kind of new life do you propose? she asks. He can’t answer. It’s an idea he only just came up with — still inchoate, indefinite, something nebulous floating around his head — but he quickly improvises an answer, as one who divines the shape of a cloud in the sky, and suggests their life would be such that she could write while he gave classes at other academies. Write, murmurs the female student, sounding a little disenchanted. The old professor is talking about starting a new life in a city far away, perhaps somewhere in outer space. He’d even run away to the No World, if necessary, where they could lie together under an artificial palm tree, and make love on white sand imported from the tropics. He says they could read W and all the great classics together, and she’d get the opportunity to revolutionize the world of letters. All she needs is the daring, the audacity, to take the first step. The female student smiles. Maybe she will leave her mark on the world of letters; maybe future generations will judge her contribution in terms of what came before and what came after her, but it won’t be with him. I can’t leave now, she says apologetically. I’ve got commitments. He begs her to break away from them; to break away from everything, starting with her past. We can become new beings, he urges her, with an exuberance bordering on the pathetic. Free! The girl can’t make such a decision in haste. She wants to write, she says, but she doesn’t know if she’ll be able to do so with him around. She also has musical commitments she can’t simply forsake. She has several concerts to perform in one of those cities in space orbiting the Earth. She also wants to make an unforgettable recording of the
5 Pieces for piano. . Run away with me, he urges her again. But the female student knows it’s not a matter of running anywhere with him, for he’ll be going nowhere himself unless she goes with him. Just try to imagine we’re there, she says consolingly. After all, this life, or any life you care to have, will only ever exist in your mind. There’s nothing outside it. Besides, even if we did run away together, it wouldn’t be long before he found us. Before who found us? he says, taken aback. My father.”