As for the recording, the specially prepared piano, and achieving that impossible sound, they can all go to hell. She hasn’t the remotest chance of rising above the standard of her age with a magisterial interpretation of the 5 Pieces for piano. It would’ve been the ideal music for future cities in space too. It’s best to just forget about it. But how can she abandon such an ambitious project at a time like this? What if this decision, as her decision to quit music for writing, is also due to her being under hypnosis? She’d find she was living a delusion, that her life was a total lie. She’d be just a fraud. She searches in her satchel for the work of the writer who revolutionized twentieth-century literature, and tries reading some passages. But then she decides perhaps it isn’t the time to engage with a work that will require all her powers of concentration. She would’ve liked to exorcise those spirits that keep whispering she was hypnotized, that tell her there’s a conspiracy involving her parents, the scientist, and Cousin McGregor, but not even the writer who revolutionized literature can take her mind off these things, so she closes the book and puts it back in her satchel. If she isn’t able to write, the waiting is going to be horrendous. She doesn’t know how he does it — sitting alone in his hotel room, waiting for one of the phones to ring, or for the fax machine to kick in, or for something to happen in the Grand Central Station. She wishes she’d taken her bags with her when she left her father’s hotel. She feels like she’s wasting time, but she supposes time’s relative when it comes to writing. Now the hours seem to drag, and every hour feels like four — four wasted hours, since she’s not working on her novel. She wonders if a change of location would help. But she’s so close to witnessing one of the most important events in the history of our species. She can’t leave the city yet. She’s been writing about the old professor, but she’s hasn’t fully explored the alien hunter side of his character yet, or the survivor of the great war that devastated the City in Outer Space, but she can’t think of anything to write, and the little she manages to produce does nothing to galvanize her. She seems to have lost that strength, that confidence, which helped her overcome so many obstacles in her life. She seems, instead, to have become insecure, doubtful of her talent and her literary vocation. Fuck the brilliant composer, she says. She needs to go for a walk. She can’t spend her life locked inside her own head, circling around the same thoughts. It’s a sure way of transforming them into obsessions. Is she going mad? If so, it must be because she lives the life of a hermit, hiding away, waiting for something to happen — she doesn’t know what, perhaps nothing, perhaps a call from her father to give her instructions, to tell her something, anything to dispel her uncertainty. Maybe it was too soon to give up on her idea about the cathedrals and churches. Perhaps the reason no one responded to her ad in the paper is that she didn’t know how to formulate the message correctly. She takes the gun from the back of her pants. She has a lot to think about, and she’s sick of doing laps in the room. The streets give her much more space to stretch her legs, although she knows there’s no guarantee of the same for her mind.
He goes through every pocket twice. It’s no use. He doesn’t have another penny to his name. The prospect’s been looming for days now but he’s been simply ignoring it. He doesn’t even have enough to get a croissant. It’s not a good day for the screenwriter, who’s been scouring half-deserted streets where most of the stores are closed, as if it were a Sunday, looking for an affordable place to eat. He decides to go back to the hotel and have breakfast. It’s not only more expensive than the café on the plaza, but the waitress is hideous. At least the bill’s charged to his account, though, which relieves some pressure, and gives him time to consider his options. He eats in silence, thinking. He won’t be able to buy a newspaper today. He wonders if he’s nearing the end of the road. Never in his life did he imagine he’d be in such dire straits. He still receives a small pension every month, but it’s ridiculously small. If that was his only source of income, he’d die of starvation. He’ll probably get a bigger pension when he fully retires. But then he thinks he’ll probably never fully retire, that he’ll more than likely croak at his writing desk. Die with his boots on, so to speak. It’s too soon to be thinking about this; too early in the day for feeling sorry for oneself. With a coffee in hand, he takes out his notebook and comes up with a list of people he could petition for help. Then he performs a simple calculation that lays out his current financial situation: the second advance from the producer will barely cover his debts. He’ll call again. Then he thinks about calling his own son. No, not him. Maybe the girl will lend him some cash.
The producer’s not answering. So he’s back on the street, sitting on a bench, thinking about who he should turn to. He laughs at the image that pops in his head — an image of himself, dressed in rags, sitting in a damp street corner soliciting alms. He laughs because he’s unable to cry. He’s never been in such a desperate situation. He gets up and makes his way slowly back to the hotel. He thinks he’d survive without one of his jackets. That’s a good idea. And why not dispense with a couple of shirts as well? There’s also a pair of shoes he doesn’t need, a pair of trousers, and why does he need two suitcases?
He feels humiliated in front of the saleswoman. He’d have preferred to find the store closed, like so many other businesses on the day celebrating the neighboring capital’s liberation. He’d have preferred to burn the clothes than be insulted with such a paltry offer. But he knows he needs the money, so he tries haggling over a few cents’ difference before agreeing to the deal. Come on, it’s only a few cents, he says. The offer’s nonnegotiable, the saleswoman says. He has no choice but to accept. He takes the cash from her hands, trying his best to hold back the tears, and makes a promise to himself that he’ll buy all his stuff back as soon as possible. He fantasizes about buying a new wardrobe once the advance arrives. Then again, he doesn’t ever want to see his old shirts and jacket on the backs of strangers. No, he’ll buy them back as soon as possible. Back on the street, he thinks of an old movie in which someone says you can get away with being broke when you’re young, but never when you’re old.