There is a man squatting against a tree outside the Metro bank office at 1 Southampton Row, London. He’s wearing a steel grey suit hanging loosely over his frame. An off-brand watch peeks from underneath his wrinkled sleeve. A pair of bland, square-toed dress shoes have collected a bit of mud. They’re stepping on the rim of his trouser legs.

The man is looking serious and seems fully focused on the phone with yellow-golden cover in his hand. With the other hand, he’s undoing the knot on his tie. He wrings his finger underneath the tie to wiggle the knot open, but it buckles against his neck. His gestures grow irritated as he pulls and stretches at the knot.

At once he closes his eyes, finger mid-tug. He is motionless for a few seconds, presses his eyelids hard against each other. He is thinking, or maybe trying to recollect himself. Then he opens his eyes and breathes out a long sigh. He gets up, puts the phone back in his pocket. He shakes his head and makes himself to look around. The street is lively, a double decker is making its way along roadwork signs. Cyclists in colourful helmets are whizzing by.

The man murmurs to himself: ‘It’s spring. Weather’s nice. I should be happy. Should be proud. I did good.’ A short smile flickers across his lips. It looks forced and awkward. Then he starts walking.

He pulls the phone out and slows down. Every now and then he’s raising his eyes to check where he’s going.

> Hey can we speak?

He stops to wait for an answer. None comes and he resumes walking. He sees a side street with ionic columns. They mark the entrance to the Sicilian Avenue, a pedestrian street with luxury shops, bars and restaurants. People are sitting at fancy tables, sipping tea and coffee, chatting away. A person in a shimmering blue suit asks loudly:

‘Scuseme y’appen t’ave a li’r?’

He looks confused at the blue suit, ‘A what sorry?’

The other man points at a cigarette in his hands. He spells out the question: ‘A lighter, you have a lighter?’

‘Oh, no, no I don’t sorry’, he answers sheepishly.

His stroll takes him up to Russell Square. To the right he sees the Kimpton Fitzroy Hotel. Its facade is baroque and coloured cafe-au-lait. He looks up at the sky, observing fluffy pillow-clouds against a strikingly blue background. Deep in thought, he looks down to his shoes, observes the caked mud, and taps them against each other. He then pulls up at his trouser legs so he doesn’t step on the rim anymore.

A remarkably crude store banner catches his eye: ‘EURO FOOD & WINE’ in block white letters against a red background. ‘Looks like home’ he tells himself and this time his face lights up with a genuine smile. He walks in and heads straight to the clerk. ‘One pack of Marlboro red’.

‘Big or small?’

‘Small. And, this.’ He adds, taking a yellow Bic lighter from the window.

He steps back out onto the street. Inspecting the pack, he sees that it is all black and there are pictures of rotten teeth on it. He runs his fingernail across the thin plastic wrapping and tugs at the golden strand. He opens the pack and takes one cigarette, looks at it intently, then sighs as he places it between his lips and lights it up. He closes his eyes, puffs his chest up with the fumes and waits one, two, three, four seconds before exhaling a cloud of white-blue smoke.

He produces his phone.

> I’d really need to speak right now.

> Let me know when you’re available for a few.

He waits half a minute, eyes fixed at the screen. No reply. He starts walking again. He passes red-brick buildings with white – is it limestone? – accents. He slows down when walking past the red phone boxes and looks at them with restrained curiosity. A woman veiled in a hijab is walking a stroller with one hand, while in her other she has her phone on video call. It’s on speaker. She stops in front of an ethnic store and manoeuvres the stroller inside. The store has crates of fresh fruit and veggies outside, to the side there is a pile of trash. There are no listed prices. The woman is very much visible waiting at the till, she points at the meat display counter while still on the phone. The man is now stopped opposite the store and looks at her, he is examining her black shapeless dress. The storekeeper eyes him and stops dealing with the woman. Behind bushy eyebrows, his eyes first look inquisitive, then in a matter of seconds they become menacing. He rushes out of the store:

‘Cha lookin at eh? Whaddyou want?’ He gestures with his hand. ‘Carry on then, move on’.

And he startles, realises he’d been staring for too long, and hurries away. Straight ahead, a couple of massive oak trees are left behind and the road opens up. The avenue gets wider, the houses are smaller and decidedly less fancy. Seems noisier as well. He reaches a wide intersection and prepares to cross. He first looks left, then sees the ‘LOOK RIGHT’ writing on the pavement and then looks right. The man stops in front of a Barclays ATM and looks at the logo. There are a couple youngsters with tattered clothes. They are sitting cross-legged on the pavement. One of them has an enormous Maine Coon cat, on a dogs’ leash. The cat found a patch of sunlight and has coiled up, presumably purring. A third person is walking over, dressed in black and with goth makeup on. 

She complains about her parents: ‘They telling me this place is nefarious. Hear that, nefarious! But they don’t care, I know they don’t care. As long as they pay rent we’re fair and square. This is where I belong. Nightlife is good, food is good and cheap, I’ve only met cool people so far. People who appreciate life, not money. Telling you, wouldn’t move back to student housing if my life depended on it. It’s, like, posh fucks who fancy to live among plebs, and foreigners who get pissed on by the highbrow.’ The others agree: ‘Aye, indeed, aye aye.’

Again he checks his phone, still no reply. Dusk is setting in, and the sky turns shades of violet. The man sets off again, slowly, absent-mindedly. He needs to pull at his trousers so they wouldn’t catch under his shoes. The houses look weirder and weirder. A container building on the right, a massive Vans shoe on this facade here. And a stiletto there. A dragon on this Chinese restaurant. Tattoo and piercing shops. A brazier even, with fire in it. Grafitti walls everywhere. The passers-by are louder, rowdier than twenty minutes ago. More t-shirts, less shirts. More jeans, less linen. More hairgel, less manbags. 

‘Where am I?’ he mutters, as one particular populous entrance draws his eye: ‘Stables Market’

He stops before going in, reaches for his pack of smokes, takes another cigarette and lights it. His phone gives a light buzz and he fumbles quickly to pull it out.

> Sweetheart. I was so busy. How’d it go?

> I got the job.

> Hell yesss. I knew you would. So proud of you. Really really proud. We should celebrate.

> … I spoke to my dad.

The phone rings and he answers via his airpods.

‘Hey, where are you now?’

‘Uhm, I don’t know. I don’t know where I am. I don’t really care, just wondering around. I’m at a, um, stables market…’

‘Camden? You must be in Camden.’

‘OK, sure.’

‘Look honey, I need you to tell me. What did your dad say?’

‘He said he never heard of Metro Bank, and doesn’t understand why I am so excited about the job. Also that’s no reason to leave him and mother. And that you, you are a bad influence and he does not have a good feeling about you. Says you’re leading me down a bad path and he is not approving of it.’

‘But, I love you! I care about you! And I want us to be together! Live in the same city! Same country!’

‘Me too. Ugh, he gets into my head, I hate talking to him. I hate it you know. I really really do.’ He pauses for a few. ‘What if he’s right? This place is, I mean, I can’t even begin to imagine what it’s like to live in London, you know. Like, I don’t understand what people are saying here! I thought I spoke English, forget about it. When you guys speak it, it’s a foreign language. To me. How will I understand what my manager wants? I’ll be done for. Plus this is a temporary contract anyway. What if they don’t renew next year? Go back home I suppose, people going to ask where I’ve been, “oh I’ve been to London but I didn’t make it. So I have to come back home. Defeated.” I don’t know.’

‘Sweetheart. You need to stop.’ Her voice is cold now, rational. ’You are standing in your own way. You need to stop this. Ugh, I cannot believe he was able to turn your success into a failure, such a mean thing to do! What he’s doing, it is. not. nice.’

‘He says it’s not Barclays. He’s heard of Barclays. *sigh* And then he went on to tell me how he bought a zodiac which he keeps in the garage at grandpa’s. You know, next to the woods. He can now go out fishing every weekend. Ah yes and also grandma is not happy for me to leave, she thinks I won’t do my monthly visits anymore.’

He stares intently at the people around him. Their faces blurry in the twilight. There is shouting, laughing, coughing, barking. Silhouettes are rushing out and others are creeping in. Several people are behaving erratically and look like they are drunk, or possibly high.

‘Fuck him’, he exhales.

‘Sweetheart…’

‘Let me know when you finish. Then we can meet up OK? I’ll come with the metro, I’ve seen a station nearby.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I don’t know. What is the stables market? Maybe I’ll sit for a drink.’

‘Be careful there. There are pickpockets. And weird people. Camden is not what it seems.’

He smiles ‘Huh. Sure.’

One last pull from his cigarette causes a coughing fit. He hunches over coughing, smoke is coming out his nose and mouth. Once he gets back to his senses, he walks into the market. There is a sculpture of a horse head. It’s enormous and dark-brown, shiny, as big as a car. There is a human expression to it, anthropomorphic eyes, they show either excitement or fear, perhaps both.

He walks in and the cacophony is overwhelming. Set against shiny cobblestones and clay-grey brick houses are myriad bars, stalls and restaurants. Vivid colours abundant, boutiques and bric-a-bracs. Peppered around, bronze sculptures of medieval knights and life-size horses jumping into walls. His suit and shoes looks out of place in a sea of alternatives, hosteliers and tourists.

Something catches his eye. He sees a small entrance in an alcove, above it in a beautiful font: THE READER and underneath: an AI artxperience. The entrance is all glass and through it one can see that inside there is nothing other than a simple desk. Behind that desk sits a middle-aged woman. She is highly visible, dressed in a bright orange three-piece suit against a full black interior. The man stops for a minute. Stares at the text, ‘AI artxperience’, he tells himself. ‘What does it mean?’ He pushes the glass door and walks in.

The woman’s desk is just as black as the rest of the room. On her desk is a Macbook in a black sleeve. She is looking at the screen but does not seem particularly busy. She is in her early fifties, short hair, stocky build. Big-boned. Her orange suit is a stark contrast to the engulfing darkness. She looks at him, smiles knowingly and gets up from her seat.

‘Hello, welcome to the Reader.’

‘Hello’, he says as he looks around. Upon closer inspection, he can make out a metal door opposite the entrance. It’s painted black, the same as the walls, and therefore not visible from outside. ‘Is this a library? I don’t see any books.’ he says.

The woman smiles still. ‘No’, she says with an upbeat voice. ‘We are an art installation. The Reader is a unique piece of generative AI, straddling the line between technology and magic.’

‘OK, and what does it do?’ The man is genuinely interested.

‘It dreams stories for our listeners.’ She pauses for a brief instance. ‘Special stories. Uniquely tailored to each of our guests.’

‘Well, I work in this field actually. Generative AI making stories, that’s actually not new. Nothing special, magic, or artistic about it. I can write an AI to make stories in a day.’

‘The Reader does it without a prompt.’ she is still smiling.

‘So it just makes stuff up.’

‘He reads the guests. The guests themselves are the prompt.’

The man is intrigued. He walks over to the desk, pulls one of the chairs away and turns it towards the glass entrance, so it faces the market. He sits down in silence. ‘Tailored you say? To me, who just walked in randomly? Well I’m not signing up or logging into anything. You’re not getting my google handle.’

‘We don’t need it. No background information is needed from your side. The Reader will examine you, how you dress and walk, how you talk, how you behave, how you move and breathe, and he’ll prepare a story just for you.’

‘That’s not possible. No way to train such a thing. It’ll be bullshit. It’ll give bullshit stories. I’m sorry lady, but I do actually work in this field. I know this is not possible. Look, maybe with expensive training, you can get it to make some sort of educated guess about the person in front of it. And even then, you can’t figure all people, and I can guarantee it’s not going to work on me. I’m not from London. I’m not even English.’

The woman sits down behind her desk. ‘The Reader is a marvellous technology. I know it will tell you a story to move your heart, regardless where you’re from. It will be an enlightening experience! You’ll be back for another story in no time.’

‘Enlightenment? That’s rich.’ The man’s feet are still facing the street, but his torso is now turned ninety degrees to face the woman. His eyes are incredulous.

He decides to pull out his phone. ‘Let’s see’ he mumbles, as he starts googling. ‘You’re not on Yelp, on Tripadvisor, not even on Google maps’ He says. ‘What sort of operation is this’. His left leg is fretting.

‘Guests are asked not to review. It diminishes the experience.’

‘My story. Touching my heart. Is it written on my face, you say? Really? Is my face so obvious? How do I know you’re not going to steal from me behind that door?’ He’s reclining in his chair, not looking at the woman anymore. Rather, he is tracking passers-by outside. He focuses on a druggie, who seems to have mistaken the alcove opposite the entrance as his private bathroom and is relieving himself on the cobbled stones. ‘This place looks unsafe’.

‘The Camden Stable Market location was specifically chosen by our anonymous artist. Not only because they live here’ she permits herself a light chuckle ‘but also because it is a place for people who are not afraid. We don’t hurt people.’

‘How does it do this alleged reading of me? Cameras?’

’Sixteen 8k cameras, four 64k, three Phantom slow-motion cameras, two infrared, two UV, ultra-high fidelity microphones, odor detectors, pressure sensors.’

A few seconds of silence. The man turns his whole body, legs also, towards the desk. Then he looks behind him. ‘And how long am I waiting for the result.’

‘It’s realtime.’

‘Oh really? Someone made up an AI engine that will parse data from all these sources and process them into an accurate profile and then come up with a ‘story to touch their heart’ in real time… And where is it?’ He asks. ‘Over there? Behind those doors?’

‘Indeed sir’.

‘Well, you’re not getting my name.’

The woman produces a print-out from underneath her desk. She points at a piece of text that clarifies adherence to GDPR rules. ‘We do need a signature.’ The man stares at the paper. He gets up, walks to the entrance. Looks out the window as the lady goes back to her laptop. He stands still for a minute or so, watching the foot traffic, then walks back. ‘A story for me’.

‘JUST for you. Nobody else will hear it. Actually, the story will be destroyed as soon as the Reader has finished the narration.’

The man approaches the desk and signs the papers. He then scans the room. ‘Where shall I leave my phone then?’

‘Through the door, you will first step into the foyer, where you’ll find a green box to your right. Please leave all electronic devices there. Such devices include, apart from your phone, any recorders or microphones and also smartwatches. We advise that you focus and pay attention as there will not be a second listen. Once you are done, you’re invited back here for the debrief.’

The man takes a couple of steps towards the doors. ‘Shall I, just…’

‘Yes, go ahead’, the woman nods.

He walks over. There is no button, but the doors open anyway. He looks behind, the woman is now focused on her screen. Another pair of black doors right in front of him. To the right, the green box. He places his phone and his earpods. He checks his pockets like he would at airport security, finds nothing more of relevance. He looks at his watch – it’s mechanical, no need to remove. He takes a deep breath. And another. Another. A fourth. Last one, very deep. Then, he takes another step. The second pair of doors opens to warm, radiating light. He has to squint his eyes.

An androgynous voice: ‘Hello and welcome. Come, come closer please.’

The floor is soft, velvety carpet. No windows, instead, the walls are draped in scintillating LEDs which pulsate different shades of white-yellow. ‘Uhm, yes hi’ he says in a shy voice, his eyes searching for something definite, explicit in the constellation of flickering LEDs.

‘Please, walk towards the x’ the voice says, and he can make a pale red X in the middle of the carpet. He walks over and steps gently on the marking. A few seconds pass.

‘I appreciate you coming here. I am looking forward. Do you want to tell me your name?’

The man’s face is turning serious. He is pondering the question. ‘Valentin’, he says, the corner of his mouth curling up.

‘That is a beautiful name.’ two seconds of silence. ’I will begin the story. There was once a boy. He was 12. He was strong, confident and happy. And he was yours.’

After seven minutes, Valentin walks back out. He looks down-and-out, feeble almost. His shoulders are hunched, his face draped in thought. The ill-adjusted suit jacket is doing him no favours. His knees are giving out every now and then. The woman has moved the chair back in front of her desk and has a glass of water ready. She makes a silent gesture, inviting him to sit. He reaches a trembling hand to the armrest. As he sits down, he holds his chin in both hands.

Over the next few minutes, there is silence. Every now and then, Valentin shakes his head and frowns. He looks confused and defeated. He stares down at his shoes for the whole time. After a while, the woman looks at him. His jittering has subsided. ‘Would you like to pay?’ she asks.

‘Oh, okay. Didn’t know this was for money, but sure, of course. How much?’

She glances at her screen.

‘Twelve thousand, fifty six ponds. And, you can pay…’

Valentin’s eyes widen, his breath quickens. ‘Wait, how much? For, like, five minutes? No. No no.’ His hands are shaking again. His voice is breaking. ‘I can’t even pay this much in one go, I have a limit on my account.

‘…And, you can pay your limit today and the rest in instalments over the next six months’.

‘This is absolutely crazy. Where did you come up with this amount.’

‘The Reader did. Discriminate pricing, it charges how much it believes the stories are worth to each guest.’

‘I can’t pay. I’m not paying. This is not even legal, discriminate pricing! And he got it all wrong, I don’t even have this much in my bank account!’

‘That’s why payment is optional. You can choose not to pay and just leave. But you won’t be allowed inside again, not in a month and not in a year. The Reader will recognise you, and refuse another story. This will remain your one and only.’

‘I don’t, I don’t…’ Valentin is looking out the window again. ‘It’s a lot of money. It’s a lot. I’ll have to pay with the salary from my new job.’

The lady stays silent.

‘I can do 2500 today.’