text: The first image he told me about was of three children on a road in Iceland, in 1965. He said that for him it was the image of happiness and also that he had tried several times to link it to other images, but it never worked. He wrote me: one day I'll have to put it all alone at the beginning of a film with a long piece of black leader; if they don't see happiness in the picture, at least they'll see the black. &#x200B; &#x200B; \-- Chris Marker &#x200B; &#x200B; &#x200B; &#x200B; 70 &#x200B; The inky gloaming leeched into the edges of the evening as I walked up past vine covered fences and Spanish moss. Cracks in the sidewalk increased and decreased. Sewers jutted out in places. I drifted aimlessly past wrought iron fences. &#x200B; Just as the darkness seemed to slowly soak the night, the twinges of aura nipped at the corners of my vision. I dreaded what would come next: lightning storms in my eyes and then in my brain. &#x200B; The pale yellow pain of exhaustion crept in as well. I walked past a walled cemetery with its old cracked crypts thinking that it was well past the witching hour so I was probably safe of scavengers. &#x200B; I had slept little since the headaches began. My medicines weren?t working. &#x200B; For once I had dozed off early and felt optimistic about sleeping a full night. But instead I awoke to darkness and those first twinges of pain at the corners of my being. The clock said it was after three?that hour when everything seems like a fuzzy blur. Everyone is dreaming or should be. &#x200B; Workers look sickly hiding out in all-night restaurants and cafes. Uptown bars have cleared out. &#x200B; I couldn?t take the pain anymore so I decided to make a move. In my hand, I help a crumpled glossy card for an ivy-covered teahouse with a residential address in Uptown New Orleans. &#x200B; I had thrown on some jeans and boots and headed out for what an acquaintance had insisted would be an alternate cure for my migraines. &#x200B; As I drifted quickly past a dilapidated house I winced at the bright lights beaming from it through hanging shutters. The pains were coming soon. But only a few more blocks needed. I started wondering how long it would take to kick in. &#x200B; As I stumbled around a corner, the block got darker. I could see the dark shadows of wisteria lit by the moon. The first of the flashes hit like a lightning bolt across my vision. But unlike a lightning bolt, the aura sat in my vision refusing to abate. &#x200B; I sped up as the flash held itself in my eye changing colors and refusing to move. &#x200B; Finally, two blocks away, I saw the place. On a dark residential block stood the vine and moss covered house. Out in the yard stood small tables with very dim blue-flamed lamps. Inside the slightly ajar door was a room bathed in a low red light. &#x200B; The building was not the fairytale cabin covered in vines like on the calling card. But like so many buildings in this part of the city, it had its own charm. The house was certainly never meant to be a business. But in this city, things took on a life of their own?whatever life they wanted. &#x200B; I swung a rusty iron gate out of my way as my right eye clouded and started to radiate pain. As I stumbled up a cracked walk surrounded by hastily planted daisies, I thought of the instructions that my friend had given: ?Ask for sylo tea. Look the lady in the eye, smile, and say nothing else.? &#x200B; As I arrived at the door, a woman in a poufy dress like a frumpy burlesque dancer greeted me warmly. She smiled and said, ?Good evening. Welcome to the tea house.? &#x200B; Distractedly, I asked, ?What is this place called again?? &#x200B; ?Not everything has to have a name,? she said seductively. ?Indulge in mystery.? &#x200B; I was in no mood to argue with her. &#x200B; ?One for tea,? I said. &#x200B; ?Of course,? she said inviting me into the small entry hallway. ?Which room?? &#x200B; ?What are my choices?? I asked fighting off the growing pain. &#x200B; ?The salon, the bedroom, the bazaar, or perhaps the dungeon?? she said. &#x200B; I paused for a second. Then I said, ?Bazaar.? &#x200B; ?Very good,? she said. ?Maybe next time, it will be the bedroom?or the dungeon.? &#x200B; She winked and turned down a pitch-black hallway carrying one of the tiny dim blue lanterns that had been sitting out front. &#x200B; I followed her through a series of twists and turns in utter darkness until we came to a door. She paused then swung it open. A low yellow light emitted from the room turning the black door green. &#x200B; Inside, the room was abuzz with people quietly talking. Men and women sat on all manner of chairs, benches and stools. A small fire lighted the room from the middle. From the ceiling hung a wide variety of Moroccan lanterns. And at the edges, the room blended to darkness. No windows existed. &#x200B; ?Welcome to the souk,? said my hostess. She led me carefully to a solitary low cushioned chair. Ropes held the cushions from the floor. &#x200B; ?You will be serviced shortly,? said the hostess and walked away. &#x200B; I seated myself and looked around. The room felt warm and inviting. Conversations hummed quietly with a reverence for the peace of the place. All of the seats were low and cushioned with colorful patterns in dazzling patterns. &#x200B; Neatly lined Persian rugs covered every inch of the floor. Men and women smoked hookahs. The sickly-sweet smell of flowers permeated the room informing me that the hookahs did not contain tobacco. &#x200B; Everyone drank tea from small colorful patterned glasses filled by large metal pots. In front of me on my right stood a small hexagon mosaic table. I couldn?t tell if it was a trick of the light in the room or my aura, but the edges of the room seemed to fade into shadow as though the room went on endlessly. &#x200B; I winced sitting idly as the pain increased. The surroundings seemed so comfortable and pleasant. But I couldn?t enjoy a moment of it. The pain ground at me like sand in my eye sockets. &#x200B; I tried to count my breaths to occupy myself until someone attended to me. But each one seemed like an eternity. Every scrape of a hookah, every clink of a teacup infuriated me. &#x200B; My only reprieve was my desperate decision to purchase one of the floral-smelling hookahs if the sylo didn?t work. &#x200B; After an endless ocean of waiting, which had comprised no more than ten minutes, a short and boisterous punk girl attended to me. She smiled through black-rimmed glasses. She wore a tight t-shirt and her black long hair was highlighted with pink and green. A safety pin dangled from her left ear. &#x200B; ?What would you like?? she asked. &#x200B; I had not been presented with a menu, but the teahouse was not a place for those who did not know what they wanted. &#x200B; ?Sylo.? &#x200B; ?Are you sure?? she asked becoming concerned. &#x200B; I said nothing. &#x200B; We stared at each other in silence as I forced myself to muster a disjointed smile. In my accounting of things, half her face had become a painful blue lightning bolt. &#x200B; She smiled back compassionately. ?How would you like it?? she asked. &#x200B; ?Sylo tea,? I said. ?Thank you.? &#x200B; Her face morphed to concern. &#x200B; I remained silent. &#x200B; ?You?re suffering greatly,? she said dripping with a comforting compassion. ?Are you sure you wouldn?t prefer a black hookah?? &#x200B; At this moment, a wave of pain erupted from my eye. For some reason, it feels like a liquid pouring across my face and deep into my brain. As it spread, it hurt sharp and awful. &#x200B; But I was not about to swerve from my mission. &#x200B; I said nothing. &#x200B; I needed a real cure?or the hope of one. &#x200B; After a moment, she looked knowingly at me. &#x200B; ?I?ll get it,? she said. ?And I will make sure they rush it for you.? &#x200B; The perky punk turned quickly and silently left the room. &#x200B; I reclined shakily. I closed my eyes hoping to stem the pain. It did little for me. Several minutes passed. &#x200B; I heard the slight shuffling of the waitress entering the room. I creaked my eyes open a fraction to watch her set a small purple glass of tea and a large pot on the table next to me. &#x200B; ?Thank you,? I mumbled. &#x200B; The interaction had been too much for me. I sealed my eyes attempting to squash enough nausea to drink as the tea cooled. As I hung my head in nausea, a whisper filled my ear. &#x200B; ?Migraine. No fun. Waste of this relaxing space.? &#x200B; I wanted to yell and thrash at the owner of the voice that was exacerbating my pain. But even in my awful state, I thought better of it. Instead, I willed my eyes open and looked to see who was talking. &#x200B; My eyes darted around. The vision in the right one was quite fuzzy. Then I saw him. He lifted himself up on the low couch in the dim area to my right. The man smiled. He was dressed in black pants and a dark maroon collared shirt. I couldn?t tell if his clothes were velvet. &#x200B; ?Sorry to disturb you,? he leaned toward me. ?I was just thinking that I feel quite awful for you.? &#x200B; I nodded still collecting words scattered across my brain. &#x200B; ?Yes,? I said. &#x200B; He smiled and turned his legs toward me. He motioned to my steaming glass. &#x200B; ?I think that might really work for you,? he said with a distant calm. ?But not permanently. Hopefully, though it will get you through the next few weeks.? &#x200B; I nodded weakly not caring for his opinion. &#x200B; ?I might have something for you that could help,? he said slyly. ?And no, it?s not one of those black hookahs or anything like that.? &#x200B; He looked shadowy in my right eye as I took my first sip of tea. My suspicion was overwhelmed by a desperate lack of interest in anything but stopping the pain. &#x200B; ?Strange how hallucinating can start it and stop it,? he said. ?Just an observation.? &#x200B; The man smiled slyly then reclined putting his feet up onto a low metallic table slipping into the obscured portion of my view. &#x200B; ?I like your humanity,? he said. ?So raw. So real. So self-important.? &#x200B; I felt slightly offended but couldn?t compel myself to care. I sipped weakly at my tea fathoming how much of it I could keep down. It tasted like a musty nothing?hollow and empty. &#x200B; ?I am a bit of a collector of stories,? said the man. ?Perhaps once your tea settles, you can tell me yours.? &#x200B; ?Sure,? I said curtly slugging down the lake of tea the filled my cup. Stuffing down the nausea, I closed my eyes and breathed heavily. &#x200B; The man leaned forward and poured a second cup for me. Irritated as I was, gratitude told me that I likely couldn?t have poured it myself. &#x200B; ?Thanks,? I said desperately. &#x200B; ?Think nothing of it,? said the man. ?I am genuinely fascinated as to whether or not this will work. I have heard quite a bit about the sylo cure for migraines. It might be hogwash?then again, it might work. Botox can work wonders on them. So why not this?? &#x200B; ?Do you get headaches too?? I squeaked out attempting to be polite. &#x200B; ?Not at all,? he laughed. ?I?ve no need of anything but this lovely mint tea.? &#x200B; He smiled and raised a small blue glass slurping a bit into his mouth. &#x200B; ?Why do you care about migraines then?? I asked. &#x200B; ?Many things fascinate me,? he said. &#x200B; I breathed deeply in silence for several minutes. I opened and closed my eyes at length. The man?s attention never left me. &#x200B; ?By my estimate,? he broke the silence. ?You should have your cure any moment now.? &#x200B; If anything, the pain had intensified. I wanted to yell. I wanted to scream. But in a rush like a gust of wind everything changed. &#x200B; The pain started evaporating in globules. I could see them and smell them drifting off into the air. I opened my eyes. The room was no longer as it was, but beyond that I cannot describe it. The other people became irrelevant except the strange shadowy man. He smiled at me, but all I could see were his teeth across the ether. The air became dark. &#x200B; The lightening in my right eye remained until suddenly a wild geometric caterpillar jutted across my vision. As the caterpillar left the corner of my vision, it took with it the lightening and all disturbances to my reality. &#x200B; The man sat up. &#x200B; ?Feel better?? he asked. &#x200B; I sat up fully. I opened my eyes and looked around. All traces of the migraine and all traces of the tea had left me as quickly as they had come. I had expected hours, but the effects had lasted only a moment. &#x200B; ?Yes,? I said. ?The tea appears to have washed away the migraine.? &#x200B; He laughed. &#x200B; ?Delightful,? he said. ?Will you tell me your story then?? &#x200B; My hand meandered momentarily towards my tea glass. The man grabbed it and stopped me. &#x200B; ?You?ve had enough,? he said. ?More will only make it worse. Try some of mine instead. Mint suits you.? &#x200B; He reached over and poured a glass of mint tea. I smelled it carefully and sipped at it. Delight filled my mouth. &#x200B; ?So tell me,? he said. &#x200B; I felt like my old self again?free of migraine. &#x200B; ?I don?t have much to tell really,? I said. &#x200B; ?Tell me what you do have,? said the man. &#x200B; ?Several years ago, I hit my head when I tripped on a loose brick,? I said. ?Ever since I have had migraines. I get clusters of them for days on end, and they are terrible. I see visions that doctors call aura, but they feel like hallucinations.? &#x200B; ?How did that bring you here?? asked the man. ?I?ve taken medicine for years that help with the migraines,? I explained. ?But in the past few weeks, I have run into an intractable and debilitating cluster of headaches. I couldn?t think. I couldn?t sleep. Medicine did nothing for me. A friend read something about promising research in sylo offering a cure. She gave me a card for this place. After night and night again of suffering, I decided to take the risk. I can?t believe how well it worked.? &#x200B; ?I?m pleased,? said the man. &#x200B; ?I guess that?s my story,? I said. &#x200B; ?But what else is there?? he asked. ?What do you do?? &#x200B; ?I just live, I guess,? I said. ?I like seeing movies and going out to dinner with friends. I?m no explorer or anything. My life is not that interesting.? &#x200B; ?There must be more,? he said. &#x200B; ?I go jogging sometimes,? I said. ?I went out to a bar with a few people the other night.? &#x200B; The man smiled grimly. &#x200B; ?Is this the way that you really expected your life to be?? he asked me. &#x200B; I thought this question rather personal and wanted to be offended. But I was also a bit disappointed with myself. &#x200B; ?Not really,? I said. ?But there are certain realities that you have to face in life.? &#x200B; ?And what of people who climb mountains and write operas and travel to the moon?? asked the man. &#x200B; ?Not everyone can be them,? I said desperately. ?They just got lucky.? &#x200B; The man?s smile disappeared as he stood up. &#x200B; ?If I believed that you believed that, I would never have spoken to you in the first place,? said the man. &#x200B; ?What?? I asked. &#x200B; ?Some people believe that migraines are actually caused by an imbalance in the self,? said the man putting on his scarf. ?Living a life you hate, the real you tries to break through. When he can?t, you get a headache.? &#x200B; ?Well that?s your opinion,? I said curtly. &#x200B; I became pissed at his armchair dismissal of me and my pain. &#x200B; ?The tea will help you,? he said. ?But not forever as you might think. It will just get you to where you need to go for your real adventure to begin.? &#x200B; ?What?? I said again. &#x200B; ?When you get there, call me,? said the man turning to go. &#x200B; I was confused. &#x200B; ?Wait,? I said. ?Who are you?? &#x200B; ?Mephistopheles.