PERSISTANCE DE LA VISION 
A short story by J. Robinson Wheeler 
"Though the artist may die, the vision persists," says Jean-Claude.
You're barely listening. "We don't seek the vision, it is given to us,
implanted in us like a seed in a soil bed. But perhaps I am mixing
metaphors. The seed seeks the sun, the soil does not seek the seed's
growth into a plant. Yet as artists, that is what we do. We translate
the vision into the world, that it may prove longer lasting than we, the
communicators and translators of it." 
The carriage hits a pothole in the road, jostling you both. 
"Your problem now, Henri," Jean-Claude continues, "Is that the vision
that persists in your head is not one worth chasing down. You followed
it, and came up wanting. Let it go. Persist in seeking more worthy
visions." 
His words slip through you, only half catching, like sunlight through a
fence. Perhaps what he is saying is significant; half of your mind
realizes this. The other half is in shadow, burdened by repetitive,
obsessive thoughts. 
>THINK 
(about Stephanie) 
You brood for a few minutes, the clippity clop of the carriage horses
lulling you into a hypnotic meditation. You hear, but barely register,
the giggling and shrieking of two young women caught in the sudden
rainfall, scurrying to safety. You can't see their faces, but from
behind, it could be them. The one with the blonde locks, Stephanie, the
taller companion with dark brown hair, her friend -- what was her name?
It has only been four months since they left for America, and you've
forgotten her friend's name. Presumably, it's because it was never very
important to you. 
Jean-Claude interrupts your reverie. It takes a few moments for your
attention to shift, and you miss his first silence-breaking words, but
you can guess. As usual, he has been reading your mind. 
"You have been doing little else for the past few weeks, Henri," he
says. "I wish you could cease torturing yourself. It makes you quite
unpleasant company." He removes his little round spectacles and breathes
on them, polishing them with a handkerchief. "Turn it into art, if you
must, but please stop endlessly brooding." Jean-Claude replaces the
cleaned eyeglasses back on the bridge of his nose, coughs, and scratches
his creased forehead. 
You have nothing to say. You stare without seeing at the upholstered
interior of the cab, your fingers idly clenching and loosening on the
seat covering. 
Jean-Claude changes his demeanor, and with a warm smile he pats your
leg. "It will not always be like this, Henri. In that you may trust." 
You notice that you're passing the streetlamp across from Stephanie's
old flat, where you used to stand and wait for a glimpse of her to
brighten your day. 
>STOP 
(the cab) 
"Driver, stop here, s'il vous plait." 
Jean-Claude rolls his eyes. He glances out his window and grimaces as
the driver brings the horses to a halt. "Oh, Henri. Will you never
learn? Driver, please continue." 
The driver pauses, not sure what to do. Your attention is fixed on the
door of Stephanie's flat. She broke your heart there, once. Or maybe
several times, maybe a hundred times. The memories are distant, now, and
getting moreso. Ah, wait. Non. You almost laugh. On a better day,
perhaps one with sunshine to help elevate your mood, you might have.
It's not the memories that are growing distant, but the door.
Jean-Claude has negotiated for the driver to continue, and the cab is
travelling on. You watch the door as long as you can, as it changes from
a rectangle to a thin trapezoid, then to a line, and then is lost in the
grey rain and growing evening darkness. 
Your inner eye still has a lock on it. A scene from your memory plays
out: meeting Stephanie one morning on her doorstep, only to have that
man, David, come stumbling, sneaking, laughing, out of the same door --
an exit too hasty for him to have finished buttoning his shirt. 
You hear a grinding, ripping noise. You imagine that it's from an action
you never took, of grabbing David by his lapels and shaking him,
striking him, his clothes tearing as he tries to scramble away from you.
Stephanie, looking shocked at your passion. 
"Henri! What have you done?" Jean-Claude hisses. 
"What?" you ask. 
"Look what you've done to the upholstery!" he whispers. 
>X UPHOLSTER 
Which upholstery do you mean, the cab wall or the cab seat? 
>SEAT 
You look down, curiously, and find that your nails have gouged a
permanent set of stripes into the smooth, dark leather. You rub them a
bit with your hand, wet your fingers with your tongue, rub again. They
become slightly less prominent, but making them disappear again is not
possible. 
Sheepishly, you grin at Jean-Claude. Henri, the naughty schoolboy, has
just gotten into trouble agian. Jean-Claude is unamused. You can see the
wheels in his head spinning: is he going to have to pay to have the seat
repaired? Is he going to make you reimburse him for it, even though he
knows you are already behind in your rent payments to him? It will be
another ten weeks before the next public exhibition of your work; a long
time to wait for money. 
"Ahh, Henri, it was ever thus," he says. You take this to mean he's not
going to take you to task for it. 
"Your trouble, Jean-Claude, is that you are too forgiving," you say. 
"An odd attribute to be indicted for," he says. "According to most
reliable sources, it is something of a virtue." 
"Your place in Heaven is assured," you say. "Whereas I shall arrive, if
at all, decrepit and bent from a lifetime's mountain of debt." 
"Perhaps God will forgive you, too," Jean-Claude says. "Come along,
we've arrived." 
The two of you clamber out onto the slick street. You dash for the cover
of the hotel's front awning as Jean-Claude tarries to pay the driver.
You watch, ruefully, as Jean-Claude hands the driver monies over and
above the cab fare. A few quiet words are exchanged, and then the driver
nods with comprehension and accepts the inflated payment. Before driving
off, the driver flashes you a quick, judgmental glance. Then he pops the
reins and the cab rattles off into the night. 
Jean-Claude rejoins you at the entrance. He shakes the water off his hat
and brushes what moisture he can from his shoulders. The best you can do
now, you think, is hold the door open for him, but a footman appears and
does it first. Your next choice is to defer first entry to Jean-Claude,
but as always, he politely declines, waving you onward with an opened
palm. 
"He who is first shall come last, and he who is last shall be first,"
you hear in your head as you enter without argument, Jean-Claude
following you. 
 
Salon 
The two of you find your way quickly to the private salon reserved on
this occasion for your group of friends. Your inclination tonight was to
stay home and work, but Jean-Claude prescribed socializing as a cure for
what's ailing you. 
A large man in a uniform stands outside the door. Even though he has
seen you on five prior occasions, he fulfills his duty and blocks your
entry, politely but firmly. 
"Good evening, gentlemen." 
"Good evening, Maurice," Jean-Claude says. It occurs to you that, at
some point, you should pick up Jean-Claude's habit of remembering
people's names. 
"Good evening, Maurice," you echo, hoping it does not sound too much
like rote apery. 
Maurice shifts his attention to you, since you are foremost. "And may I
ask you, sir, to please tell me the password?" 
>ZRBLM 
"Zrblm," you say. Despite its sounding like one of your usual
incomprehensible mumbles, it is, in fact, the password: an agglomeration
of initials taken from the middle names of your group of friends. It was
Tomas who suggested it, with characteristic wit. 
Maurice does not smile, he merely nods, bows subtly, and pulls the door
switch firmly; he pulls the door open and bows again as you pass.
Jean-Claude hands him a small, shiny coin -- something perhaps you would
have done, if you had a coin to your name. 
 
The Gathering 
The gathering is a cheerful affair, an extension of the daily, hilarious
lunches that have been ongoing for the past five years. Tomas, the
brilliant watercolorist with his exquisite wit and winning smile; his
lady love, Jeanette, a gifted painter in her own right, and a keen match
for him intellectually. How fortunate for them to have found each other;
their shared sense of humor is perhaps the luckiest stroke of all. 
Also present is Walter, the mad illustrator, best friend to both Tomas
and Jeanette. Short, hunched, red-faced, and grumpy; often to be found
with a truly stinking cigar protruding from his curled lips. He, too, is
a wit and a humorist; his talent with pen and ink, though, is matchless
in this company of friends as well as beyond. Walter, of course, hates
his own work as passionately as everyone around him admires it; perhaps
it is self-loathing at the root, but even still, it is matched in equal
measure by the affection and love of his friends. 
John, the Englishman, a curly-haired, round-shouldered fellow who looks
as if he never quite acquired the knack of moving around in his tall
frame, runs hot and cold. Cheerful enough company when his mood is high,
he can often be found glowering in silence during social occasions.
Either that, or he will arrive with the intent to get some drawing done,
and will hunch over a pad of paper for a full three hours, building a
ridiculous drawing out of meticulous, tiny lines, refusing to let anyone
see the work until it is done. When it is done and delights all in
company, he -- somewhat like Walter -- will refuse to acknowledge its
worth. Unlike Walter, he will quickly relent and a smile will come to
his face if sufficient praise is offered. 
There are sometimes others, but they have not yet arrived. It is an
informal affair, for all of the business of passwords (mainly done out
of amusement, satirizing the closed-door world of politics, some of
which takes place in other salons in this same hotel -- it was John's
idea to make people wonder at what goes on, at who we were and what we
were discussing in such secret as to require a doorman and an
unguessable password, when in fact the point was to draw funny pictures,
drink quantities of wine and German beer, and tell scatological jokes
until the evening stretched toward dawn), and no one has to give any
reason for accepting or declining at any particular occasion. 
Jean-Claude takes your hat and coat and hangs them dutifully on a hook,
along with his, as a round of warm greetings from the group meets you
both. 
Tomas calls out to you to sit at the circular table and take pen and
paper in hand. "Draw something," he says. "Go on, you know you want to."

Walter says, "And drink. Drink a lot. If you're not lying in the gutter
in a pool of your own sick by the end of the evening, there's something
wrong with you." 
Tomas says, "I lay claim to the swath of gutter without any horse dung
in it." 
John says, "By definition, if a gutter has you lying in it..." 
Jeanette laughs. Tomas pulls a mock scowl, then lets flash that winning
smile of his as he laughs. Jean-Claude, taking a seat, and a pen in his
hand, frowns at the rude language, but in a friendly way. 
Tomas turns again to you. "So take a seat, pen, paper, drink, already,
Henri. Loosen up. It's just us." 
>TAKE ALL 
seat: You sit down in between Jean-Claude and Jeanette. 
pen: You pick up a clean pen from the assortment spread across the
tabletop. 
paper: Tomas hands you a clean sheet of paper at your request. 
drink: Normally you don't, but in this company, you often do. 
Tonight, you think, why not. Stephanie's face flashes in your mind as
the wine splashes against your tongue; you swallow, sharply, hoping
perhaps the drink will drive her out of your mind for a time. 
fan: You pick up the paper fan that is lying on the table in front of
you. It probably belongs to Jeanette, but she doesn't seem to mind your
taking it. 
You stare at the blank paper, but unfortunately, it isn't blank. You see
her face in it; you imagine the curves of her body are already ingrained
in the fibers of the paper. It would be brainless work to trace with ink
the lines that are already there, but you have done so many drawings of
her like this that the concept is unappealing. You also imagine
Jean-Claude's displeased reaction, and the potential for teasing from
your friends; combined, it is enough to make you mentally erase
Stphanie's image from the page. It takes all of your imagination to see
the page as what it is, a blank slate with nothing on it. 
You dip the pen in the ink and tap the nib against the rim five times; a
superstitious habit. All at this table have them. Christophe, an
erstwhile member of the group -- one of its founders, when Tomas,
Walter, Jeanette, and John met at the Academie d'Art (and later banded
together to sell illustrations to a now-defunct journal called La
Fromage Rouge) -- was said to have the most obsessive tendencies: dip
the pen three times in the ink, then wipe it off, then three more dips,
then seventeen taps on the side, then another cleaning with a rag, and
finally, a repeat of the whole process, before ever placing nib to page
to draft a line. His art did always outshine yours all; nonetheless, you
were collectively disinclined to mimic his techniques in the hopes of
somehow attaining the same degree of skill. Life was too short, and
there was more to be gained by following your own impulses. 
After a half an hour, your face flushed from wine, your head bobs up
from your draughtwork. You've forced yourself to draw something comical
rather than dour, a knight in gleaming armor struggling to remove his
plate mail trousers so as to efficate the emergency relieving of his
bladder. Tomas takes an upside-down glance at it from across the table
and smirks appreciatively. You take another look at it, and see it
starkly as something else entirely: a self-portrait. Frustrated, bound
up in his own defenses against the world, unable to relieve the
pressures mounting inside. It's an unhappy picture, self-mocking and
dour. You have half a mind to explain this interpretation to the group,
but you force yourself to stay quiet about it. Instead, you have another
drink of wine, and turn to embellishing the drawing with tightly
cross-hatched shading. 
"Anyone interested in a game?" asks Tomas brightly. No one responds,
except to groan or mumble. "Whoa, whoa -- don't trample all over me in a
rush to join in," says Tomas. 
"I'll play," says Jean-Claude, amiable and willing as usual. He nudges
you. "Henri, don't you want to play a game?" 
>N 
"No," you say, taking another drink. "I'll just watch. Everyone else go
ahead." 
"That's Henri's way of saying yes," interprets Jean-Claude. 
"Okay, I'm only going to say the rules once, so listen closely," says
Tomas, pouring himself -- and you -- more wine. 
>LISTEN 
You listen with only half-interest at first, waning to complete
obliviousness as the wine makes your blood thud loudly in your ears.
Your mood does seem to be lightening under its influence, and you have
to stifle a giggle that comes from nowhere. 
Looking back at your drawing, you see it again as amusing, as just a
diversion, symbolic of nothing significant. You imagine now a companion
to your drawing of the barely-continent knight, a pudgy squire offering
to help pry open the armor. Something about this possible addition fills
you with mirth, and with renewed interest (and another drink), you again
take up the pen. 
Just then, you are aware that everyone is looking to you as if it is
your turn in the game, whatever the game is. You haven't listened,
despite intending to do so. You glance at Jean-Claude, hoping to glean a
clue from his expression, but it is merely cheerful and pleasant. 
"Sorry, what was the question?" you ask. There is laughter around the
table. 
"You weren't listening!" says Tomas, throwing up his hands in a dramatic
gesture. "Suppose you were starving to death and had to eat some other
human beings to survive," he says. 
"Eugh," you say. From across the table, Walter cackles. 
"It's you or someone else. So, would you rather eat your friends or your
folks? And you can't say neither, you have to choose one." 
>FOLKS 
The question is idiotic; perhaps if you'd listened to the rules of the
game it would make more sense in context. Having nothing else to go on,
you think that it would be weird to say that you would choose to
cannibalize the very friends who have posed this question to you. A
cowardly but politick choice, you suppose, but it also occurs to you
that your parents are long since passed on and buried, so even as a
hypothetical feast they strike you as considerably less appealing a
repast than your friends. However, your conscience being what it is,
saying you'd prefer to eat someone who no longer exists to be eaten is
less criminal than saying you'd eat someone who is alive and hale before
you. 
The absurdity suddenly hits you; you've spent a long minute and a half
debating this nonsensical, taboo proposition, which is much more
seriously than it warrants. You laugh out loud. 
"So, what is it?" Tomas asks. 
"My folks, I guess," you say. 
"Okay, that's three for friends and one for folks. Jeanette?" 
The game goes on without you. Your turn having passed, your attention
returns to your little drawing. With increasingly sloppy strokes (and
dribbling blots of ink as your hand moves too quickly from inkwell to
page), you draw the bumbling squire next to the knight, who is now
admonishing, "Hurry, hurry!" You try to think of the funniest tool the
squire might be using to pry open the armor plating. The answer comes
quickly, being the most obvious: the knight's sword. 
>DRAW SWORD 
Giggling to yourself, you draw a massive broadsword into the picture,
the squire now hastily prying at the knight's metallically enshrouded
buttocks. You laugh again as you write the name "Excalibur" onto the
sword, as if the bumbling medieval hero in question is King Arthur, and
the whole doodle a whimsical satire on the sword in the stone. 
As you finish, your face flushes with heat. You are now completely
drunk, it seems. You test this hypothesis by rising to your feet, and
find that the room tilts and sways, unable to maintain a fixed
orientation. 
"Whoo," you say. Everyone laughs. 
The heat in your face spreads to the rest of your body. It feels quite
warm in the room now. 
>WAVE FAN 
You reach a sudden awareness that you're still holding onto the paper
fan. You walk in a slow circle around the table, fanning your face. You
glance at the artwork of your compatriots, each in turn, although as
soon as you glance at it and look away, you can't remember what you've
just seen. You have lost all attention span, and are being carried away
by the wine in your blood. 
You give the fan back to Jeanette and attempt to remove your jacket, an
action that leaves you turning slowly on the spot, in the manner of a
dog chasing its own tail, as you bumblingly attempt to retrieve your arm
from a sleeve that keeps moving farther to the right the more you turn
to the right. The motion, instead of making you dizzy or queasy, seems
to generate a strange, childlike joy within you, with an accompanying
memory of how you used to dance about your parents' house as a young
child. 
>DANCE ABOUT 
Finally shrugging off the jacket, you make various whooping noises as
you give way to something that straddles the line between innocent
physical expression and hedonistic romping. You fling yourself around
the room, settling into the large, unfurnished area in the corner
farthest from the table, your concession to the alarmed cries of your
friends, who have no wish to have you crash into the table and spill ink
over everyone's work for the night. 
You decide to spin, and spin you do; faster and then faster again, until
your head goes light and your vision tunnels. You catch a blurred
glimpse of what might be Jean-Claude, rising from his chair and
approaching. You see him only once on each revolution, through your
narrowed vision; somehow this combines to create a splendid optical
effect -- like a zoetrope, of staggered yet blended movement, or like
seeing the spokes of a passing carriage wheel through the slats of
vertical blinds; the spokes rotate forward, seem to halt, then, in an
extraordinary illusion, seem then to reverse and spin backwards.
Jean-Claude seems to do the same, he gets up, rises, attempts to reach
you, then seems to halt and move backwards in time and place. 
It all happens in a few instants. In fact, you can't be sure you didn't
hallucinate or dream it later on that night. In all honesty, you cannot
remember anything anything from after you began your whirling dance
until the next morning. 
...
Studio 
Your head is duly pounding; not the worst headache from drink you've
ever had, fortunately. It could have been worse, it could be better.
It's just enough to reinforce the idea that every time you grasp at joy,
you are punished for it. "Loosen up, Henri," your friends say. "Don't be
so uptight. Don't be so closed off. Don't be so quiet. Sing, dance, be
merry!" They wonder why you are so self-restrained. Your headache
reminds you why. 
Perhaps, you think between painful throbs -- and you hear it in your
mind as being spoken by Jean-Claude in those careful, reasonable tones
of his -- perhaps it's that you have no sense of moderation. Either
entirely closed off or entirely beyond the bounds. It's always a swing
between opposites. 
You remember saying once as a joke that it is because you were born a
Libra, but your scales are always imbalanced, tipping one way and then
the other. It was a joke, at first, but now it's a philosophy. An
excuse, perhaps? 
A sharper throb cuts off this unprofitable line of thinking. The real
world comes back into your vision. In front of you, the canvas you've
been working on since finishing -- and losing -- the portrait of
Stephanie. 
Again, it seems, you have reverted to symbolic self-portraiture without
consciously intending to do so. Eschewing the discipline of painting
from life, of using models, you are working solely from your
imagination. Less than that, because you have worked without any
preconceived plan. The first charcoal lines suggested a young man; the
first daubs of paint suggested that he was standing in a dried field.
Mountain peaks suggest a setting of some altitude. The trees in the
middle distance are bare of leaves; perhaps it's autumn. The sky, then,
took on autumnal shadings, a deeper blue than you might have used to
conjure a warmer season. 
Yesterday, a mistaken slash across the middle of the page left you
wondering what to do. Your instinct was to try to incorporate it into
the painting, but you weren't sure what to do with it. This morning --
well, afternoon by the time you found the legs to descend from your
attic apartment into Jean-Claude's painting studio -- it was obvious as
soon as you lifted the cloth and looked at the canvas. It's part of the
outline of a wooden fence, surrounding the young man. The symbolism is
heavy-handed, you sigh, but this painting is creating itself. You're
just following along. 
>PAINT FENCE 
You begin with care, mixing an appropriate grey-white color for the
slats of the fence and dipping only the sharp tip of a fine camel hair
brush in the pigment. You begin to draw the vertical slashes of paint
onto the canvas, ringing round behind the young man, distantly, and then
growing in perspective. You whiten the paint as you draw closer fence
posts, but instead of choosing a thicker brush, you keep using the small
one, only you grab coarser and coarser blobs of paint on it with each
use. Your slashes become fierce and unsteady. When, finally, you paint
the last of them, completing the enclosure of the painting's central
character, and step back to look at it, you hate it. This is not the
work of a professional painter, it's the smearings of a child. 
Unfortunately, you can't go back; you must move forward. You can fix the
rougher fence posts later, you decide, because a new impulse has hit
you. A larger stake, different from the rest, standing inside the fence
along with the young man. This one will be milky blue; a different blue
from the sky, perhaps somewhat white as if it were painted white but
somehow standing in shadow. You grab a new brush and blast a thick blue
line onto the canvas, slightly off from vertical. 
You step back again. Your instinct is to give it a crosspiece, but you
stay your hand. The superficiality of the religious symbolism seems
distasteful. And yet, in your mind's eye, as you imagine this great
cross standing just behind and towering over this sad young man,
outdoors but enclosed, breathing air that's fresh but cold, gazing on
nature that's browning and dying as autumn's influence spreads -- it
seems it might be exactly what you're trying to say. Whatever that is. 
 
You feel that you can do no more work on the painting today without
ruining what you have. Cleaning your brushes, you stare at it silently,
but your thoughts, for some reason, are blank. After that, it is time to
take a walk. 
 
In the Park 
The image on the canvas lingering on your mind's eye, you set out on
foot to the nearby park. Last night's rains have given way to a sunnier
clime, albeit humid, and the park is full of color and activity. You
imagine that you are the only still, grey object in sight. 
Eyes downcast, from mood, from headache (slowly disappearing -- perhaps
the sun and fresh air are helping after all), from the need to avoid
looking at young women who might by chance of nature remind you of
Stephanie, you take slow, small steps. At times it feels as if you are
standing motionless, and the activity around you provides the sense of
movement. Life is a series of still pictures, with progress or change
being a trick of the mind, an illusion of the senses. 
Eventually, you look up to find another trick has been played on you:
without wanting to, you have arrived at the park fountain where you
first spoke to Stephanie. That disastrous day still haunts you. A tickle
in your throat, as you turn quickly away from the fountain, prompts an
involuntary cough. A memory of the cold and chills you suffered after
she pushed you, with all good intentions, into the fountain pool? The
flowers you had bought for her came with a large wasp attached, or so
she said. 
You are bitter with yourself for still being bitter about this. This
lasts for a minute or two, until you find a more worthy target: the very
flower vendor who sold you infested wares. You sneer sideways at him as
you pass. He remains oblivious of your venom. 
There is a crowd of people ahead, standing in a queue. In the nearby air
is happy laughter. Craning your neck, you see that a bearded man with
ink-stained fingers is creating amusing caricatures for a small price.
It compels you to think that you could be doing this same thing, perhaps
earning a few extra francs per week; in time, you could repay your full
debt to Jean-Claude. 
Most of the crowd, apparently a group of German tourists, leave en
masse, leaving the street artist no new subject for his muse. Calling
out to the crowd, he says, "Instant portraits! Who shall be next? You
sir? No? A fine gift for one's mother, for who else would enjoy a
handcrafted likeness of your face but your own mother? Come on then,
someone volunteer!" 
>TAKE NEXT TURN 
"I'd like a portrait," you say. 
"Excellent, young man. Excellent." He dusts off a small stool and
entreats you to take a seat upon it. 
"How much?" you ask. "I only have a little to give." As brightly as you
can, hoping that it will not be taken wrong, you add, "Perhaps I could
return the favor and sketch your likeness in return." 
"Aha, are you an artist?" he asks. You see his eyes glance at your
hands, catching sight of the paint under your thumbnails and the dark
spots from pigment that would not easily wash off. This is the same
glance you took at his hands, you reflect. "I see that you are! Well
sir, no wonder you don't have much to spare. Sit, sit, let us
commiserate. The muse knows us both." 
You take your seat in front of him as he withdraws a large blank page
and eyeballs you carefully. You are reminded of how you approach
capturing the face and poise of a model. That, in turn, reminds you of
painting Stephanie's portrait, causing a twinge in your gut. 
"Smile, smile," the man says, his own large-toothed grin broadening
behind his bushy black beard. "Must you be so dour on so fine a day?" 
"Sorry," you say. "I was thinking of a portrait I recently finished. It
was stolen." 
"Stolen! How terrible! Terrible!" he says, scratching a few lines on the
page. 
"And I drank too much last night," you say. He laughs. 
"That muse I also know," he says, winking. A crowd begins to form behind
him, a set of eyes bouncing from his page to you. There are grins and
whispers, and you begin to feel conscious of your scruffy appearance. 
>SMOOTH 
(your hair and clothes) 
With an abashed smile, you take his pardon and smooth back your hair.
Adjusting your posture, you attempt to also smooth out some of the
wrinkles from your clothing, which you slept in. It's a useless effort,
surely, but somehow it makes you feel better. 
The caricaturist chuckles. "Don't worry, I seek always to flatter," he
says. His face then hardens into a more serious expression as he begins
to work out finer details. Occasionally, he sits back to let the
onlookers see the drawing more clearly. When they do, a couple of the
younger ladies cover their mouths and gasp. There are whispers and
giggles, and some of the married men are quickly tugged away by their
frowning wives. "What do you think? A good likeness, hum?" he says to
those who remain, clearly fishing for his next subject. 
You wonder who your next subject is going to be, after you finish your
current work. It is something to think about; portraiture can pay for
paints and canvas, something you feel strongly that your current piece
will never do. It's personal, something for yourself, not for a gallery.
It will probably never hang on a wall, as you are already planning to
hide it in your closet as soon as it is done. Oh, Jean-Claude will no
doubt make his usual arguments in favor of selling it, but you will say
no. You've already decided this. 
"Voila! Done!" the man says, and hands you the picture. "No charge for a
fellow conspirator," he says. "But you madame -- how would you like to
purchase..." 
You are already wandering off in a daze. The caricaturist has a keen,
penetrating eye. The likeness of you is good enough; there is your
round-shouldered posture (something Jean-Claude has failed every day of
your long friendship to correct); your dark, intense eyes; your
moodiness and your passion. Naturally enough, he has placed you in a
studio, stroking paint onto a canvas. Across from you, he has also drawn
a young lady, modeling for you, only barely dressed. Somehow, it looks
like Stephanie, and it is not merely your imagination making it so; even
Jean-Claude would agree, you are sure of that. 
"Duck!" someone shouts, suddenly. 
>DUCK 
Breaking out of your reverie, you are sluggish to react, not knowing
from which direction the threat might be coming from. Your
self-consciousness about making broad physical movements also works
against you. Instead of ducking, a potentially embarrassingly move to
make, especially if you were not the intended recipient of the warning,
you turn your head in the direction of the voice. 
Something large and heavy that you never do see clearly strikes you in
the side of the head, sending you into shock from its impact. Pain
arrives a moment later, as does blurriness. That's the ground coming up,
you think, and then you are unconscious. 
 
Jean-Claude's Study 
Groaning, you find yourself being ministered to by Jean-Claude and a
physician dressed in black. Jean-Claude is in his nervous, dithery mode,
clasping and unclasping his hands. You are lying on the purple settee in
the study, a heavy, cold cloth swathed across your forehead. 
As you stir, you attempt to sit up, and a shooting pain that seems to
erupt from inside your head and then swiftly grow to engulf it (the
sphere of the pain being somehow larger than your cranium, oddly),
nearly causing you to black out again. Or perhaps you do, as you feel
your cheeks being lightly slapped by the physician, prompting you to
once again open your eyes. 
"What..." you say. Somehow, it is hard to form words into sentences. 
"Henri, you were struck in the head this afternoon," Jean-Claude says.
Concern radiates out from him, strongly enough to make you feel better
just for being loved so much. 
"You have lost a certain amount of blood, so you may feel weak," the
physician says. "We have temporarily stanched it with ice and
compression." 
"Yuh..." you say. They wait for you to finish the thought, but suddenly
you can't even remember what it might have been. 
The physician says, "Can you sit up a little bit? I need you to drink
this." 
Jean-Claude is behind you with an extra pillow, helping you to carefully
lift your head. A strong odor is in your nose, something obviously
medicinal and potent. 
"What is it?" you ask. 
"Henri, the doctor needs to stitch the wound shut. He has mixed an
anesthetic powder into some water. You need to drink it before he can
help you." 
"Smells awful," you say, meekly. A little bit of fear is rising up your
spine. 
"Drink it down," the physician orders. 
>DOWN ANESTHETI 
You gulp it down as quickly as you can. It is extremely bitter, and the
aftertaste is worse. You have to fight off your reflex to gag. 
"Good, good," the physician says, taking the glass from your hand. You
can't see him very well, suddenly. There is a fog in the room. 
You hear Jean-Claude's voice. "How long will Henri have persistence of
vision?" he asks. What an odd question, you think. What does that mean? 
At that moment, you realize that you are no longer awake. You're not
even sure that one moment of your memory is connected to the next.
Perhaps an hour has already passed? You heard Jean-Claude start to
speak, and then -- 
Persistence of vision. It is as if a voice is speaking this phrase, over
and over again. Or is it an echo that is getting louder instead of dying
out? 
 
Darkness 
You are nowhere. It is not a dreamscape, merely a void with with a grey
sea, a slippery flat surface that goes on as far as you can see, which
isn't very far. You hear a flicking noise behind you. Turning, you see a
gigantic, disembodied eye, milky blue, with a black pupil as big as your
head. You blink, and the eye blinks. You blink again, and the eye blinks
again. Is it your own eye, somehow? No, your eyes are brown. 
You hold your eyes open, and the eye blinks by itself. Coincidence. You
think to raise your hand to touch the eye, a strange impulse, but your
hands are busy holding something heavy. 
>I 
It is a large wheel of cheese, covered in bright red wax. You hear Tomas
speaking. He is suddenly beside you, wearing a white waistcoat. "You
were never a part of Le Fromage Rouge, Henri. Now's your chance." 
You examine the cheese again, and it has shrunk to a small, but still
fat and heavy, circle in your palm. 
Tomas says, "We're all waiting, Henri. You have to eat one of us, and
you've already decided." 
You say, "But that was different. This is not the Christ." You are
startled at your own words. Looking again at your hands, you hold a
glass of wine in one hand and a circular wafer in the other. 
"Just eat it," says Jean-Claude, who has taken Tomas's place. He is
wearing the robes of a priest, which unnerves you. You hear the Eye
behind you blink. "God is watching you, Henri." 
>EAT IT 
In your mouth it becomes something tangy and chewy, not what you
expected. The more you chew and swallow, the more seems to be in your
mouth. Alarmed, you want to say something, but your mouth is too full to
get any words out. 
You think to wash it down with the wine, but it is no longer there. You
turn to face the Eye, but it, too, is gone. 
 
Salon 
You are once again in the hotel, outside the salon. The colors are
different, though. Drained. Whitewashed. No, more vivid. There is a
stripe of crimson around the doorframe. No, it is gone. Everything is
changing all the time. Your vision isn't working very well. Jean-Claude
seems to still be at your side, dressed now in a white tunic with a
stripe of blue down its center. 
Maurice stands rigidly at the door. Maurice shifts his attention to you,
since you are foremost. "And may I ask you, sir, to please tell me the
passover?" 
You are still unable to speak. Maurice glares at you and says, "Help
yourself. He cannot do it for you." 
>UNLOCK DOOR SWITCH 
You pull the door switch firmly. Jean-Claude hands you a small, shiny
coin. 
 
The Gathering 
The gathering is a somber affair, an extension of the daily, purposeful
suppers that have been ongoing for the past few years. None of your
friends are here yet. The door shuts behind you. You are alone at a long
table with seven seats. A man in ancient dress approaches with a
polished silver tray containing a small bird and a speckled egg. 
He asks you something in a language that you do not recognize. 
"Sorry, what was the question?" you ask. There is laughter around the
table, laughter but no people. 
"You weren't listening!" he says, throwing up his hands in a dramatic
gesture. 
"Which came first, the plover or the plover egg? Would you rather eat
your feathers or your yolks? And you can't say neither, you have to
choose one." 
>PLOVER EGG 
"A wise selection," says the man. "But I'm afraid there is no more
daylight." He points to the large candle on the table and its dimly
burning wick. 
"And a dimly burning wick He shall not extinguish..." you say, your
mouth finally cleared. The voice isn't your own, though. 
The man says, "A strange response from a Libra. You never have been able
to keep your balance." He leans to blow out the candle. 
"No!" you shout. You rise to your feet, only to find yourself somewhere
else entirely. 
 
Compass Rose 
You are in what appears to be a Roman villa. Were you a better student
of history, you might be able to hazard a guess as to which period it
represents, but you never paid attention to history before. In fact, if
this is all in your mind, you wonder how your imagination could create
such scenes from nothing. Is it from a picture you once regarded, in
passing? You cannot recall ever having done so, and your memory for
pictures is quite substantial. Are the visions you are seeing now from
some other source than your own experience? 
The room is open to the outside through open doorways north and east.
From the east, golden sunlight pours into the room. The compass
directions are provided by an elaborate mosaic in the center of the
floor, intricate tilings describing a compass rose. You are currently
standing in the center, facing south. At each of the eight compass
points, there is a white slab just big enough to stand on. Your
elongated shadow points directly to the west. 
>STAND ON EAST 
You stand on the eastern slab. It sinks under your weight, and you hear
the grinding of large stones underneath the floor. The walls of the room
fold down flat like a paper box being squashed. Spikes of wood rise up
to take their place. The floor turns to water, then sand, then rocks,
then grass -- first green, then brown. At the same time, the sun rises
in the sky, circles overhead, and then settles at an angle behind you.
Your shadow points directly ahead of you now, looking purple on the
brown grass. 
You recognize that you are standing in a representation of your latest
painting. An emotion surges within you, a surprising one -- one of
excitement, that perhaps the meaning of the painting is about to be
revealed to you. You turn around, expecting to see the large blue stake
that you painted in this morning (is it still the same day? Or a hundred
years ago?), perhaps with the white crosspiece you imagined but did not
add. 
It is there, crosspiece intact, but the crosspiece is longer than the
supporting stake, and secured by a pivot. Dangling from either end are
golden chains attached to pewter-colored bowls. A gigantic set of
scales, bobbing gently, but tipped in favor of the bowl on the left,
which is labelled "Dramatikos." The other is labelled "Phenakistos." 
>SWING 
(the scales) 
You swing the scales from one side to the other. Instead of settling,
they continue to crash up and down, thrumming and thudding. You attempt
to stay the motion with your hand, but everything is too hot to touch. 
"Henri, will you never learn?" says Jean-Claude's voice, behind you.
"Remember the library," he says. 
Turning around, you see the massive steps of a library carved from
stone, an image from a recent dream, you recall. Sitting alone, looking
worried, in the middle of the steps is Katarina. She extends her arms to
you. 
You still love her, too; but like now, you only see her in dreams.
Seizing the chance to embrace her, even if it is not real, you rush up
the steps two at a time. Before you reach her, she screams, and warns
you to stay back. One of the carved stone lions, guardians of the
library, has come to life, roaring and slouching toward Katarina. 
A will to defend her solidifies in your hand in the form of a long,
polished knife. At the base of the hilt is an orblike sapphire. 
>KNIFE LION 
You move with a supernatural, almost cat-like speed yourself. The knife,
infused with your will, seeks its target precisely: the lion's heart.
The knife plunges into the beast, instantly slaying it. It has barely
the chance to whimper before it once again turns to cracked and
crumbling stone. 
There is blood on your hands, but it turns to soft grey ash. You wipe
your palms together to brush it away, but your palms exert a magnetic
attraction to each other, clapping together with your fingers upright. 
Katarina's hands are the same. She bows her head. "We must pray for the
lion's soul, Henri," she says. 
>PRAY 
You close your eyes and try to pray, but you haven't the words. "I'm
sorry, I cannot pray for the lion," you say. 
"Then the lion you must become," she says. "Run." 
You are on all fours, suddenly, and running. Your four legs are moving
you with a power and speed you have never known. It is exhilirating,
liberating. You leap, and gravity seems to have little sway over you.
You chase through deserted streets until you leave the city behind.
Unflagging, you cross through the wilderness until you reach a surging
river. You lower your head to the waters and drink deeply. 
When you raise your head again, you see not your own face, nor the face
of a lion, but that of a small housecat. You recognize it as the one
that haunts the rooftops outside your window, living off the scraps that
Jean-Claude tosses out, and the occasional mouse that strays outside the
house's walls. 
 
Rooftop 
And just as suddenly, you are on the rooftop. The Paris skyline
stretches out in all directions below you, but you have no interest in
such things. Your eyes, nose, and ears are all trained on one thing: the
succulent little mouse that has just poked his tiny brown head out of a
crack. 
>GET MOUSE 
You leap at the mouse, intending to ravage it with your claws and teeth,
but someone grabs you up. Jean-Claude bundles you up in his arms,
holding you helpless, staring down at you sternly. 
"Your problem now, Henri," Jean-Claude says, carrying you indoors, "Is
that the vision that persists in your head is not one worth chasing
down. You followed it, and came up wanting. Let it go. Persist in
seeking more worthy visions." 
"Persistence of vision?" you say. 
Jean-Claude takes you into his study. "You are too literal, Henri. That
has always been your problem. But remember the scales." Jean-Claude
deposits you on the couch and tucks a pillow behind your head. 
"I'm sorry I have to do this, but it's for your own good," he says,
taking a ruler from his desk. He hits you on the side of the head with
it. 
"Ouch!" you say. "That hurts!" 
"It is to help you to remember," he says simply. "Now, wait here while I
fetch you something to eat." 
"But I've already eaten," you say. 
"That was for your soul. This is for your spirit," he says, and exits to
the northwest. 
>Z 
Time passes, but Jean-Claude makes no sign of returning. 
>NW 
(first getting off the sofa) 
Impatiently, you rise to your feet. Your head throbs. 
You exit to the northwest, expecting to see the hallway outside the
study, as usual, and the door just opposite leading to the studio.
Instead, you are back where you started: in a dark, grey landscape, with
a gigantic eyeball staring at you, blinking rhythmically. 
Jean-Claude appears, holding a polished silver tray containing a small
bird and a speckled egg. "Henri, I told you to wait. You aren't ready." 
"I am tired of this dream!" you interject. "I have been through this
already." 
Jean-Claude says, "It will repeat until you learn from it. If you
persist..." 
"Enough! Enough!" you say. "I want to wake up now." 
"Then do so," Jean-Claude says, simply. 
>WAKE 
You will yourself back to consciousness. You open your eyes and find
yourself once more resting on the sofa in Jean-Claude's study. The image
of the giant eye lingers in front of your eyes. 
"Ah, there you are," says Jean-Claude. He is sitting at his desk across
the room, wearing his reading glasses. He looks out over them, staring
at you in the flickering light. It must already be late evening, the
time when Jean-Claude usually enjoys reading a book. 
"What time is it?" you ask. 
"9 hours and a half," he says. "You've been sleeping for six, apart from
the questionable fifteen minutes when I caught you sleepwalking." 
"Sleepwalking?" You sit up. Your head hurts, but not cripplingly so. 
Jean-Claude removes his glasses and folds them gently. "Yes, it was
quite startling. I came in to find you standing bolt upright, muttering
to yourself. I inquired if you were all right, and you said to me,
'Remember the library.' I asked what library you meant, and you said
something about praying for a lion. Before I could react, you lay back
down on the sofa and shut your eyes." 
"I feel as if I have been dreaming for days," you say. "But it is
already hard to remember what I saw and did." 
"You must be hungry," Jean-Claude says, rising. "Would you prefer beef
or fish?" 
>FISH 
"Fish," you answer, but something is bothering you. 
"Ah, good. Fish is good for the brain," says Jean-Claude. "It improves
the memory," he says simply. "Now, wait here while I fetch you some to
eat." 
"Wait," you say, but Jean-Claude is no longer there. You experience a
moment of dizziness. Shaking it off, you try to move to the door, but
the floor becomes viscous, and the walls melt away into colored waters. 
 
Winedark Ocean 
You are in the middle of an endless wine-colored ocean, with no land in
sight. The waves are calm, and the water is warm and salty. The sky is a
uniform expanse of yellow light, without clouds or a discernable sun. 
>SWIM 
You swim straight ahead, with strong strokes, for many minutes. You make
no progress. 
You are now extremely thirsty. 
>DRINK 
(the ocean water) You cup some of the dark water in your hands and raise
it to your lips. In your hands, it changes from salty to sweet, and you
drink it eagerly. 
Looking up, you see that you are no longer in an ocean, but in a frigid
mountain spring. Your clothes lie nearby, baking on a rock in the
noontime sunshine. 
You are still somewhat thirsty. 
>DRINK 
(the spring water) You cup some of the refreshing spring water in your
hands and raise it to your lips. In your hands, it changes from water to
milk. 
You let it run out of your hands. You are in a large bowl of milk that
is turning blue in cloudy swirls in a large circle around you. In a
smaller circle, wide as your arms' reach, the milk turns black. 
Alarmed, you realize that you are swimming on the surface of the giant
eyeball, sitting in the center of its pupil. Just at that moment, a
strong undertow pulls you beneath the surface. 
 
Jean-Claude's Study 
With a start, you wake up once more to find yourself standing upright in
Jean-Claude's study. Perhaps you did wake up moments ago, and only
hallucinated the past few minutes. Looking around, you see Jean-Claude's
reading glasses on his desk, just where he left them. Open beside them
is the book he was reading when you awoke. 
>READ 
(the book on the desk) 
You cautiously take a few steps toward the edge of the desk, expecting
the world to melt away again, but it stays firm. Nearby, you hear the
clink and clack of Jean-Claude busily preparing food in the kitchen. You
smell fish cooking. Your hand goes to the side of your head, and you
feel a balt spot where the hair has been shaved away. In the center of
the balt spot is a tender scar. 
Assured, for the moment, that you are, in fact, awake, you pick up the
book from Jean-Claude's desk. It is a first edition copy of "The Blessed
Damosel" by Dante Rossetti, the Pre-Raphaelite painter and poet. You
have read it before. You wonder if it would be perverse, in your current
state of heartsickness, to read it again right now. 
You set the book down, open to the same page, hoping to affect the look
of your not having moved it. Not that Jean-Claude would mind, but it
just seems tidier that way. 
>LOOK 
Jean-Claude's Study 
You are standing in Jean-Claude's study. Perhaps you did wake up moments
ago, and only hallucinated the past few minutes. Looking around, you see
Jean-Claude's reading glasses on his desk, just where he left them. Open
beside them is the book he was reading when you awoke. 
Jean-Claude enters. "Ah, I see you are on your feet," he says. "Are you
still hungry, or would you rather go up to bed?" 
>UP 
"I am still tired," you say. "I think I'll go upstairs to bed." 
"Very well," Jean-Claude says. "In fact, I thought as much. Although I
do think you could stand to eat something." 
"I'll eat in the morning," you say wearily. Jean-Claude nods as you pass
by. You hear him bustle back into the kitchen as you ascend the stairs
to your little apartment in the attic. You shrug off your clothes,
leaving them in a messy pile on the floor, and climb into bed. You fall
asleep quickly, and, mercifully perhaps, have no dreams this time. 
...
Your Bedroom 
The morning light shines onto your face, waking you up. You forgot to
close the curtains. Or, more likely, Jean-Claude has been in and out
already, opening the curtains and spiffing things up. The clothes you
left on the floor are hanging neatly in your dresser now. 
You sit up and place your feet on the cold wooden floor. Another day.
Three things are already on your mind: your painting, Stephanie, and
Katarina -- the last being the only thing you can completely remember
from your dreams last night. Or are you remembering the similar dream
you had several months ago? Then again, if you did not remember dreaming
it last night, how would you know it was similar? 
You begin to daydream about a way to escape these circling, spinning
thoughts. To think about something fresh, or think of nothing at all.
How glad you would be to have a blank mind, you think. 
>DRESS 
You rise to your feet and get dressed. Your clothes aren't clean, but
you don't care. 
You are vainly smoothing your hair into place when there is a soft knock
at the door. Jean-Claude has heard you rise, as usual. 
"Come in, Jean-Claude," you say. 
He opens the door a little bit, then, satisfied that all is decent and
proper, enters fully. He has a smile on his face, and is hiding
something behind his back. 
"Good morning, mon ami," he says cheerfully. 
"Good morning," you say, cheerlessly. 
"Henri, I have taken one of the physician's suggestions to heart. I
think it will be just the thing for you -- and for me, too, I think." 
"Don't make me guess," you say. "Or we will be here all morning." 
Jean-Claude clears his throat. "The physician made a more general
assessment of your health after he tended to your immediate injury. He
found you to be somewhat pale, perhaps even suffering a little anaemia.
He suggested you get out of the damp city and get some sunshine and out
of doors exercise. I heartily agree -- for another reason, too. I think
that a change of scenery will refresh your mind, separate you from, ah,
from things and places from which you need some distance." 
"I'm startled," you say. "I was just wishing that -- I mean to say, just
before you entered, I was thinking..." 
Jean-Claude smiles. "It is probably not a coincidence, but life is
mysterious. All I know is that I felt a strong, undeniable urge to
pursue this as soon as I awoke this morning. And then, do you know what?
I received a note by messenger soon after, informing me that the
publishing house has agreed to pay me a modest advance for my next book
of poetry. Isn't that extraordinary?" 
"That is wonderful news, Jean-Claude. An advance? For a book of poetry?
I have never heard of such a thing." 
"Nor have I," Jean-Claude says. "I was too humble to even pray for such
a thing, and yet here it is. And it allows me to afford a small vacation
for us both. Ah, what would life be without blessings and minor
miracles?" 
"You are specially charmed in this regard, Jean-Claude," you say. 
Jean-Claude blushes. "It is not for being especially good or sinless,
unfortunately. What can I be but humble and thankful? I do not deserve
it." 
You think he does, but you don't wish to embarrass him further. "So,
where shall we go?" 
Jean-Claude reveals the travel pamphlets he has been holding behind his
back. "Well, there is a choice. We could book passage on a ship,
travelling to the south of France -- or we could go by train to the
mountains. Hiking and fishing, that sort of thing. Which would you
prefer?" 
>BOOK SHIP 
The mention of mountains reminds you of your painting again. There is a
moment's temptation to travel there; perhaps you might in some way find
a location that corresponds to your imagined setting. This seems like a
poor idea, even if it weren't fantastic. 
"Book passage on the ship," you say. 
"Aha, sun and sea air -- perfect," says Jean-Claude. "This will be a
lovely time of the year for it, too. Off-season, but that means less
crowds. Which is good or bad, depending on one's point of view, of
course." 
It sounds good to you, and you say so. Jean-Claude chuckles. 
"D'accord. So, there is another choice. We could simply travel to the
coast and find our own leisures, or we could sign up for a special
package tour of Mediterranean destinations. This would mean more time
sailing, with brief stops in a number of interesting locales, guided
tours, and so forth. Do you have a preference?" 
>PACKAGE 
"Let's try the package tour," you say. 
"Ah, good," says Jean-Claude. "I admit that this would have been my
preference," he says. 
"Then why did you not just say so?" you ask. 
Jean-Claude tut-tuts. "Henri, I would enjoy myself no matter what. I
merely want to go, but you are the one who truly needs this vacation.
So, the choice of how to spend the time is better left to you." 
"I always find it hard to argue with you," you say. 
"Indeed you do not," he says. 
"Yes I do," you protest. 
"I win," he says, laughing. "I've saved some breakfast for you. Start
thinking about what you would like to take, because the spirit is on me
to travel immediately. Let us tarry no longer in this place -- the
Mediterranean awaits!" 
...
True to his word, Jean-Claude whisked you away to the sun-soaked
Mediterranean. Having few clothes, most of what you packed as luggage is
art supplies. However, perhaps for the better, you had neither the time
nor the inclination to dig into them for the better part of ten days,
although you returned anxious with inspiration. 
As often is the case when you find yourself uprooted from your usual
haunts and habits, life took on a misty, unreal quality. Everything
blurred together into one long daydream, washed over by the calm waves
of the unchanging sea. 
Although you returned last night, your thoughts are still in the
Mediterranean, at a rest spot on a scrubby-looking beach, among the
company of tourists that had been carefully shuffled from one point of
interest to the next. That day, there was a picnic with games for adults
and children. 
 
Beach 
You, Jean-Claude, and two fellows from Sweden were engaged (well, they
are engaged, you were somewhat disengaged) in a friendly game of bocce
ball. 
As usual, the tour guide was doing a roll call before departing, to make
sure no one was left behind. He called out your name. 
Jean-Claude jostled you gently with his elbow. "That's you, Henri. Say
you are present." 
>PRESENT 
"Present," you remember saying. 
The tour guide moved on with his list. "Okay, we go now! Hup! Hup!" he
said. He was once in the service, Jean-Claude noted after engaging the
man in conversation on the first night, something you never would have
thought to do. 
"Take your last bowl, Henri," said Jean-Claude. "It's time to go." 
>BOWL 
(the bocce ball) 
The heavy wooden ball bumped over the grasses and knocked into some
other balls. You barely understood the rules, but apparently it was a
good shot because the Swedes were comically furious. 
"Excellent, Henri," Jean-Claude said. 
"Thank you, I think," you said. 
The next you recall, dinner was done and you were back in your tiny
quarters on the cruise ship, quite a small vessel, and old. You were
just relieved there were no lice in the beds, because other passengers
had complained. You put it down to Jean-Claude's general good luck, as
usual. 
In your hands that night was a small toy, something you picked up in a
marketplace a few days earlier. It had a handle made of wood and a disk
made of thick paper. Hand-drawn on the disk were a series of images of a
devil pushing a little girl on a swing. When you stood in front of a
mirror and spun the disk, through a peephole in the disk the images were
animated. 
You purchased it -- for an inflated price, since you didn't bother
haggling -- because of what the merchant called it: a phenakistoscope. 
"Good night, Henri," said Jean-Claude, and immediately fell asleep. You
were sleeping better now than you were before the trip, and indeed you
were tired, too. 
>DROP TOY 
You dropped the toy, still debating the wisdom of having purchased it on
a whim. It did nothing to explain your anaesthetic dreams, which even
now are slowly coming back to you in bits and pieces. 
>SLEEP 
You climbed into bed and close your eyes. Happily, sleep came, as did
more dreams... 
 
Concert Hall 
You were on the stage of a concert hall, one of the members of a large
orchestra. Everyone around you, including the expectant audience, was
wearing their evening finery. You were wearing your normal, slightly
shabby old suit. 
The conductor tapped his baton, getting your attention. You felt that
everyone was waiting for you. 
In front of you was a golden harp. 
>PLAY STRING 
(the harp strings) 
You pulled your fingers along the harp strings. It made a pleasant
enough noise, or so you thought. You put your hands to the strings to do
something fancier, but were interrupted. 
"That will do," said the conductor. "You are excused." 
The orchestra hall was silent as you stood up and left the stage. 
 
Orchard 
You exited into the darkened wings of the stage to find yourself outside
in a fruit orchard. The air, as you still vividly recall, wass
positively rich with the smells of delicious, ripe fruit. 
In the center of the orchard was the largest tree of them all, sporting
particularly appealing, round, green apples. 
>PICK 
(a green apple) 
You picked one of the green apples. Its stem broke cleanly from the
tree. It was firm, fresh, and ripe, but it was lightly dusty. 
>POLISH APPLE 
You rubbed the apple on your sleeve. As you did so, your vision
flickered and separated into static images. Moving your hand again, you
found that you were standing in front of a mirror, looking through a
phenakistoscope at the scene of yourself plucking an apple from the
tree. 
>EYE MIRROR 
You gaze into the mirror and see yourself wearing your painting smock,
which shocks you out of the daydream and back into the present. 
 
Studio 
You have almost forgotten where you are, which is back home and at work
in the studio. The studio is full of the smell of paints, hard-won
sweat, and the fading perfume of a young model. She is waiting
patiently, as good models do, as you search for inspiration. 
There is an uninspired sketch on the canvas. 
"Excuse me, monsieur, but you seem to have trouble with your
concentration today," says the model. 
"Sorry," you say. "I'm searching for something, but I'm not sure what it
is." 
She nods, not understanding. 
>POSE 
(the model) 
You say to her, "I think we need a new pose." 
"Whatever you wish," she says. 
"If only I knew what I wished," you mumble to yourself as you walk over
to her. You drag an old crate over to where she is standing and throw a
sheet over it. You guide her down into a seated position, and spend
several minutes fussing with her posture and the placement of her arms
and legs. 
It still isn't right. 
"This is no use," you say at last. "That will be all for today. Thank
you for coming." 
The model is pleased to go home early, and especially happy to accept
the full day's payment for a few hours' work. She leaves you alone in
the studio. 
After a few minutes' brooding, you remove her sketch from the easel and
replace it with the painting of the fenced-in young man, determined to
do something to finish it. 
>UNDO 
Studio 
You have almost forgotten where you are, which is back home and at work
in the studio. The studio is full of the smell of paints, hard-won
sweat, and the fading perfume of a young model. She is waiting
patiently, as good models do, as you search for inspiration. 
There is an uninspired sketch on the canvas. 
>TRIM CORSET 
You say to the model, "I think we need to adjust your corset." 
"Oh, very well," she says, undoing the back of her dress to reveal the
strings of her corset. "Whatever you want." 
"If only I knew what I want," you mumble to yourself as you walk over to
her. You fuss with the corset for a few minutes, but trimming it isn't
any help. 
It still isn't right. 
"This is no use," you say at last. "That will be all for today. Thank
you for coming." 
The model is pleased to go home early, and especially happy to accept
the full day's payment for a few hours' work. She leaves you alone in
the studio. 
After a few minutes' brooding, you remove her sketch from the easel and
replace it with the painting of the fenced-in young man, determined to
do something to finish it. 
>PUT GREY ON BLUE STAKE 
You load a brush tip with grey paint and smear it over the large blue
stake. Almost immediately, you regret the idea, and spend the better
part of an hour restoring it to the way it was before. 
You slump into a corner of the room and stare at your unfinished canvas
until the room darkens and grows cold. 
>LIGHT FIRE 
You rise and go to the fireplace at the far end of the room to start a
fire. You have to fight away the strong impulse to pitch the canvas into
the fire once it begins blazing away. 
It proves to be quite a formidable temptation indeed. At length, you
find yourself in front of the fireplace, holding the canvas in front of
you, staring at the image of the trapped young man illuminated only by
the hot, flickering flames. 
>HELP MAN 
(the young man in the painting) 
If only you knew how to do that. 
With his usual sense of timing, Jean-Claude enters the room. 
"Henri?" he says. "You aren't thinking of burning that wonderful
painting, are you?" 
Your normal impulse would be to say "No," but instead you find yourself
saying "Yes," truthfully. 
Jean-Claude snatches it out of your hands. "Tut!" he says sharply. "I
hereby declare this painting finished." He holds it at arm's length to
admire it for a moment. 
"But Jean-Claude," you moan. 
"Oh yes, this is very fine, Henri. Whatever would possess you to destroy
it?" 
"Frustration," you say. 
"Aha. Well," he says, putting the canvas away, "that's to be expected,
one supposes. But I actually came in here to ask about something else.
It seems we received a telegram while we were away, notifying us that
someone is due to arrive at the train station tonight." 
"Who?" you ask. 
Jean-Claude touches his finger to the side of his nose. "Who indeed?" he
asks, grinning at his secret. "If you're curious, you may accompany me
to the station. Or you can remain here, brooding and sulking and
generally carrying on in a spoiled fashion." 
>STATION 
"Since you put it like that, I don't have much choice, do I?" 
"You have free will, Henri," says Jean-Claude. 
"Not hardly," you sigh. "To the station, then." 
"Excellent," says Jean-Claude. "A carriage should be by in a few minutes
to pick us up. Come along." 
Jean-Claude takes you outside and locks the front door of his flat. A
cab is waiting for you, and the two of you clamber inside. The ride
takes about a half an hour. Once again, the clippity clop of the
carriage horses proves meditative. Jean-Claude speaks of idle things,
good memories from the recent trip, all the time wearing that secret
smile. Occasionally, a look of concern crosses his face. 
"You know, Henri, I honestly think that our vacation did you no good
whatsoever." 
You grunt in response. 
"Your problem now, Henri," Jean-Claude continues, "Is that the vision
that persists in your head is not one worth chasing down. You followed
it, and came up wanting. Let it go. Persist in seeking more worthy
visions." 
You feel disoriented for a moment, assaulted by a sense of deja vu.
"Didn't we have this conversation already?" you ask. "Or am I
remembering a dream? Or both?" 
"Ah, there you are. Persistance de la vision," he says. 
"I don't understand," you say. 
He pats your arm. "Don't worry, Henri. You will, I am sure." 
>STOP 
(the cab) 
"Driver, stop here, s'il vous plait," you say. The cab stops. 
Jean-Claude looks cross. "Henri, we are not yet at the station." 
"I have run out of patience, Jean-Claude," you say. "My mind is
scrambled, my soul is anguished, and my dreams are tortured. I can take
no more games." 
"This is no game, Henri," Jean-Claude says. 
"It feels like one," you say. 
"Apart from what you may feel at the moment, I have a good reason for
dragging you all the way out here tonight. Believe me." 
"Even if I do believe you, why must it be a secret?" 
"Ah, Henri," Jean-Claude says, sighing. "Driver, please continue to the
station." 
You have nothing more to say, and neither does Jean-Claude. The
remainder of the journey passes in silence. 
 
Station 
The train station is crowded for this time of the evening, you think,
but then again, it has been a long time since you've visited it at any
hour. The only train due at this time is a transcontinental, but there
is no hint on the schedule to tell you who might be arriving on it. 
You follow Jean-Claude out onto the platform as the train arrives,
squeaking its brakes and hissing steam. A drop of rain hits your face,
but you let it draw a cool trail of moisture down your cheek instead of
wiping it away. 
"It is starting to rain," you say. 
"Just watch," says Jean-Claude. 
>WATCH 
You watch as passengers begin to exit the train. First there are just a
few of them, mostly hurried businessmen, and then there are many: a
jostling, churning crowd. 
You scan each face for one recognizable to you, but they are all
strangers. The rain begins to come down in a light drizzle. Dozens of
umbrellas are quickly opened, pop, pop, pop. There is a scramble to exit
the platform, and the crowd quickly thins out. 
Jean-Claude moves his hand, directing your attention to the far end of
the platform. At that same moment, he walks forward to make greetings. 
You stay still and watch from a distance. You watch as she walks towards
you, from out of the rain, from out of the past. She is still young
whenever you see her in the secret corner of your dreams where she
dwells, but now you see that she is a grown woman, more beautiful than
before. 
She politely greets Jean-Claude, who takes hold of her baggage, but she
does not stop walking toward you. She doesn't stop until she is right in
front of you; even then, she surprises you by moving into a full
embrace. Your arms are too limp to return the gesture. 
"Henri, I am so glad you came!" Katarina whispers into your left ear. 
"Katarina..." you say. "Katarina." 
You have no idea what to do next. 
 
     *** TO BE CONTINUED *** 
 
In that game you scored 10 out of a possible 12, in 55 turns. 
Would you like to RESTART, RESTORE a saved game, UNDO your last move,
XYZZY, or QUIT? 
>XYZZY 
PERSISTANCE DE LA VISION was a particularly interesting writing project
for me, in that it is the sequel to a screenplay I wrote during the
month of February 1996. That screenplay, L'Artiste et La Modèle, remains
unproduced, but is regarded by a few people to be one of my best
scripts. 
It was quite fascinating to pick up the story where I left off five
years ago, and to discover that all of the characters and the world they
inhabit were still quite fresh and alive in my mind. It was a pleasure
to revisit them, even in this odd format of a short story written in IF
transcript format. 
Copies of the original screenplay can theoretically be prised from me
with an appropriate amount of wheedling and coaxing, should anyone so
desire to read it. 

---jrw 4:21am
17 May 2001
Austin, TX 

>Q 
Thank you for reading.