No World Concerto by A. G. Porta Page A

young conductor of the orchestra. She goes back into her room and sits on her bed, trying to write while waiting for the pill to take effect. She could go in search of Cousin Dedalus, try to uncover his real story, because she doesn’t believe what she’s been told up until now. She calls her mother and asks about him, but this proves to be a mistake. Her mother doesn’t like it when people ask about her cousin, and she assures the girl they’ve completely lost track of him. Why do you want to know? she asks. The girl wants to go in search of him but she doesn’t know where to start looking. He more than likely changed his name, in which case there’s nothing more to be said. She could just make it all up, as novelists do with their characters. But she already has her
No World
. So to speak. Since all she really has is the title. Writing is such an ordeal for her. Perhaps it would be easier if her book was based on a true story.
    The girl spends a few hours canceling her appointments in the neighboring country’s capital. She’s ostensibly traveling to her native city for a TV interview and to perform a concert. In reality, her trip has taken on a new significance, because she’s going in search of an image, a clue perhaps, some vestige of her lost cousin Dedalus. She signs some autographs at the airport while waiting in the VIP area. The next shot shows her alighting from a car in front of her home and asking the chauffeur to wait. We then see her walking around a spacious, luxurious apartment very few families could afford. The floor is completely empty, perhaps because the servants are on vacation. Then we see her looking through a photo album. There are pictures of the girl, her father and mother, and various other relatives and friends. She glances over the pictures one at a time, pausing at her favorite ones, the ones she links to pleasant memories: pictures of the garden of her old house; of her first attempts at playing the piano; of her father when he was younger. In a panoramic shot of a swimming pool, she’s shown next to the brilliant composer, who was only known as the talented boy back then. She reckons it was taken about ten years earlier because they’re only little kids. It’s a charming photo: both their faces are covered in chocolate, and neither is wearing a school uniform. She remembers how strange he looked without a school uniform, without his navy-blue blazer, gray pants, white shirt, and necktie. There are also pictures of her mother when she was younger. She looks happy; much different from the way she looks today. While leafing through the album, the girl recites some verses from the piece they’ve entitled
Dress Rehearsal for Voice and Music Boxes
. She plays the clown, but uses her own lyrics, the ones that tell her not to care about her father’s real name, or worry about herself; words that remind her not to fight with the young conductor, and to stop fretting about her writing. There’s one photo she particularly detests, in which she’s posing with a doll that was quite popular at the time, before she developed her aversion for dolls. All of a sudden, she finds what she was looking for: a snapshot of her cousin Dedalus, taken before he fled to the neighboring country’s capital. He’s posing on a pier she assumes is somewhere in her native city, and there’s a boat behind him whose name she can’t quite make out. He looks young in it, but the most striking thing about him is his face, it is the face of the man she keeps seeing in the neighboring country’s capital. The man she saw sitting at the bar in the dance club, and standing in front of the theater where she rehearses. She’s certain he’s her cousin, only he looks a lot older now. The girl strains to read the name of the boat behind him, but gives up because she’d need a magnifying glass. Perhaps she’s reading too much into it — that the boat betokens his intention to embark on a journey. There’s also a