No World Concerto

by A. G. Porta

  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.

  It’s not going to be easy. Although he knows exactly where he left off in his story, he first has to organize the potpourri of loose pages and index cards that are stuffed in the large plastic bag. Perhaps he should forget about the notes and just grab the script itself, whose pages are bound with an elastic band. After finding it near the bottom of the bag, he’s soon holding the last typewritten page in his hand. Where the hell have you been? asks a voice in the lobby of the hotel in front of the Grand Central Station. The girl quickly turns. It’s Cousin McGregor, who’s been waiting some time for her. We’re leaving, he says. Let’s go. We’ve already checked out of our rooms. He leads her through a back door into an alleyway where a car is parked. On the way, the cousin asks about her work, but she can only repeat what she’s already told him about the No World, while he, in turn, cannot see past the comparison he’s already made with Leon Kowalski, the replicant. She may as well be writing his untold story, about his false, implanted memories. For the rest of the drive, both are silent. The cousin is now staying in a room in the suburbs, where her luggage and her father are waiting for her. Her father says he’d prefer if she stayed a few more days before going back home. Your mother’s concerned, he tells her, before insinuating she should keep her mouth shut about whatever he and the cousin are up to. So that’s it, mutters the girl, knowing deep down that she was right, but thinking they’ve gone right back to the beginning, to the endless waiting for someone to contact them, perhaps even the scientist in the classically-cut suit. All that’s changed is the address. The screenwriter feels he’s never been more in tune with his writing. The words are flowing out of him like a torrent, and he attributes this to the state of mind of someone who, having been cast out of the world, has relinquished all worldly concern. To write, then wait to die: there’s nothing more for him to do. The story was once beyond his reach, just beyond the tips of his fingers, but now he has it in the palm of his hand. He looks around for the waitress and asks for another coffee. He leans back in his chair and readies his fingers on the keys of the typewriter. First, a coup d’oeil at his new office: not bad. He’s never written properly in a café before, but now it seems to him the perfect place to be writing, especially when the words are flowing out of him like a torrent, meaningful words that are more than just a series of mellifluous incoherencies. He wouldn’t even deign to call it a mere screenplay anymore, but that doesn’t matter now. He’s writing a story, and that’s enough. He’d love to call his wife right now and gloat, but the poor dear must smell awful. Probably full of maggots too. You never can tell with the variable August weather. All the screenwriter has to sustain himself is coffee, water, a sandwich every now and then, and if he’s lucky, a pastry. He’s clinging in his mind to the old cliché that nothing can prevent progress, thinking this as his story rushes through his mind from start to finish, his fingers poised, tempted by the keys. He doesn’t even need his index cards or notebooks. He knows every turn in the labyrinth, where to introduce a new scene, where to speed the action up or slow it down, where to find the answer to some central question. He holds his script in the palm of his hand, and sees it as a bird would see it, or perhaps an aerial photographer. He knows he doesn’t have much time left to traverse it, but things will move along faster now that he knows exactly where he’s going. Writing the screenplay no longer seems like a chore, and although it may be hard to believe, considering what’s become of him, for the first time in years, he actually feels young. He even feels that things are starting to go his way. Perhaps he’s finally lost his marbles. He nods his head without realizing, as if unconsciously approving the possibility. Perhaps he’s gone mad and doesn’t know it. It’s as if he’s the one who was hypnotized and not the girl. But there’s no way someone with his experience could be that suggestible. Besides, he doesn’t remember attending any sessions with a hypnotist — neither recently nor when he was still living with his wife. But what if he was hypnotized to forget he was hypnotized? What if it was a practical joke? No, there’s no way it was joke, or a vendetta either. She’s dead, and dead people don’t make jokes. If he had to attribute it to something, he’d say it was the fasting. Not eating has somehow purged him, distilled and strengthened his faculties enough to conclude his story. He’s not thinking about it in terms of a screenplay because he knows it’s a story, first and foremost, and he must write it down as it flows out of him, and not stop writing until the end. Occasionally he stops typing and wonders if he’ll wake up at some point and realize it was all a hallucination, and that everything he’s writing in the café is only a product of that hallucination, if he’ll snap out of it and read over what he’s written and see only complete gobbledygook. Fortunately, this sort of thing happens to him very rarely — seeing what he�
�s done as worthless — and the feeling only lasts a very short time. The compulsion driving him now is something quite different. Then he cleans his glasses and keeps typing. The only other times he will allow himself to remove his fingers from the keys are to light a cigarette or to order more coffee from the waitress. He only asks for two more days, as if requesting an extension, two more days and he’ll be finished. Then he can roll over and die. The waitress watches him keenly as he says these words, and he looks back at her indifferently. He knows it’s too late now for there to be anything between them. “I had a farm in Africa, at the foot of the Ngong Hills,” he says, and she smiles at him, a proper smile for the first time, a sincere smile. And although the screenwriter’s face is haggard, piteous, he still manages to smile back at her. The clack and plink of the typewriter is unrelenting, rising above the sound of the music over the speakers or the murmurs of customers conversing, some of whom stare at him, a beggar working like a man possessed, and he knows they’re watching him and think he’s a beggar possessed, but he doesn’t care, because he knows they’re absolutely correct. He strikes the keys demoniacally, his two hands moving as if there were three, sounding like a trio of tap-dancing feet, or two with the help of a cane. He sees himself as if he were in a dream from which he cannot be awoken. When he eventually runs out of cigarettes, he goes to the vending machine and buys another pack. A writer works all the time, he never stops working. To think is also to work, and when he’s not writing, he’s thinking. And can a man stop himself from thinking?

  She managed to get there by climbing a hill quite near to a plaza that was once frequented by a famous foreign writer. She’s never read any of his works, but she’s definitely heard of him. Even people who don’t read books have heard of him. If she took the screenwriter’s suggestion seriously, this would be an assignation, but there are certain things she won’t do. Perhaps in thirty or forty years she’ll think about it. She still avoids white clothing, her hair is still dyed, and her dark sunglasses just about conceal her features, but the screenwriter recognizes her nonetheless when she sits down in front of him in the café. She looks at him perplexedly, noting the dramatic change in his person: unclean, unshaven, in general disarray — neglect papered over by good manners and a polished accent. Something’s changed in their relationship. Something the girl dare not confess, not even to herself. Do you have any cash? the screenwriter asks. How much do you need? The girl empties her pockets and slaps down some notes and coins on the table. Tell me if it’s true I was hypnotized, she demands, as if her whole life depended on his answer. Do you really want to know? he asks, knowing she won’t like the answer. She nods. He waits a few moments. Yes, he admits, I was there. I saw it all happen. She responds with a look of disgust and gets up to leave. Don’t go, he implores her, taking her hand. The only person who could take him away from his writing is thinking about leaving him again — and just before the culmination of the plot. It’s a common formula: something you’d read in a beginner’s manual on storytelling. How could it be otherwise? Being hypnotized couldn’t have affected her because she already had talent. All that happened was that she’d stopped believing in herself. There’s another pretty obvious point. And it’s as simple as that, he says. So there — it’s no longer a big secret. Do you know of any dark corners nearby? he then asks, smiling suggestively. The girl smiles in turn, but it’s not a happy smile, her eyes say as much, and the screenwriter even detects in them the beginnings of contempt. She brought the pages he requested. He takes them out of her hand, stealing a finger’s caress. Such soft skin, he thinks, as he closes his eyes and kisses her. Everything’s a game, the girl hears him say, a game of two people’s shared pain. Only a game, nothing more. Do you think I’m crazy? the girl asks him, offering her hand again, as if to prove it’s made of flesh and bone, as if to prove there really is a world, and that somewhere in that world there’s a crusty old screenwriter sitting at a table in a café with all his worldly possessions at his side, everything he owns, stuffed into a big plastic bag, save the old-fashioned typewriter before which he sits, upon which he’s trying to finish his story, having stopped momentarily to take a girl’s hand, who wants to know if she’s barking mad. He doesn’t answer, but wants to know why she’s asking. She lies and tells him there’s no particular reason. Then she takes back her hand and leaves. The screenwriter stays seated, hardly budging, as he reads the pages that will guide him toward the conclusion of his story. Some people would call it the climax, but not him. Though he doesn’t even remember the technical terms designating the separate parts of a story’s arc. But he’s not going to be teaching any classes in paradise; there’ll be no more literature students, so he doesn’t need to know the terminology now. But he can still invoke them instinctively, even if he doesn’t know their names, and that’s all that really matters in the end. All that matters, he says, bracing himself before the typewriter. Only a few pages left, he tells himself, as he considers the next scene, which is set in one of the lounges of the hotel with the English name. The girl is standing next to the piano as her mother, wearing the gravest expression she’s yet shown, is handing her a large envelope. The envelope is unsealed, and the girl shows little interest as she inspects the contents: a videocassette and some photographs. She reseals the contents and leaves it on the tail of the piano. There’s no need for closer scrutiny; even if she might have denied it to herself, she’s always known what her destiny would be. Do you know how much damage this will do if it gets to the press? asks her mother from the other side of the piano. What’s the difference? asks the girl. As long as they manage to fill a soccer stadium, it doesn’t matter if a person sells their mind, their body, or their talent to do so. With the publicity these photographs will generate, combined with her skills on the piano, the girl will set the standard for the music of the future. This will be the kind of music they’ll listen to in the City in Outer Space. You better hope your father doesn’t find out, warns her mother, because I don’t know what he’ll do! The girl continues imputing her mother’s incapacity to see the bigger picture. Not what he’ll do to you, adds her mother, but to that teacher of yours. The girl asks if they’re demanding money, although she has a feeling the anonymous sender has already achieved his aim, and that it wasn’t blackmail, but to expose her relationship with the screenwriter to her parents. Moreover, she thinks she knows exactly who the anonymous sender is. The number of possible suspects wouldn’t exactly fill a soccer stadium. Her mother’s called the Principal of the Scholastic Institute to alert her of the situation. But if there’s no blackmail, there’s no point in getting worked up, says the girl. Her mother wants to know how long the relationship’s been going on. The girl says she hasn’t been keeping track — a year, perhaps. They’re going to fire him, her mother says, taking a few steps around the piano, thinking out loud, without looking at her daughter. He’ll probably never be able to teach again. His reputation will be ruined. What I don’t know is what to do with you, she says, stopping and looking back at the girl. How could you have done such a thing? A few moments go by, adding tension to the scene. If it was for money, all you had to do was ask. The girl smiles archly, but her mother keeps her eyes fixed on her. If it wasn’t for money then what was it? The girl doesn’t answer. What was it? her mother insists. You wouldn’t understand, the girl says at last. Her mother assures her she’ll do her best to understand. The girl walks away from the piano and goes to the window. The day’s become misty, but she can just make out a bridge overlooking the river. It was just a game, she says. A game? With him? But he’s a grown man! The girl turns to look at her mother and smiles mischievously again, because she knows it gets on her nerves. No, a game with your favorite musicians: the young conductor and brilliant composer. At night, while the screenwriter heads back to the bridge to get some sleep, he thinks about the pages the girl’s been sending him. If anything, it’s still a little vague in places, he thinks. She needs to make more explicit the link between the aliens and the No Wo
rld. He rummages through some garbage and eats a piece of stale bread and a half-eaten apple someone else discarded. After exploring the bin to its very bottom, he manages to find a newspaper, so he goes to the nearest streetlight to sit down and read.

  As he did the day before, the screenwriter walks the streets begging for change that he then spends on sandwiches and coffee. He goes to the fountain in the plaza to get a drink of water and then goes into the café to sit at his table and continue writing. The waitress occasionally pauses at his table to contemplate his furious, almost deranged expression as he types. He can’t keep going like this, she warns. He only asks for two more days, as if he was requesting an extension, two more days and he’ll be finished. Then he can roll over and die. To die peacefully, violently, perhaps indifferently. . he’s not sure which adjective applies. The waitress watches him closely as he says these words. She smiles at him. The screenwriter still feels quite distant from her, and yet the connection between them has never been closer, and although his face is haggard, piteous, he manages to smile back at her. He writes without stopping, until midday, when the girl pays him a visit. She’s wearing a wig this time, because she once again thinks they’re following her. She’s carrying more pages with her. They’re the last, she says. The screenwriter acknowledges to himself he’s nearing the end of the script, the end of love, the end of life perhaps. Will you be back? he asks her. She says no. She’ll be going back home as soon as possible. The screenwriter would have liked to start a new life with her, to have conquered every adversity with her, to have created something he’s never managed to create. The girl sits on the other side of the table, of the typewriter, listening to him say these things once more. I never promised you anything, she says. Then all that’s left for him to do is croak at his writing desk. Die with his boots on. He murmurs something incoherently about the time he has left, before asking her what day it is. Wednesday the thirty-first, she says, and the screenwriter gets lost in his usual reverie, imagining the two of them just barely scraping by together, but still happy since they’re together, on some faraway beach, dealing with life’s adversities by making love all day and all night until they expire. There are two ways to die with one’s boots on, he assures her, making love or writing. Then why die on some faraway beach? she asks him, implying he can die making love or writing in any old place. The screenwriter starts going over the pages she’s brought him. There are only a few of them, but they’re crucial, indispensable. They mean everything, actually. Then, without looking up, he asks her to wait another day or two before abandoning him and the neighboring country’s capital. Yes, they mean everything, he mumbles. They mean the story has come full circle. Are the circles concentric or spiral? Oh, what does it matter? The screenwriter’s words are becoming intelligible only to himself. So the girl gets up and leaves him to his musings; leaves him as she begins to doubt his sanity, turning to give him one last look before leaving the café terrace. The scene ends with a distant shot of the screenwriter sitting alone in the corner, talking to himself, although it looks like he’s mouthing the words he’s typing in his almost furious derangement on the typewriter.