That night Leila had no choice but to pass it in the gallery. That’s where Michael lived. Her orders were clear: do not return without him.

  She grew tired and found a long pink baroque sofa to stretch and place her head down. She thought about the statue of Proserpina…and her mind wandered to past conversations.

  “Leila, you have been chosen to enter the sim in pursuit of the fugitive Michael Bruno. Do you accept the mission?”

  She sighed remembering. “But why me?”

  “Why?” Her officer laughed. “The fugitive is obsessed by some sculpture called Proserpina…” then he inched closer with acid breath: “And you, my dear, look exactly like her…”

  She recoiled. “What is the danger in letting him play in his sim?”

  It was unknown to her at the time, that The Order knew of Michael’s art-sim-toy for years and didn’t care until… “The danger is that now everyone will want a toy like this as a way to circumvent the Art Directive. And if that happens, then what have we done? How are we to function if everybody is playing fantasy artist?”

  “This won’t be easy,” she said.

  “Of course. But you will be handsomely paid and I know that you believe in the cause.”

  Leila almost fell asleep when she felt the air move. She opened her eyes and saw Michael hovering over her.

  “Are you not going back?”

  No. She shook her head. “I’m like Proserpina…abducted by you…”

  “That’s funny”, he said and brushed off the allegory. “Come I want to show you something,” he enthused.

  And he pulled her off the couch and dragged her back to the statue. She made a mental note: he is lonely.

  “I figured out that Bernini added the dog to the group in order to provide the necessary support for Hades and Proserpina. This helped him to achieve the weightlessness. See how Proserpina is leaping out with her hands in the air…”

  “That’s very nice Michael,” she replied softly. “But you still haven’t told me what you are doing here for five years?”

  The question was plain but stumbled Michael. And he had to dig the vestiges of his brain for an answer.

  “Well, I’ve studied the works, and trained on small blocks of marble with different tools…I even programmed a small studio here for the eventual…pursuit of my own life size sculpture…”

  “Then what are you waiting for?” He’s a coward. “Afraid you won’t be as good as Bernini? There’s nothing to fear because you’re not as good, and you will never be.”

  Michael’s face dropped. That hurt. Because it was true. Artists like Bernini were historical events in time.

  Leila caught that. “You see, it is for this reason we created, and you programmed AA. To avoid all these sad faces of defeat…”

  ***

  The following morning Leila could not find Michael in the gallery room of Proserpina and Hades. But the same identical visitors arrived on cue and kept circling the statues and posing in front of them and taking pictures. The visitors never changed. They left from one door only to be recycled and come back again. On an interminable loop.

  Why did he bother to program visitors-on-a-loop in his sim? She thought.

  But for the moment Michael was missing and fear ascended inside Leila’s torso. Did I fumble? Did he escape? But to where?

  Urgency gripped her and Leila ran through successive golden gallery rooms. Ornamented ceilings. Gypsery decorations. Mirrors and mirrors. Paintings and sculptures greeted her as she ran breathless in circles, her dress flowing behind her. Until she stopped, and found herself back where she started.

  I’m like these programmed visitors. On an endless loop.

  There was no sign of Michael. And terror struck her that she had been really abducted like Proserpina into the underworld of simulation programming.

  Clank. Clank.

  She heard a sound from a far. It was muddled but clear.

  Clank. Clank.

  It sounded like metal hitting metal.

  She followed the sound until it was almost ear piercing coming from behind a French wooden door.

  She pushed it open to discover a large gritty workshop. The scent of wet stone filled her nostrils, as the echoes of chisels striking stone choked her head. It was dimly lit with sunlight filtering from high windows casting shadows on scattered marble blocks.

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  As Leila entered her feet crunched shards of fine marble which littered the floor. And soon her exposed sandalled toes were covered in a fine layer of marble dust.

  She raised her head in wonder. Pulleys and ropes hung from cracked wooden beams and rafters.

  And there was Michael chiseling away at an unfinished bust of marble.

  He didn’t hear her come and so Leila’s eyes landed on his workbench. It contained many simple instruments: point and claw chisels, rasps, and rifflers. Wooden mallets and iron hammers. Measuring compasses and callipers.

  Leila inched closer. Michael was young, maybe twenty-seven. One or two years her senior. Objectively, he was handsome. With green eyes and overgrown yellow curls that dropped over his eyes. He kept pushing those golden strands away by whipping his head back.

  She stared. The head whip happened every few minutes. Wouldn’t it be easier to just clip your hair back? But she suspected he needed the head whip to generate energy within him.

  As if sensing the weight of her stare, he placed down the chisel without a word. And turned his head back.

  “I now see why you spent five years here,” she said. “Must have been hard to program this from the inside. The Order was unaware of a workshop sim attached to the gallery sim. And that you found a way to connect the two.”

  Leila didn’t know why but her eyes filled with water. She turned her head to hide her weakness and her watery gaze landed on plaster casts and clay models, unfinished figures—in progress or abandoned.

  A thick haze of stone dust, caught in the sun beam, enveloped her. She looked otherworldly. Like a weeping angel that had descended to earth.

  “Why are you crying?” Michael asked.

  The smell of oil and wax, made her nauseous. And all the sketches and reference drawings pinned to the walls bore their eyes onto her. And at that moment she wanted to run away.

  But Leila just said: “I’m crying because I understand that you will not abandon this. And so my mission has failed. And if my mission has failed, then the AA project will fail, and all men will seek what you have attained—to their detriment.”

  She stood stiff as a statue herself before him. She angered at her weakness and wiped her tears away. “Do you not wish to return to the base reality of Earth? Do you not miss home?”

  “There’s no place like home,” he smiled from his chiseling stool. “Isn’t that what Dorothy said in the Wizard of Oz?”

  Yes. Leila nodded.

  “I think it has been misinterpreted,” his green eyes twinkled. “Really she meant that the concept of home does not exist. There really is no place like home.”

  “Why is that?” She was quick to ask.

  “Because the concept of home is transient and moving. We are a nomadic species in physicality and in mind. Our mind wanders aimlessly. We are un-anchorable.”

  Leila’s nostrils expanded and she deeply exhaled. It is worst than I thought. How can I anchor this man back to reality?

  She stepped back. Home or no home. There’s one thing all men can’t resist.

  Human contact.

  And in one snappy move she unclipped the belt from her waist. The soft fabric of her dress now flowed freely straight down her body. And the belt dropped to the floor and laid at her feet like a coiled snake.

  And her look said it all.

  Michael’s body remained motionless, but his eyes oscillated furiously. And Leila could tell he was using all his inner strength to keep still.

  His wandering eye on her dress sculpted the moment in stone.

  He turned his head back to his marble and picked up a chisel and a hammer.

  “Even if you were naked you’d always remain dressed,” he said with his back to her.

  “Whatever do you mean?” She exhaled.

  “You hide yourself all the time. Despite your great beauty. Please put your belt back on and go back home.”

  His hammer struck the chisel and shards of marble flew in all directions.

  Leila clipped her belt back on. And wiped her humiliated tears. And knew that lonesomeness would not break him. Only art. Only his journey as an artist.

  “Maybe we can strike a deal, Michael Bruno,” she began. “Because it seems to me, unless pushed, you will wander the sim aimlessly in your search for the Bernini inside you. You are like a block of stone. And you can spend your whole life chipping away at it. But without real stakes, you will never achieve glory.”

  One last hammer struck. And all went quiet. And Michael sat there frozen with a chisel in one hand and a hammer in the other.

  Without real stakes, you will never achieve glory.

  The hammer and chisel were laid down. And Michael turned around. Fear was in his eyes.

  “I never asked you your name…” he said in a trembling voice.

  “My name is Leila Al-Harazi, or just Leila,” She said. “You see Michael we are both angels. You are named after the archangel Michael, and I am named after the angel of the night.”

  “Very well, Leila,” he said softly. “What do you offer?”

  She looks like Proserpina.

  “I may not be artistic or schooled like you, but I know one thing—no great progress is achieved without laying it all on the line. Taking risks. You will never be a great sculptor unless you are willing to risk all that is dear to you. The fire of potential loss will either mold your greatness or—incinerate you.”

  The air stood still. In the workshop, and inside Michael.

  “What do you offer then, Leila?” He repeated.

  “The thing you hold most dear is this sim. The world that you created. I propose that you pick a life size sculpture to mold out of marble. Of your choosing. When it is finished, you and I and this sculpture will be extracted back to the base reality of Earth. We will sever the neural links and you will turn over the codes so we can terminate this simulation. You will not be prosecuted as a fugitive and all charges dropped.”

  “And the sculpture?”

  “The statute projection will be placed in a central plaza in the Capitol of Earth for all to see. You will have achieved your glory as the last artist on Earth.” Leila took a deep breath. “Otherwise, you can toil here in obscurity forever. Safe from criticism. So choose Michael: many unheralded statues or one that will be known by all.”

  Leila seemed to have gained a few centimetres of height. And Michael saw her as never before. A messenger of the night, an angel of the night. Or maybe his worst demon. And he felt an inexplicable need to reach out and touch her face and trace her lips with his dusty fingertips.

  But instead he just said: “I choose glory. A singular glory. And the sculpture will be Apollo and Daphne.”