In the meantime, it had gotten completely dark. We had negotiated a rather disagreeable neighborhood crisscrossed by wide highways, had crossed a high bridge, and at last entered a long shopping street. The buildings on either side were identical, most of the businesses were international chains, we could have been anywhere. As we walked slowly on, people passed us and we passed others who were probably coming off work and were on their way home. Lena linked arms with me, as though afraid of getting lost in the crowd.
I know the feeling, she said. Sometimes, when I can’t find my way into a part, I can watch myself act, and then it feels like I’m not playing the part, the part is playing me, as though the character were aping me, and poking fun at me. I don’t think the audience notices anything, but I can feel all the strength draining out of me, as if I was just an empty shell at the end of the performance, a costume that needs to be hung up till the next time.
But I missed my girlfriend so badly, I said, I sometimes had the feeling I was half a person, as though I couldn’t exist without her. Did you say that to her? Lena asked me with an urgency that surprised me. Did you try to win her back? I didn’t reply. Lena let go of my arm and stopped. When I turned towards her she looked at me sharply and said, I don’t think he’s anything like you. No, he really isn’t. And it’s not such an unusual name as all that either. Anyway, everyone calls my boyfriend Chris. No one ever called me that, I said. And he doesn’t have writer’s block either, said Lena, walking on, he’s working and he’s doing well. What’s he writing about then? I asked, though I already knew the answer. He doesn’t like to talk about things he’s working on currently, she said. Then how do you know he’s actually writing anything? He’s almost at the end, she said, it’s a very special project. He’s writing about you, isn’t he, I said. What if he is? said Lena.