don’t belong on this planet, he says solemnly. The woman nods in agreement, drops her cigarette to the ground, and crushes it under the sole of her shoe. The girl walks into a bookstore, passes several tables laden with books, not looking for anything in particular, but she thinks she should start reading other authors, besides the great dramatist and the genius who revolutionized twentieth-century literature. Once again, she gets lost wandering the streets before finding her way again, and decides to head for the bars with the foosball tables. She wouldn’t mind challenging one of the players, or even joining someone else’s team. She watches for a while, but they’re too focused on the game to notice her. As for the screenwriter, Sunday passes by without his even noticing. He went for a walk by the river and then relaxed in the afternoon. He called his wife a couple of times, and watched TV as he waited for the girl. Later in the night, he typed up a scene he’d already written longhand, in which she has an argument with the young conductor and then wanders the streets aimlessly before heading for the bar with the foosball tables. All of a sudden the girl becomes anxious, believing someone’s following her. Perhaps alien hunters have zeroed in on the voices she always hears. All they have to do is narrow the range of their sensors, adjust their frequency, and then it’s only a matter of time before they get to her. The screenwriter turns off the light and looks over at the building opposite as he undresses for bed. He can’t get the girl out of his head. Finally, though, his exhaustion overtakes him, and at precisely the moment he thinks he’s discerned what direction the story will take, his lids give way, and he’s lost in the oblivion of sleep.
It’s cold for an August morning, and the low clouds are moving swiftly, threatening rain. Near the hotel, there’s a secondhand clothes store, and the screenwriter decides to go inside and have a look around. He never used to think of buying anything in a place like this. It’s true, these kinds of stores haven’t always been around, he tells himself, but even if they had been, he’d never have entered one, much less bought anything inside. These days, however, if he needed some pants, a jacket, or possibly a new shirt, such a place could be his only port of call. Necessity can alter habits, he thinks. He’s beginning to run low on money, and one of these days he’ll have to phone the producer to request another advance. He walks down the aisle, past rows of shelves and clothing racks. He notices his leg hurts: a sign it’s going to rain. He exits the store, spends a few moments looking in the window before walking down the street to board the metro. He isn’t traveling far, but his limp makes it seem like a million miles. He should avoid the hotel where the girl’s staying, that’s a no-go area. Curiosity, however, overrides his better judgment. On getting off the metro, the wet street tells him it’s been raining. He looks up at the sky, searching for any indication it might rain again. The air is still quite cool for early August. He returns his eyes to the ground and continues wearily on his way. He knows the girl is staying at one of the best hotels in the capital. Her mother always puts her up in it. It has an English name, and the doorman, dressed like an admiral, cheerily salutes him whenever he passes by. There’s no one at his hotel to hold the door open or carry his bags, much less drive him to the café. Such are the differences between people who have everything and guys like him; palpable differences, which are never adequately described by the girl when she tries to give an account of them, differences which are only felt by him when he takes a stroll through her reality. But when they’re in bed together, sharing ideas and feelings, these distances vanish, he thinks. Sometimes he asks himself if he isn’t writing screenplays to live his
It’s cold for an August morning, and the low clouds are moving swiftly, threatening rain. Near the hotel, there’s a secondhand clothes store, and the screenwriter decides to go inside and have a look around. He never used to think of buying anything in a place like this. It’s true, these kinds of stores haven’t always been around, he tells himself, but even if they had been, he’d never have entered one, much less bought anything inside. These days, however, if he needed some pants, a jacket, or possibly a new shirt, such a place could be his only port of call. Necessity can alter habits, he thinks. He’s beginning to run low on money, and one of these days he’ll have to phone the producer to request another advance. He walks down the aisle, past rows of shelves and clothing racks. He notices his leg hurts: a sign it’s going to rain. He exits the store, spends a few moments looking in the window before walking down the street to board the metro. He isn’t traveling far, but his limp makes it seem like a million miles. He should avoid the hotel where the girl’s staying, that’s a no-go area. Curiosity, however, overrides his better judgment. On getting off the metro, the wet street tells him it’s been raining. He looks up at the sky, searching for any indication it might rain again. The air is still quite cool for early August. He returns his eyes to the ground and continues wearily on his way. He knows the girl is staying at one of the best hotels in the capital. Her mother always puts her up in it. It has an English name, and the doorman, dressed like an admiral, cheerily salutes him whenever he passes by. There’s no one at his hotel to hold the door open or carry his bags, much less drive him to the café. Such are the differences between people who have everything and guys like him; palpable differences, which are never adequately described by the girl when she tries to give an account of them, differences which are only felt by him when he takes a stroll through her reality. But when they’re in bed together, sharing ideas and feelings, these distances vanish, he thinks. Sometimes he asks himself if he isn’t writing screenplays to live his
Similar Books
