''It's all about Sisyphus'' said Roman lifting his eyes at
me from the other side of the room. ''You see,'' he
continued, ''your character cannot win, there is no good end
to that story.''  I looked around searching for the other
eyes, all laid down to their copies, and no one was
reluctant enough to add a word of their own. I hadn't the
guts to ask the others for their opinions. To me, just their
silence said it all. I didn't think that they all
necessarily agreed with Roman completely, but he was now
controlling this production room, that their opinions did
not make any difference.   I went home. Thoughts were
shifting inside my head in light speed, but they were so
slippery that I could not form any single clear thought or
conclusion from them.  I was lost. All that apocalyptic
style, that cynical style that Roman was forcing us into,
has had its effect.  I went to the kitchen to boil some
water; maybe some dark Turkish coffee with cardamom would
undo the feeling of despair that the disorder of broken
ideas and ideals has driven me to. I needed to take control
over my mind, to put some alerting energy into the front of
my head.  While coffee was cooking I listened to the
messages on my machine.  Julio had called from his studio.
He was a jewelry maker I had met downstairs, very handsome,
and a very talented young man. Now that we were both up
here, and that I had this job, I made myself a habit to
order some items from him when I wanted to have a personal
touch put in them. He said that the silver necklace I had
ordered was ready.  I wasn't sure if it was still
necessary.
  See, I had this problem with the way it worked now; Roman
was pushing his personal agenda into the arts that we were
trying to make.  All that darkness and bitterness poured
into people's life, just for the sake of education. It was
just too much. The coffee was decent.  More than I pained
for the loss of the art I felt sorry for the people who had
to live those lives.  The next message on my machine was
from my mechanic who had called in to say that I could pick
my wings up later today. I decided to grab a bite and go
pick them up. Later I would go see a Chaplin show, he always
manages to cheer me up.
  In the fridge there was this slimy looking pasta that I
had made the day before, I had no will of eating that.  And
you'd think that by now things like that would be more
generally wonderful, amazing or lovely, but that would never
get any better.  I would have ordered some delivery, but I
already exceeded my point limit. Instead I was digging in my
refrigerator for something substantial.  Eventually I had
made myself a slice of bread with Camembert and basil, which
reminded me of a trip I have made once to Normandy, indeed
the cheese I ate there was the most heavenly thing I have
ever had, Ironically.
  I got out, the sun was shining and the air was still; so
was the street.  I grabbed a copy of Eternal Nights from a
stand next to the bus stop, to see where Chaplin was playing
tonight. The Great Dictator was playing not too far in The
Rakia theatre at 8 PM.  Maybe I can call Julio back, once I
am at the garage and ask him if he wants to come with me to
the show.  Waiting for the bus I was contemplating about
those winds of Spartan like thought that were blowing
lately, they have been what had brought upon the new point
system (that reminded me of The Austerity Period), then it
struck me that Roman was merely a part of the same trend.
  In the garage I found Ernesto working on a carpet; he was
sharing the same thoughts. He used to be from Cuba. ''Me
acuerdo del periodo especial'' he began talking ''yesterday
I ordered some food, I wanted to make something special you
know so I asked for a bottle of Falerno or Caecuban,
whichever they'd have. Then, when the guy arrived he said:
'you exceeded your point limit for wine, sir'. And you have
to understand that it's not like they didn't have any of
them, they had both, and I would settle for un Gato Blanco.
So I told him 'si no vino con el vino, entonces por que
vino?''' Ernesto got up and went to the sink in the corner
and turned on the light that was hanging above the sink, the
neon light was softly emphasizing the edges of his work
uniform. ''If the money I earn from this work can't buy me
anything, what am I working for anyway?'' And continued
''There, everybody was forcing me into atheism when felt
that there has to be something beyond that: 'put your mind
into a box and do what everybody else does' and here I feel
like I'm losing my principals of the Christian faith.''. I
knew just what he was talking about. I took the wings and
loaded them on my back; they burdened me. ''It's too big for
you'' he said. ''It's too big for all of us'' I replied.
I went without calling Julio. Maybe the atmosphere that we
created was too dark from the moment I entered for me to
call Julio, or maybe I simply forgot to call. Either way, I
wanted to meet Julio. I called him from a pay phone which
felt kind of nice, personal. It was a good way to get rid of
some of the coins I had in my pocket, and to spend some
money. There were too many things I couldn't buy with it
anyway.
-''Tonio'' I said -''Pana, como estas? Are you coming to
take the necklace? I think you'd like it.'' He makes his
designs with a very clear cut, a very polished style that no
living man can achieve working with his hands.  -''I'm not
too good; listen do you want to see The Great Dictator
tonight, I feel like I need to have a few laughs''
-''is that work again?'' -''Yes, and the air or climate of
this given place. Would you come?'' He came as usual,
punctual to his own timing: when the lights were already
off. I asked the usher to show him where I was sitting when
he would arrive. He came when the ridicules antismoking
advertisement were over and the show was about to begin. I
still find it funny that they put those ads everywhere
although no one can get cigarettes anyway.
    When the lights were turned on, Julio and I went to Mi,
an old restaurant that was opened by some Russian writers.
Julio still had some points, so he made the order. I made
more money so I paid.   -''So? What is going on with you?''
-''It's Roman, he is becoming unbearable.'' I had to wait
before continuing: ''He pushes towards putting too many
disasters into the scripts, destroying people's lives.
Educational purposes, 'creed'.''  -''What do you have to say
about that?'' I leaned forward and nearly whispered.
-''Everybody gets crazy around here, thinking they are God,
abusing their power, trying to educate the whole world. I
think it's crap. What educational purpose will be achieved
from the fact that people will see hell all around them? Do
they honestly believe that people will have more faith if
they will be exposed to more death and violence? I want to
bring art back into the production, I want to create, not to
destroy.'' -''You have to confront him then.'' Julio smiled
and lifted his hand as he leaned back getting away from me.
I leaned backwards as well. A waiter arrived and Julio
ordered some 'small water' still smiling. The waiter
returned with two shots of Vodka. It was cool but burned as
it went down the throat. the second shot wee took went up to
my head rather fast and put a smile to my face. Words began
to burst: ''The only thing I kind of agree with him on, is
that it is like Sisyphus.'' My mind returned to the metaphor
used By Roman just this morning. ''Only I do not see
anything good in giving people these kind of endless
suffering; clearly his end is to make them into better
believers.'' I was stopped by Julio who put his finger to
his mouth slowly and blew some air out sounding shaaa, ''I
think the guy at the counter's listening.'' I knew him by
his face, it was Zamyatin, one of the founders. Vodka made
us far too paranoid at this point; I was mostly daydreaming
of writing a nice episode that ended with a guy winning the
lottery. Julio was somewhere else, he sailed to the
distance. I want to the counter to pay my bill, Zamyatin
told me to take the bill, ''These days you might want to
keep track of those things.'' I put the check in my pocket.
Julio took the transit to Altamira, from there he will
continue to El Paraiso. I went the other way.
  I got home and began writing. My episode had to end in
happy way, even Rodinka's story eventually had a happy
ending. My head hurt. I could cure him, his mum will come
out of her depression, and his sister will get married. I
got stuck in search of ideas that will materialize all of
that into a reasonable plot line. I tapped with the pen on
the table and almost slammed my head on the wall, when I
realized that I wrote two sentences in the last 45 minuets.
Suddenly I craved for a cigarette. Instinctively, I searched
through my pocket; inside was only bill that Zamyatin had
ordered me to take. I didn't have anywhere to put it since I
was never the kind of person to save those things. Then I
understood why they still put the antismoking adds
everywhere; it wasn't meant so that we would learn how
smoking is bad for us, it was meant to reinforce the craving
that was inside us; that we'd suffer. That we'd repent. I
looked at the other side of the bill where Zamyatin wrote:
"Follow Dostoevsky's notes." I had no idea what he meant.
In the morning I was ready to confront Roman. This would
be a battle and I would get everyone to join me. Who ever
said that he was in charge? I went to wash my face and drive
comb through my hair. I went down and drank some tea; when I
looked up, I noticed I was late. I put my white jacket and
got out waiting for my transit. At the entrance to the
Monastery Studios there was a new sign saying that as from
tomorrow wings were to be carried to work. I was the second
to enter the editorial room, Roman was last. The meeting was
started with David reading his plot; it was short and had
not many developments; I thought it lacked interest. We
always read the papers clockwise starting from the place
where David was now sitting; I intentionally sat to his
right so I would be the last. Everyone wrote in the same
style as he did; with no dramatic events or climaxes. No one
had any interesting comments on the others work. It seemed
to me like they were trying to avoid any conflict, but maybe
they were willing to join me.  Mine was unpolished but
optimistic; some of the ideas I initially had the night
before got into that draft. ''Again you give them too much
hope, how will they learn that every thing has to be done in
a certain way, if they can come clean so easily.'' I was
waiting for this remark. ''Well, maybe that is not the only
point, how about putting interest into peoples lives, what
is so good about having Sisyphean lives?'' He was quick to
replay: ''The act itself is fulfilling, there for they have
the option to choose and enjoy, If they choose to embrace
love they will not see their lives as boring, Sisyphean. If
they won't serve with love they will serve with fear. Even
Camus, your philosopher said: ''The struggle itself is
enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus
happy.'' Nobody joined me. The rest of the day was
depressing; I went home as early as I could when on my way
out I got a note reminding me about the new dress code.
After I stepped out Alleluia Cone pulled me by my wrist:
''Hey, I agreed with you, but it is a lost cause'' I turned
to look into her eyes, she showed no further expression. It
seemed pointless to continue.  I went home.
I am not sure why he quoted Camus as ''my philosopher''. I
was never much into philosophy but I did know he was
colonialist and was born in Algiers.  I didn't know enough
to be sure if that was what Camus said, but what was
important was not really what Camus was saying, but what the
protagonist was feeling. On my desk, I found the recite from
last night, I remembered Dostoevsky's notes from the
underworld; I did not know if that was what Zamyatin had
meant for me to understand, but I got an idea. I decided to
go and talk to Sisyphus.  I opened a copy of the phonebook
looking for mediator. One ad said: 500 Shekalim would take
you to the underworld, for one encounter of no less then 7
minutes'' it seemed kind of expensive to me.  Especially
when these things were never too certain.  In another ad, a
woman named Margaret offered her services; the price was not
mentioned. I called. A man answered and asked who was I
looking for. He called Margaret to the phone. I anticipated
a deep voice, as I imagined a woman with a crystal ball in
one hand and a long cigarette in the other, her voice was
clear and young. She asked who I was, and whom was I
expecting to talk to. I explained. She told me to come in
ten minutes and bring my white jacket and wings; she said
something about clear identification. I split.
It was a simple building in on Russian Street. I went up to
the second floor. I was still unsure about the money issues,
something in her commending style made me forget to ask
about it.  On the door was the letter Delta perfectly
designed flashing with white and blue fire on its lid.
Inside the Delta was spelled: Margaret and The Writer. I
knocked on the door using the poodle shaped doorknocker. The
man that opened had a red shirt with the letter W written on
it. Margaret was behind. She was young, maybe 30 years old;
her body was fragile and she wore a turquoise long dress.
''Your cause is noble. I will accompany you.'' She didn't
wait for me to respond and grabbed my hands holding them
firm in hers. The lights went down...

The underworld, surprisingly, was identical to the image I
had of it.  It was dark but with orange and red lights
omitted from the many flames that erupted spontaneously.
Corpses or seemingly corpses were lying all over, while
others were walking with their bags, pigs, anvils, babies,
hammers, corpses and dogs on their backs or dragging them
with their hands, their spines bended and their chins close
to the ground. Margarita was striding above that looking
forward to the distance, holding my hand as I was walking
behind her. Her back was straight, and she knew where she
was walking. I tried to look for what ever it was she was
seeing in the distance, but it was impossible to see beyond
next flame.        
He was easy to recognize; his muscles seemed to climb up
his back all the way to his head; each leg seemed like the
pillar of a shrine. He was rolling the stone up hill, and he
didn't stop.
-''Hurry up, soon the stone will start rolling downhill and
then he will run after it, then he is impossible to catch-up
with.''
-''Can we make him stop?'' I asked,
-''I don't know, we will see.''
The stone began rolling down. We cleared the way for it to
pass and tried to run after him; it was impossible. When the
stone reached the bottom, Sisyphus caught it and began
pushing uphill again. Soon enough he was next to us. We were
invisible to him or was he just too focused on the stone.
Suddenly I didn't know what to ask and how. Margarita looked
at my confused eyes as we were running after him almost
pointlessly. We ran out of breath and stopped waiting for
the next time he will run down and go up again. He was again
next to us and we were trying to keep up with him. I tried
to look for his expression. I could only see the expression
of a man in an extreme physical effort. Margarita replaced
my tong: ''Are you happy Sisyphus?'' he didn't look up, he
didn't stop, but he asked ''Am I redeemed? Am I free?'' when
we took time to answer he stopped, his stone rolled down and
he was looking around. He was blind or he could not see us.
When we continued to be silent, he said in a dry voice: ''I
am not'' and ran down looking for his stone. On our way down
he passed us several times; each time it seemed like he was
running faster downhill and going faster uphill. Each time
it seemed like the stone was rolling faster too, and every
time he caught the stone in the exact same place.
''There is one more person you might want to see before we
go back,'' she said to me as we reached at the bottom of the
Sisyphean hill. It was Horace, I had no idea that he was
sent here. ''Just so you would know the risks you are
taking.'' She said. ''What do you mean?'' I asked her. ''He
got here for the Ars Poetica, It was seen as an
intervention, it was not meant to be written.'' I let her
take me. He was sitting underneath a tree with no leaves. He
knew her. She introduced me.  He turns to us and bitterly
say: ''They are furious, they are full with vengeance. I
findmy self here for the poem I wrote. I expressed a formal
and systematic exposition in writing, of the principles of
the art of poetry and poetics.''

I was hungry as hell. The evening newspapers were out. The
Daily Answer had reported that a whole village had renounced
their beliefs as a response to the hardships of their lives.
I was not sure what it meant but it appeared like an
opportunity for a fresh start. I decided to turn to the
highest authority and ask for support against Roman's
agenda. I called the boss's office and asked for a meeting
as soon as possible. He had a spot for the following
morning. I lost my appetite. My headache came back
accompanied with the annoyance of the damned slippery
thoughts. This time there were images too. I went to sleep.

In the morning I arrived at his office all neatly dressed.
I sat next to the entrance in the waiting hall. It was where
the elevator was located so that all the visitors and
newcomers could be sent in to see him right away. Those who
came from the elevator reminded me of the day I first came
up here. I was a bit nervous. It started to rain.
Just before I went inside for the meeting, I sensed the
smell of fresh rain; a few drops were pouring and it made me
feel crisp and ready for the meeting. I was relieved. He
said something about reshuffling the cards for a new round,
and I was thrown back into a political discussion I had with
this group of intellectuals from back home. It was a time
when we spoke about the possibility of the dismantling of
the Palestinian Authority, which was something that Haniya
was mentioning every once in a while during the boycott of
2006. I  had said that it was probably a good idea because
it was like reshuffling a deck of cards, it was a fresh
start, probably from the PLO, which was a much better entity
then the authority and gave a better representation to the
refugees.  I heard once that he had this habit of reminding
you something you have said once and use it against you.
Then, I think, he said to me something about Roman's ideas
coming directly from him but I'm not sure because from that
point on I couldn't really concentrate any more. He may have
asked me something, but my heart beat so that I could hardly
speak. I had only the image of the rain that started
dropping and who knows when will it stop again.  
treatise-a formal and systematic exposition in writing of
the principles of a subject, generally longer and more
detailed than an essay or A systematic, usually extensive
written discourse on a subject. Ars Poetica-a treatise on
the art of poetry or poetics.