Early the following morning, the screenwriter is browsing the shelves of a recently opened bookstore. In one of the aisles, he notices a mop inside a bucket of water and that portions of the floor are still wet. He also sees the owner, standing on a ladder, sorting the books on one of the shelves. The screenwriter’s resisted the temptation to read any books on this trip because he wants to focus completely on his script. He hasn’t changed his mind, but he has to check certain references, take some notes directly from primary sources. He also wants to double check some of the things the girl’s father believes about the writer he refers to variously as the author of jealousy, the warder of cherished memories, and the master of the subordinate clause, because he needs to plan his next scene with the young college chick cum private escort. In it, the girl continues quoting the beginnings of books by renowned authors. The screenwriter hasn’t actually read many of these books, but he thinks he knows which ones she’d choose. “One day, I was already old, in the entrance of a public place a man came up to me. He introduced himself and said, ‘I’ve known you for years. .’” Another novel she’d choose begins as follows: “He — for there could be no doubt of his sex, although the fashion of the time did something to disguise it. .” The screenwriter continues browsing the shelves, selects another book that begins: “Early in 1880, in spite of a well-founded suspicion as to the advisability of perpetuating that race which has the sanction of the Lord and the disapproval of the people. .” He doesn’t recall it being so brilliant. If asked, he’d say he chose them for their fame, their canonicity, or something like that, but in reality, the only criteria that matter are his intuition and personal taste. When he’s in a good mood, he always feels he hasn’t given all of himself yet, that there’s yet another book to write. Perhaps one day, he tells himself, he’ll write a book based on the notes assembled from all his notebooks. A collage built up of many different pieces of books and scripts he’s written over the years, revealing the secret, unpublished lives of his characters, and collating all his abortive ideas, as well as the brilliant ideas that never found their proper place. “In the town there were two mutes, and they were always together.” He jots it down neatly in his notebook and returns the book to the shelf. Then he undergoes a change of mood, becomes glum, and no longer sees any sense in taking such detailed notes. No one will care about all this once the movie’s made. A script, he tells himself, is nothing. Nothing but a tiny part of the huge process that brings a movie to the big screen; it’s only an itemization of what will appear in the final product, and it’s only the final product people care about. Why would anyone be remotely interested in these notes that won’t even appear in the final script? Only the great directors and screenwriters from the past would take care to incorporate them into the movie, but these are the elect, and at his age, it’s too late to be admitted into their ranks. “Once an angry man dragged his father along the ground through his own orchard. .” He recognizes this one, not for having read the book, but because he’s often quoted it in other contexts. The screenwriter’s satisfied with the number of openings he’s collected so he starts looking around for the exit. The bookseller gives him a few fleeting looks as he walks by, as if casting about in his mind to match this face with one of the writers he knows, for he must be a writer, since he’s far too old to be a student, and the screenwriter slows his canter to a trot in order to allow enough time for the penny to drop. Two more writers, and then that’s it, he says. So he diverts to another bookshelf and, before long, finds the first of the two: “The lie detector was asleep when he heard the telephone ringing. .” And then the second: “On a January evening of the early seventies, Christine Nilsson was singing in Faust at the Academy of Music in New York. .” The young college escort will have chosen some passages specifically for a game with the girl’s father, who’ll know them, and will try to name the books and authors. Others, though, will have been chosen specifically for their obscurity, and probably won’t be recognized by anyone. The screenwriter grants, however, that after a few days, he himself will probably forget who the authors are, and will have to make due with attributing them to one of the two characters that speak them — the girl’s father or the young college escort. He puts the notebook and pencil in his jacket pocket, picks up his cane — which he left leaning against a bookshelf — and goes looking for the main aisle that leads to the exit. On reaching the front of the store, he sees a number of tables on which the new releases have been arranged in small stacks. He reads some of the titles, perhaps considering one of them as a last inclusion. But he’s really only doing so to linger, delay his exit, to give the bookseller a little more time to recognize him. Besides, it wouldn’t be characteristic of the girl’s father to remember the beginning of a recently published book. He doesn’t find anything among the new releases that’s worth including, but he does happen upon a book about the screenwriters of the golden age. He opens it and immediately recognizes some of the names. The author gives a brief biography of each and a summary of their contributions to cinema. There are also photographs of them — some are just passport-sized snapshots, some feature a given screenwriter posing next to a poster for the film they wrote, others show a screenwriter looking up from his desk in an office, and there are even a few of the screenwriter disporting on set with actors, directors, and other crew members. The screenwriter’s surprised such a book exists, and he checks the blurb, the preface, and the introduction to see what criteria the author used to make his selection. His tastes are slightly different, but the screenwriter admires the selection nonetheless, especially considering it isn’t an exhaustive list. While flipping through the book, he stops at the synopsis of a certain film. “The protagonist makes his living renting a boat to wealthy vacationers to go fishing offshore.” He quickly reads a few more random passages before finally deciding to buy the book. He knows he can’t afford it, but once again, desire overrides his better judgment — a desire that will make him feel guilty as soon as he leaves the bookshop. Who knows, it may come in useful one day, if he manages to get a university appointment as professor of screenwriting. It’s an excuse as valid as any other.
It’s been days since he visited the pond; since he sat on one of the benches to have a rest and admire the young mothers who bring their children there to play; since he saw their little sailboats scudding on the water, driven by the lightest of breezes. But the benches are far, and it’s getting quite late. The screenwriter is eating a sandwich in a small park, not far from the island in the river, and reading some passages from his new book. He pays no heed to the time, until he casually looks at his watch and is alerted of the fact he’s let another day go by without having written a single line. He also forgot to call the producer, but resolves to do so as soon as he gets back to the hotel. During the walk, he notes his leg has improved over the course of the day, and before long, he finds himself standing at the reception desk collecting yet another envelope. He asks who delivered it, but the receptionist doesn’t know, having just begun her shift. Distrait, the screenwriter moves away without a thank you or good-bye. He’s sick of these people never being around when the girl’s envelopes are delivered. Such incompetence is typical, universal in fact, and he can’t stand it anymore, can’t tolerate living in a world he believes to be defective — completely inadequate to a discerning mind, utterly detrimental to a brilliant one. He takes the elevator up to his room, sits at his desk, and begins reading. But suddenly, he remembers his livelihood depends on his making a certain phone call. He picks up the handset and dials the number. This time he’s in luck, the producer’s at home. They spend a few minutes exchanging pleasantries, talking about the August vacation. The producer says he’s just gotten back from a distant retreat where he went to catch up on some work. The screenwriter takes his mention of work as an opportunity to tell him about his predicament. He then immediately reassures the producer by mentioning the magnificent script he’s holding in his hands. But he’s in urgent need of money, he says. The producer remains silent. The screenwriter then replies to that silence by insisting he’s at a crucial juncture with the screenplay. After some persuasion, the producer finally acquiesces, and promises he’ll speak to the accountant. But the screenwriter detects in his tone a tacit warning that this will be his last advance. The producer then fills him in about the time constraints under which this draft must be produced, about deadlines, and important dates relating to the shoot. But the screenwriter doesn’t believe any of it. He thinks it’s only a pro forma test, a mere convention, that he’d send the advance anyway. Perhaps he’d send it to pay back an old favor, or perhaps because they’re old friends; the point is these are the reasons he’ll continue sending advances, the reasons why the screenwriter refuses to heed the tacit warning. Would you consider making the girl the main protagonist? No, she’s only his student. Yes, there are other students as well. And yes, all of them are gifted. After hanging up, the screenwriter feels like a weight’s been lifted. He decides to pick up the phone and call his wife. He still doesn’t know why he counts the rings, why he waits until the fifth one: just a meaningless habit perhaps, something to do while he waits so he doesn’t have to think about anything. After the fifth ring, he hangs up. He then returns to his chair and starts reading the pages he collected at reception. It seems she sent him more passages about the City in Outer Space. “5.471 The general form of the No World is the essence of the No World. One day he sleeps in an area far from his old address, the next he sleeps in an area quite close to it. Or perhaps the reverse. He’s long since lost track. Besides, he doesn’t see the point of sleeping in the same bed every night if there’s another one close-by. Even so, every now and then he still feels the urge to go back. Not for any special reason: there’s nothing there he can’t find in any other house in the city. He could move into a first-class hotel, even requisition the luxury suite, but for the moment he’s happy playing the vagabond, content to sleep wherever his head happens to fall. If he does go back to the house he lived in, the bed he slept in, during the war, it won’t be for any other reason than to feel at home. A purely sentimental motive. He’s usually accompanied on his travels by the female student’s music, which is transmitted from speakers located around the city — her recordings of twelve-tone piano music performed so slowly, with the pauses between notes so long, that the waiting becomes a kind of torment — now a note, then a silence, now another — the only interruption occurs on the hour, every hour, when a voice can be heard announcing the time and date. Sometimes, the old survivor recognizes some of the beds from having slept in them many years before. His only possessions are a tape recorder, a copy of W, and a gun. He doesn’t expect to find any other survivors, especially after all this time, but he carries a gun because he can never be sure, and he doesn’t really know what to expect in a city he’s yet to fully explore. Moreover, he doesn’t know when the fuel supplies are going to run out, when the solar powered generators or the machines supplying oxygen to the city will fail. He carries a gun for his protection, but he also carries it in the event the oxygen runs out, for then he intends to kill himself. To commit suicide and prevent a slow, torturous demise, or perhaps as an alternative to boredom, to despairing of ever being rescued, to the weariness of performing the same rituals every day, thinking the same thoughts every day, repeating the same day every day, or seeming to. The old professor feels hollow. He wishes things were like they used to be. As if the old days were timeless, renewable, could exist again in the present or the future. Lying in one of the beds he frequents, he remembers a time before he fled to the City in Outer Space, when the only thing he wanted in the world was to run away and disappear somewhere with the female student; somewhere far away from everything and everyone. He has a vivid memory of her smiling at him. It is a knowing smile, as if she’s finally come to understand him, or perhaps as if she’s always understood him. He’s looking deep into her eyes, entranced, bewitched, because she’s lavishing on him an expression he rarely gets to see — at once seductive and timorous, knowing and innocent, the things that draw him most to her, that caused him fall in love with her. He wants to run away with her, begin a new life somewhere else, somewhere far away where he could find a decent job, a place where the laws are in his favor, and where he could easily get a license and even make a living as an alien hunter. The female student remains silent. She has no intention of going anywhere with him. Let’s leave, says the old professor. Run away with me. Run away? she asks. 5.5542 Is it really legitimate to ask the question ‘What must be the case for the No World not to be the case?’ The old professor is going to be reported by his wife to the director of the Academy. The female student thinks it’s all just a game. Life’s just a game. She could run away to that City in Outer Space where she has a number of concerts pending.” The screenwriter sees perfectly the path the girl is taking in her novel, where it deviates from and where it comes back to his own life, and there’s nothing he can do about it. He sees her alone in her room, reading then writing, editing her diary then typing away on her father’s laptop, lying on her bed listening to music while looking outside through a gap in the curtains before indulging in a peripatetic jaunt around the room. The screenwriter eventually forgets about the role the girl assigned him in her novel. At this point, he shouldn’t allow anything to distract him. The girl’s boredom has become chronic from all the waiting. She could go for a walk, catch a movie, or take up a hobby, but she doesn’t think there’s anything worth doing in the neighboring country’s capital except writing and trying to contact extraterrestrials. Nothing else interests her. She may try to find out what her father and Cousin McGregor are up to. She finally knows what to call him: by contracting the names, Cousin Dedalus and McGregor, Cousin McGregor was the obvious choice. She thinks about going home. But she knows she still has a commitment to fulfill, to record the