slides his left arm under her nape and just looks at her, examines her fringe of hair, short and flat against her brow, and so he delicately displaces it with his fingers. The early morning silence breezes in through the half-open windows. You’ll end up preferring him to me, the screenwriter whispers, meaning the young conductor, speaking so softly his voice almost peters out entirely. No I won’t, she says, the after-silence stretching out indefinitely. You’ll want somebody younger, the screenwriter insists, holding his breath. He wants to know what will happen when he gets even older. What do you want to happen? she asks, her eyes glued to the ceiling. He shrugs his shoulders feebly, unable to answer her. There’s a prolonged silence as she turns to look at him, unwavering, not moving a single muscle in her face. I’ve told you I’ll always love you, she says. The screenwriter wishes he could believe her, that she’d promise her undying love, give her word to never abandon him. But then, in a moment of lucidity, he remembers that only desire matters, there can be no room for sentiment. They say old age vitiates desire. But he doesn’t see it that way. His life is a torment, and he supposes it’ll always be a torment: rest, repose, who’d want that? Maybe it’s a different kind of desire, the desire for peace — more complex, but also more self-evident. Well, perhaps. She lights a joint and hands it to him, then gets up and starts dressing by the side of the bed. She puts her notebook in her satchel and takes a quick look outside, searching for the inconspicuous shadow that often lurks near the hotel’s entrance. An hour has passed, maybe two, and the murmur of engines paused at the traffic lights is getting louder by the moment. The city’s stirring. Don’t go, he implores her as she heads to the door, his hand reaching weakly, vainly, for hers.
Sometimes she feels like a fool, writes the screenwriter in a margin of his notebook, listening to the girl’s inner voice, which is torturing her with that idea. Sometimes she feels like the angel in the film, that she can hear other people’s voices, not only when they speak, but also when they think, convinced she’s eavesdropping on their most intimate thoughts and desires. During these moments, the screenwriter listens to the girl’s inner voice, as plain as if it were a voiceover, saying it doesn’t matter that she has exceptional talent, she’s still a fool. She always feels this way after an argument with the young conductor. She knows she shouldn’t allow herself be carried away by these jealous rages, but by the time she remembers this, it’s already too late. As she gets dressed, the telephone rings, and the young conductor, lying naked on the bed, answers it, his eyes remaining on the girl, engrossed by her body. Listening to what the young conductor’s saying, she guesses that the caller is the brilliant composer. In fact, she’d have known by just listening to the young conductor’s tone of voice. She wouldn’t even need to use her sixth sense, which allows her to perceive all that’s hidden around her, to hear other people’s thoughts, detect when someone pronounces her name with a “ka.” They’re talking about irregular sound waves, which they both agree are harsh on the ears, about the difference between dissonance and consonance, about mathematics, acoustics, and all the rest of it. She takes the book by W from the nightstand and walks out, not forgetting to slam the door behind her. Maybe she’s overreacting; maybe it’s the pills; or maybe it’s just her personality. “3.04 If a thought were correct a priori, it would be a thought whose possibility ensured its truth.” She asks herself what this could mean. Possibly nothing. She walks the streets aimlessly, alone. She inadvertently overhears a conversation by a couple in a café. The man, reading his newspaper, lifts his head to pass a comment about the news. We really
Sometimes she feels like a fool, writes the screenwriter in a margin of his notebook, listening to the girl’s inner voice, which is torturing her with that idea. Sometimes she feels like the angel in the film, that she can hear other people’s voices, not only when they speak, but also when they think, convinced she’s eavesdropping on their most intimate thoughts and desires. During these moments, the screenwriter listens to the girl’s inner voice, as plain as if it were a voiceover, saying it doesn’t matter that she has exceptional talent, she’s still a fool. She always feels this way after an argument with the young conductor. She knows she shouldn’t allow herself be carried away by these jealous rages, but by the time she remembers this, it’s already too late. As she gets dressed, the telephone rings, and the young conductor, lying naked on the bed, answers it, his eyes remaining on the girl, engrossed by her body. Listening to what the young conductor’s saying, she guesses that the caller is the brilliant composer. In fact, she’d have known by just listening to the young conductor’s tone of voice. She wouldn’t even need to use her sixth sense, which allows her to perceive all that’s hidden around her, to hear other people’s thoughts, detect when someone pronounces her name with a “ka.” They’re talking about irregular sound waves, which they both agree are harsh on the ears, about the difference between dissonance and consonance, about mathematics, acoustics, and all the rest of it. She takes the book by W from the nightstand and walks out, not forgetting to slam the door behind her. Maybe she’s overreacting; maybe it’s the pills; or maybe it’s just her personality. “3.04 If a thought were correct a priori, it would be a thought whose possibility ensured its truth.” She asks herself what this could mean. Possibly nothing. She walks the streets aimlessly, alone. She inadvertently overhears a conversation by a couple in a café. The man, reading his newspaper, lifts his head to pass a comment about the news. We really
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