It is night, and he has no idea where he’s going to sleep. He feels a little less agitated, having managed to collect some change, but with his mobility already hampered by a limp, the weight of the typewriter and the large plastic bag only worsens the claudication. When he was young, he’d have accepted the situation as providing a wellspring of experiences to draw on later, when he came to write about suffering — for they’d help him to do so more convincingly. But if he were young now, he wouldn’t be talking about suffering at all; he’d be too busy looking for a job so he could afford a roof over his head: a means of securing himself against future suffering. Perhaps he shouldn’t have stayed in a hotel, he thinks, rebuking himself, however cheap it was. He could have rented a room or an apartment. All he really needs is a desk and bed, and something to keep the rain off his head. He could’ve cooked his own meals instead of eating at so many restaurants. So he pursues this line of second-guessing, knowing he’d always commit the same errors again, because it’s the kind of man he is. The screenwriter returns to the vicinity of the hotel, near the local church where he’s often seen friars and chaplains speaking to the homeless. Maybe they’ll know where he can spend the night. On arriving, however, he discovers the church is closed, and when he goes looking around the neighborhood, sees no sign of a priest, nor any of the homeless who used to roam around or sit on the church steps. He’s beginning to despair, and yet he ignores the ways of the homeless, those well-established shibboleths and practices for procuring room and board. Instead, he tries pushing the door; then he tries knocking against it a few times with his cane; then he tries looking through the keyhole. Finally, he gives up, and returns to the steps to sit down. Right now, the only place he’ll find any sign of life is in the plaza where he usually has a coffee. He’s tired of walking around holding out one hand asking people for spare change while carrying the typewriter and large plastic bag in the other. He has a hard time getting there, and has to stop several times for a rest, but at last he finds himself exhaustedly flumping into a chair at the café in the plaza. The price of a coffee and a sandwich exhausts all his funds, and he makes them last as long as he can, until closing time, when he asks one of the waiters if he can leave his typewriter and large plastic bag in the premises until the following morning. He’ll be around to collect them first thing, he says. No problem, the young waitresses have often seen him at breakfast time having his coffee, and some of the older ones also recognize him, although he rarely came in the evenings. The plaza’s almost empty once he sits down beside the fountain, quite close to a miserable vagrant primped in rags. He doesn’t appear conversationally inclined, for his mouth’s periodically stopped by a bottle of liquor. His face is an arid landscape that’s been battered by meteors, and all the dirt there makes his complexion seem darker than it is. The screenwriter stands up. If he must sleep next to a tramp, he’ll do so under a bridge where the owner of the café and the waitress he likes won’t see him. He’d rather they think of him as a bohemian writer who’s down on his luck than a derelict hobo who begs for spare change. He thinks about the girl. All in all, wherever he ends up tonight, it won’t be a good place for her to visit him.
He wakes up with his back against the wall, his jacket fully buttoned, lapels raised, and yet he’s shivering with cold. It’s no surprise. By the river, after midnight, the damp starts turning into ice. Sitting on some newspapers one of the tramps gave him, he listens to the loud crepitations of vehicles moving overhead, and to the bridge rumbling in resonance with them, which itself resonates with the membrane of his eardrums. He slept badly, but at least he has his cane, and he’s still in one piece. He checks his top pocket to make sure no one stole his wallet, and finds some newspaper stuffed between his shirt and jacket. He reckons he must have woken up in the night and unconsciously lined his body with this insulation to keep warm. With the help of his cane, he stands up to remove the pieces of newspaper from his person and leaves them to one side. His new cohorts are fast asleep, one here, another there, two or three huddled together in a corner — he can’t tell exactly, because they’re almost completely covered by a cardboard box that at one time carried a fridge. His stomach is growling with hunger, and he knows he must brace up before climbing the stair and going in search of a fountain to wash himself. As his body starts coming to life, something tells him the worst is already past, that he’s finally taken the crucial step. So he must finish his screenplay at last, because his mind has never been sharper, and he has the story in the palm of his hand. He knows where he’s going, but he takes a detour, in case someone he knows sees him begging in the street. He asks anyone he crosses paths with, people going to work, others pulling up store shutters. And if they don’t have any change, he asks for food, anything they can afford to throw away. After drinking some water at the fountain, a fruit vender offers him a peach. The screenwriter looks down and sees it’s covered in bruises. Anything they can afford to throw away. Within an hour, he’s collected enough change to last the day. But now he has the story in the palm of his hand, and that’s all that really matters. He wonders if his sudden determination to end his script is his psyche compensating him for all he’s lost. He’ll ask a psychologist about it some day. In the meantime, he goes back to the café in the plaza and decides to call the girl. This time she answers. I can’t write, she complains. Ever since I found out I was hypnotized, everything’s gone wrong. This is all too familiar to the screenwriter, who’s so dizzy with excitement to hear her voice that he asks her to just keep talking. Her voice is as necessary to him as bread and water. Perhaps he needs it to finish his script. No, in reality, he knows how it’s going to end. He’s only just figured it out, but he has a good idea how he wants it to end. He’d like to see her again. Perhaps they could make love in some hidden corner of the plaza, in a bar’s bathroom, or under a bridge. Time is running out. Do you still believe they’re following you? he asks, as the last coin drops. Not since I changed my look, she says. It’s a pity he couldn’t hold onto his camera. He could’ve photographed them making love under a bridge, and in some other strange places — places that are hidden, places no one’s ever heard of, he thinks, as the line cuts out. He feels he’s nearing the end, and that he could finish his work at any of the tables in the café. He collects his typewriter and takes a seat in a well-lit corner inside, thinking he’ll more than likely croak at his writing desk. Die with his boots on.