Here is the record of my solo session in the game “A Visit to San Sibilia” by Peter Eijk. The game was originally published in English under the same title. I’m using the Polish translation by Jakub Hakało.
I drew K♠️ and 8♦️, which in the Character Table correspond to “brooding” and “sailor.” I chose the name Falman for myself — a playful twist on Truman (“True man”), only fused with the word “False.”
Day 1
It’s been over a week since I escaped from the Brooding. I hope that after six years of service on board, Captain Pigment will forgive me for stealing the lifeboat. It feels silly to lie in one’s own journal, so I’ll write it plainly: for several days, I deeply regretted that decision. It was foolish and immature. Normal people don’t abandon their lives because of a dream — but that’s exactly what I did. And, paradoxically, it turned out okay. There must have been something in the air (some providence, cosmic intuition?) because the dream turned out to be real. I’m writing this down because I’m afraid that one day I’ll dismiss it all as a lapse in memory that my confused mind filled with nonsense.
I couldn’t fall asleep that night. So I sat on deck, chain-smoking and staring at the sky. I traced familiar constellations, trying not to glance toward the spot where Marysia was kissing that new sailor once. Eventually, I went below deck and lay down in my cabin. I looked at the Photograph, and sleep overtook me at once, as if someone had cast a spell.
I dreamed of a city lying in a river delta. It was one of those vivid dreams that stay with you after waking, sending ripples of something you can’t quite describe. I knew immediately what it was. It was the city Marysia had told me about during one of our first conversations (before she was scared off by the way I had started looking at her). As a little girl, she had her own way of coping with the darker moments at home: she would find a hidden corner, close her eyes, and imagine walking through the narrow, dirty, yet somehow charming streets of that city. There was something about a river that calmed her, but I can’t remember the details.
At some point, it must have seemed strange to her that such an important place had no name, so she decided to give it one. She stole a dark purple crayon from her art class and began writing on the inside of her bedroom door. Supposedly, her hand moved on its own, drawing swirling letters, and when she finished, she read aloud what had appeared: “San Sibilia?” There was a question mark in her voice — as if she were asking herself where that name even came from.
In the last weeks before my escape from the Brooding, I had that same dream every night. In the dream, I was asleep in my cabin when I was suddenly awakened by Marysia leaning over me. With each dream, her tone grew more anxious:
“Soon, Falman. Don’t miss it…”
“Stay awake, Falman. Watch!”
“Falman, don’t ignore this! It’s almost time…”
That last night, her voice trembled — she was panicked. “Falman, please! Meet me in San Sibilia!” she cried, and I woke up, stole that damned lifeboat, and fled.
I hid the lifeboat beneath an old bridge and covered it with dirty sheets I found rolled up near some thorny bushes. I entered the city along the shoreline, where the river delta splits, slicing the wide districts into tiny fragments. The smallest of them hold only a few alleys and a handful of houses, all connected by humped stone bridges. It took me three transfers to reach the center: tram, another tram, ferry, and a third tram. The trams and ferries of San Sibilia are so run-down that I wouldn’t be surprised if only magic still holds them together.
I was too exhausted to explore the city right away. I reached the edge of the Saint Riocha and La Bohamin districts, where, in a garden beside a quaint little house, an old woman sat under a gazebo, crying. “I’ll keep you company this evening to lift your spirits — but on one condition,” I said. She raised her head and fixed her gaze on me. “On what condition?” she asked. “That you don’t tell me why you’re crying,” I replied. I don’t know why I said that — it just felt right. As if I were a jug that could only pour out, not refill.
The woman studied me in silence for a while, reading something in my eyes, and finally accepted my terms. She invited me into the garden, where we talked late into the night. Brisa (that’s her name) told me about her long, kind life — about her favorite hiding spots as a girl and the potato casserole with onions and eggs her grandmother used to make. When she mentioned her first kiss, I found myself wondering more about her last one. Brisa was no longer indifferent to me. I desperately wanted to know why she’d been crying earlier. I could guess, but I wanted her to say it aloud. Yet she turned out to be honorable and strong — she kept her word and didn’t say a single thing about it.
Around two in the morning, Brisa brought me a blanket and a bowl of warm sour rye soup with eggs. She told me I could sleep under her gazebo, then went inside the house. “Oh,” she said, standing in the doorway, “the blanket and the lamp are for you.” I’m writing these words by the light of that lamp — an old oil one, classic, with a little mirror — wrapped in the blanket, rough, warm, and smelling intensely of wood. It’s a strange thought: I’m in a city that, according to Captain Pigment’s maps, doesn’t exist, with only this blanket, a lamp, the clothes on my back, some banknotes, and the Photograph. I don’t know why I’ve come here. Surely it’s impossible that Marysia is really here…