Numberless clouds climb over the horizon and invade the coast, imparting a leaden aspect to the day. Evening falls. On the shore, whooping seagulls are swooping overhead, while an army of Boy Scouts are marching up the road, holding their standards aloft and proud, flapping though not flagging in the eye of the wind, together out-singing the squadrons of gulls, and whistling brave defiance at the clouds. The one farthest behind, who looks less than ten years old, is wearing a bandana decked with skull and crossbones. Standing next to her mother’s convertible, the girl watches them while thinking about the strange memory, as of a half-forgotten dream, adulterated by a sedative, which gives her the feeling she’s waking up from something both old and new at the same time. She takes a seat in the car and starts reading the article about the scientist, while her mother oversees the transfer of their luggage. Among his documents, they discovered proof of the existence of extraterrestrial intelligence. Apparently, he dictated in his will that the news be disclosed in the event of his death. The girl recognizes the photos accompanying the text. She’s seen them on more than one occasion. Another interesting detail, the scientist was found dead in the same hotel her father and the cousin were staying in, in front of the Grand Central Station. Tell me if I’m dreaming, mumbles the girl carefully, so her mother doesn’t hear. She needs to be independent, to get her own place. She’s a writer, if only because of hypnosis, yet it’s still the only thing she wants to do in life. She doesn’t know what to do with her career as a concert pianist. A career that wouldn’t have been possible in the first place were it not for her mother’s connections; she probably even owes her reputation as a prodigy to her mother making a few phone calls. She returns to her previous thought. Is it possible her father and the cousin now take turns staying in the scientist’s room? That they moved out of the hotel in front of the Grand Central Station because they no longer had any hope of their objective being met on the station platforms? There are still a lot of questions to be answered. She drops the newspaper at her feet and tries to concentrate on ridding herself of these strange obsessions that color her whole world. She has to change her life, free herself of these burdens. She shouldn’t waste another second speculating about what her parents are up to, and she doesn’t want to hear another word about the young conductor or the brilliant composer. In life, in reality, she’ll encounter them again under a different name, under the collective epithet, the plagiarists. It fits them like a glove. She should change the title of her novel to incorporate the word, plagiarist. They’ve stolen practically everything from her. Everything except money. When her mother starts the car, the girl keeps her eyes on the distance, focusing on the scouts’ rucksacks, listening to the sound of their singing redoubling as they approach. The one farthest behind, who looks less than ten years old, is wearing a bandana decked with skull and crossbones. She too would whistle and sing if she could, if she was in the mood, if she could rid herself of the obsessions that have colored her reality for so long. Certain characters cross her mind, the old screenwriter, her father, the cousin, but she doesn’t think they’ll prove to be any different from her mother, the young conductor, or brilliant composer. Then she looks sideways at her mother, wondering if it isn’t she who’s really pulling all the strings, that she’s only using the vague title of business executive as a front. The girl feels that she’s surrounded by strange beings; she’d almost say beings from another world — remembering the phrase she heard one day in a café. Let’s imagine we’re talking about beings from a No World. A No World located in this one, if we must be specific: a heaven, hell, or purgatory, to which these beings have been sent, coming from other galaxies; perhaps it’s a heaven for some and a hell for others, and, as such, without differentiating them, it’s possible to see, living together, both the condemned being punished for their sins and the blessed being rewarded for their virtues. The girl hasn’t the slightest doubt about which group she belongs to. She deserves no better for the way she’s behaved. But who knows. . Then, the girl imagines a conversation with her father, a conversation modeled after those she’s had before, in which he promised her that, one day, he’d give up his rotten job and dedicate his life to writing. She isn’t surprised. He’d have no problem finding things to write about. She suggests he write an autobiographical novel, a fictional account of his life. There’s nothing more interesting than that. Of course, she says this thinking about the astrophysicist and the aliens, about the cousin and her mother, about the long vigil — the reason for which they’re still concealing from the girl. Must there always be a reason? she wonders. Her father then suggests, sarcastically, that she should write his biography, although this would be the very opposite of what a great writer would choose to do. Better yet, she should ghostwrite his autobiography, and give it the title: