And then there was the swift departure from the labyrinth of the Arcadian painting. The swift departure from the centre. To catch the train to Switzerland. The city was boiling. Paris was nervy. People were whirling in and out of their daily problems. The crowded streets. The struggle to earn a living. The stress of maintaining a persona, a style, an identity, an inner structure. The cracks in the masks. The anxiety bleeding out in nervous glances. The persistence of poverty. The chaos undermining confidence in the future. Uncertainty stalking every individual. And underneath it all a strain, a refrain of something in the inscription. For the whole crew had been infected by it; and Lao now saw it everywhere.
On the way to the Gare de l’Est, Lao passed a beggar. At the station there was the crowding and the crush, and the insistent refrain. There were the faces. The sense of loss, of disorientation. Eyes trapped in the spell of distraction. Everyone trying to get somewhere, to continue their journeys. Where was everyone trying to go? What was the insistent refrain that had haunted the journey from the very beginning?
Then Lao saw it, briefly. He saw a man with thick glasses, struggling to make out the words on the giant console. Struggling to make out his destination, to see it clearly. He was adjusting his glasses, straining, sweating, and still he couldn’t see clearly.