No World Concerto

by A. G. Porta

  Since she can’t write, she goes for a walk, getting lost amid narrow, filthy alleyways she never imagined existed in the neighboring country’s capital. She walks in the general direction of the city center, enters the occasional bookstore on the way, but instead of reading the beginnings of certain novels, she decides to read their endings. An interesting exercise, she thinks, reading the ending and then trying to guess everything that went before. The screenwriter has spoken to her about the step-by-step method for constructing a story. But she thinks all he’s doing is trying to justify his own method by making it appear universal. She’s mentioned this to him on occasion. She believes writing a novel requires a very different approach to writing a screenplay. She goes to the river and watches the boats full of tourists pass by. The same every day, she thinks, from one end of the city to the other. She then sits on the terrace of a bar and goes through some of the newspapers, looking for any articles she may not have read. She feels tired and weak, and she wonders if the whole world’s conspiring to rob her of her vitality. Perhaps she’s reached the end of her tether. It may not be wise, always fighting against everything and everyone, she thinks. The most reasonable thing to do, perhaps, is go home to her native city. And yet she knows her problems won’t go away with a change of address. All the newspapers are still running her personal ad, but none of them feature a reply. Once back in the hotel, alone in the room, she awaits her father’s return. She doesn’t see the point of staying in the neighboring country’s capital if she doesn’t have an objective in her life. She smokes a couple of cigarettes on the balcony, watching the station, before finally deciding to go look for him. She knows it’s forbidden, but she believes she should tell him about her plans to leave the city. The girl sits beside the station platforms and observes. She’s not worried about being recognized. Her dyed hair and sunglasses will keep her identity under wraps. She walks up and down the main foyer, then she checks the restaurant, the café, and finally the benches where a bunch of tourists are sitting, but there isn’t a sign of her father or the cousin anywhere in the station. Shouldn’t one of them be on watch? she asks herself.

  It’s midnight, and there’s no one walking the streets. The screenwriter ate a sandwich and some fruit he bought for breakfast from the hotel buffet. A car is waiting at the traffic light as he makes his way slowly to the other side of the street, limping with the help of his cane, like someone who’s tired after a long day’s work, or spent after a long life’s living. Or perhaps it’s both. He needed to get some air and have a coffee, two of the only luxuries he seems able to afford. Perhaps he’s thinking about his financial situation again, or maybe his script. In contrast to the streets leading to it, the plaza is teeming with people sitting on the café terraces and around the fountain. He goes to a cigarette machine and buys a couple of boxes before sitting at one of the empty tables. On the other side of the plaza, in one of the other cafés, three guys are performing a few jazz numbers. The breeze carries the sounds of their voices and instruments toward him. Two guitars and a bass: the girl’s father would enjoy that. Maybe the girl should be searching for him in the plaza. Perhaps he’s sitting in a café with the college chick listening to jazz. It hasn’t rained today. When the waiter arrives, he orders a coffee and a glass of water. Perhaps he needs a haircut, he thinks, while lighting a cigarette and running his other hand backward through his hair. He better not. Not until the advance is safely in the bank. He still has the same mop of hair he had when he was young. The same amount, he thinks, trying to bolster his self-image. Only the color’s changed. But gray hair adds gravitas, he thinks, and his face has grown more interesting with age. It’s terrible he has to remind himself of this, but no one else has bothered reassuring him up till now, and what’s even more terrible, he doesn’t expect anyone to. The same thoughts must cross the mind of the girl’s father. And yet, the girl’s father is a lot younger. Then there’s the question of money. He runs his fingers through his hair again and takes a look around. The couples are all enjoying themselves as usual. He looks at the women. There isn’t one with whom he could strike up a conversation, not one with whom he could have a relationship, and certainly not one who’d kindly offer to pay his bill.

  He can hardly recognize her: her clothes are different — she no longer wears white jeans, a white T-shirt, and white canvas sneakers with the laces removed; her hair’s different — she’s cut it short and dyed it metallic blonde; and there are no more bags under her eyes, or if there are, they’re hidden behind a big pair of sunglasses. The screenwriter tells her about the college chick who collects the beginnings of novels, a character he’s very happy with. He quotes some of the opening lines he’s collected in his notebook and asks the girl if she recognizes any of them. She finds it interesting, the way he’s managed to incorporate one of her own ideas into his story, but she can’t identify any of the quotes. She then gets up and takes her clothes off, puts the leather holster around her waist, setting it on the left side, unclips it so the gun’s ready to be drawn, and stands completely still — her sunglasses concealing the expression in her eyes — while reading aloud a couple of passages from her novel. Perhaps, secretly, she’d like him to give her his opinion. She’s sent enough chapters for him to finally be able to do so, but the screenwriter doesn’t feel capable. Instead he kneels before her as she reads, kissing her inner thighs, attempting to entice them open by teasing her vulva with his tongue. He notes the stubble of pubic hair has grown back, remembers the last time he shaved her, and the photographs he took on that occasion, all of which he still has in his possession. How long has it been? Perhaps four or five weeks, yet it seems like an eternity ago. He caresses with his lips the still hairless parts of her angelic mons, then the parts with blonde or chestnut new-grown stubble. A pity about the camera; sold it for peanuts. He could be taking pictures of the girl wearing a holster and shades. She stops reading and waits silently for him to pass judgment on her work, to say whether or not she has talent, whether she possesses any style of her own, or perhaps the potential to one day develop a style of her own — anything to suggest she’s on a literary path that has nothing to do with hypnosis. The screenwriter doesn’t know how to tell her the truth, either about the hypnotism or the quality of her work. He is impressed by what she’s written, but only because he sees himself reflected in it. He doesn’t agree with the vision of the world she’s given him. But at the same time, he can’t stop listening to her describe that vision. The screenwriter kisses the warm pink flesh of her labia until she trembles, then he begins tonguing her clitoris slowly, deliberately, before pulling away suddenly so that she thrusts her pelvis desperately in search of him, so that he might continue licking her, and holding her labia open with his fingers, make her tremble once again, until she’s struggling to stay on her feet, until she closes her book and throws it aside, until she closes her eyes and waits for this old man’s rasping leathern tongue to take her to paradise. But the screenwriter stops to have a rest, uses the time to tell her, to beg her to continue writing, to not let a day go by without committing something to paper. Then he continues, and she looks down at him, at the white sheet under her feet, while biting the knuckles of one hand, grabbing the screenwriter’s hair with the other — not remembering what he said, not understanding what he said, for the last thing on her mind is writing. She then draws the pistol and balances it on his forehead. He pushes his tongue as deep as he can inside her, his hands squeezing her buttocks. At the back of her mind, the girl tries to recall what she was writing about. Then the screenwriter introduces a finger into her anus, and all hope of her remembering evaporates. There was something about them running away together, or he was begging her to run away with him, or something. Somewhere far away wasn’t it, where she could write and he could be her father, or was it her literary tutor? The girl looks in a mirror just in front of her, sees only the left side of her naked body reflected, moving spasmodically, the holster set beneath her left arm, as she holds the gun weakly
, biting the back of her hand to muffle the moans that come whimpering out nonetheless, emitted for the relief of her body’s more violent convulsions. It’s as if the girl’s lost all control of her body and mind. She falters, but manages to keep her balance, in part because he’s holding her — because he tires, lets go, and grabs hold of her again — while licking her, and continues doing so, until she screams, until the her juices drip down her thighs and onto the sheets. She looks in the mirror again, sees ecstasy concealed behind a pair of shades. The screenwriter lays her on the bed and gently penetrates her, says something to her that she scarcely comprehends. She then cocks the pistol and sinks the barrel into his temple, parting that mop of which he’s so proud, and without saying a word, fires. The short, dry crack of the gun failing to discharge resounds in the room. The screenwriter’s face goes pale, his expression that of a man who should be dead but isn’t. He stares at her, she says to him: do you think I’ve been hypnotized?

  Some time goes by, perhaps minutes, perhaps hours. The girl chooses to be silent. In this respect, their rendezvouses differ very little from each other. There’s always a point at which she chooses not to speak. She’s forgotten the reason she came: to seek the screenwriter’s approval of her writing, to tell him she’s leaving the neighboring country’s capital, that’s she’s finally decided to follow her own path in life, to say good-bye without a fuss, although, perhaps, with a little pain. She returns the pages of her novel to the envelope. It’s time for her to leave, she says, while placing the envelope on the bed beside the newspapers. But she’s the screenwriter’s only reason for living. He has to be with her. The girl doesn’t share the sentiment. Perhaps she’ll write to him from their native city, send him more chapters of her novel, and keep him abreast of the voices that pronounce her name with a “ka.” Not that she has any intention of keeping these promises, but she thinks it’s important for him to hear them. She doesn’t want to talk about love, affection, or anything like that. It will only make parting more painful. Don’t go, he begs her. She looks at him. Don’t leave me. The girl looks out the window into the street. She doesn’t think anyone’s been following her tonight, but she must always be vigilant. I won’t be able to live without you, the screenwriter mumbles, who wants her to run away with him to a mythical place, a city of gold, where money isn’t needed, where hardship and penury are mere states of mind. Literary talent, he says, develops slowly, by degrees; it needs time to mature — many more days, many more years in fact, than the time she’s invested so far. It’s the same with love. The girl disagrees. She thinks love is an uncontrollable passion — from its very beginning to its usually bitter ending. This isn’t the case with literature, she says. Or if it is, it isn’t the case with her. There are countries whose climates are amenable to such excesses. She remembers the words of a song she’s heard: to spend all night having sex, all day writing masterpieces. . But the misty-eyed screenwriter doesn’t pay attention to her. He’s dreaming about the bed in the golden city in which they’ll die of exhaustion making love, the last wish of an old man who doesn’t have a future to look forward to, or a past to look back on. And as he dreams, rising above the cloudy foundation on which he’s promised to build them a castle, the sound of his door creaking open sends him plummeting back to Earth. He rushes to follow her out. But I’m promising you a paradise, he says, stopping her in front of the elevator. The girl takes the gun out and inserts a clip. Well, I’m promising you a bullet in the chest, she says, threatening him with it before putting it away again. After she gets in the elevator, he goes back into his room and watches her walking down the street, refusing to blink until she disappears at the point where the boulevards intersect. Does paradise exist? he wonders. And death? Then, later on, alone in his room, he reads: “5.5562 That which we know, we know purely on logical grounds. The room is empty. The female student’s been opening the doors of all the rooms. So far, all have been empty, bereft of both people and furniture. The old professor cum alien hunter watches her from the kitchen doorway. Aren’t you staying for a good-bye kiss? he asks her. She continues opening doors. All he has left is a bar of soap and a towel in the bathroom. Will she stay? he asks. She doesn’t answer right away. He’ll give her more time. In one of the rooms, all they’ve left behind after taking the furniture is a small pile of blankets under a sheet on the hardwood floor. The old professor feels strange taking his clothes off in an empty room, having to put some newspaper down on the floor so that there’s a clean space for him to heap his clothes. And he could never lie on the floor without a blanket. It would feel like his bones were scraping up against paving stones. The girl, on the other hand, strips nonchalantly, feeling no different than she usually does, except that she believes this meeting will be their last, that it marks the end of a phase in her life. After making love on the hardwood floor, they remain there, lying next to one another, motionless. It’s summer, so it’s quite warm, both outside and in.” There’s a space separating the end of this paragraph and the beginning of the next. This, along with the girl’s use of W’s numerical notation, is a structural idiosyncrasy she uses throughout the narrative. The screenwriter thinks the paragraphs are like a succession of scenes in a movie. Why didn’t he notice this before she left? At the end of the day, style isn’t everything, he says to himself, regretting not having taken better advantage of the time he had with her. “5.5563 Our problems are not abstract, but perhaps the most concrete that there are. Some time goes by, perhaps minutes, perhaps hours. The girl lies next to him on top of some blankets and sheets she found in another room, listening silently, as he whispers to her an encomium on her skin, as he tells her how much he’s longed to feel its flawless texture, smooth and youthful, nary a wrinkle. . he’s never felt as drawn to something before, he says. Before, he’d have laughed at himself, but now, whenever he’s within touching distance of a young woman, he’s overcome with an almost uncontrollable desire. The girl stares at him. It’s because I’m old, he continues. Such feelings are a symptom of decrepitude. Sometimes, in the summer, he takes the metro early in the morning, around the time young women — recently showered and perfumed, with their hair still wet — are climbing on in droves. It’s like being swallowed by a wave. And he doesn’t need much. A furtive brush of the finger will do. Just touching a woman’s hair awakens an uncontrollable desire in him. It excites his alien hunter’s instinct. If he ever touched a woman’s hair on the metro, he says, he’d have to jump out of the car with her under his arm, and carry her away to his studio. He’d have to take her photograph, find her halo, and then make passionate love to her. He wouldn’t be able to help himself. The female student tells him she’s attracted to older men. She doesn’t know whether she said it because it’s true, or because she wanted to flatter him. But then she thinks to herself, it must be true; otherwise she wouldn’t be lying naked beside a retired old professor. And perhaps she wouldn’t have agreed to play the game if it wasn’t true. A game in which she gets more and more involved each day, and in which there’s a player who doesn’t even know he’s playing a part in it. You don’t have to love me, he says. All he wants right now is to be near her, to lie next to her on the floor. He waits for her to say something. She doesn’t say anything. I’ll wait for you, he eventually says, hoping to ease her reluctance to speak. What time does the ship leave, she asks him, and why the City in Outer Space? But she asks only for the sake of asking. She has no intention of seeing him off on his journey. Because, he says, only there can he be free. She seems to think he’ll be even busier there than here. Maybe she’ll come visit him, maybe not. Her words are judicious, her tone tentative. It’s more likely to be not. The old professor closes his eyes and touches her breasts. He wonders if he’ll ever see her again, touch her again, if his flight into exile is futile, if it wouldn’t be better to stay, to just fall on his knees and surrender to her. 5.6 The limits of language mean the limits of the No World. When he thinks about it again years later, as he wanders the empty streets of the d
esolate city, or languishes in the control room looking at the stars, and feels he wants to cry but knows he cannot because space has stolen his ability to cry, and he maintains an air of dignified sadness, regretting all the tears he cannot shed, the old man concludes he should have fallen on his knees, he should have surrendered to her when he had the chance.” The screenwriter rereads the part about a character who’s an unwilling participant in a game. He doesn’t think this is plausible. It must be a literary device. What role would he have in such a game, he wonders, how would he know he wasn’t breaking the rules?