#this is one step away from calling Jorge George

[star-burrry]

Movie Vince really said “I know it’s Mean Hoe”

[rai-wick]

Gally x Reader Chapter 26: Right arm

~THE GANG HAVE MET WITH BRENDA AND JORGE AND ARE NOW HEADING TO FIND THE OUTPOST IN THE MOUNTAINS~

Y/N'S P.O.V

I stared out of the window, my thoughts drifting back to the party. The last of the drugs were out of my system but the effects were still there.

FLASHBACK

"Newt? Thomas?"I called out, spinning around"Minho? Frypan? Teresa?"Panic began to rise as a lump in my throat, the room is swimming in front of me and the swamp of people made me nauseous "Newt?!" I shouted over the blaring of the music.

"Y/N?"I spun around to see Gally standing in a doorway, the sunlight streaming in around him.

"Gally..."I smiled.

"Hey beautiful"I began to stumble towards him as his arms stretched out towards me, his face shadowed by the sunlight.

"I missed you so much Gally" I reached a hand out to him.

"Come to me _____. I'm waiting for you" As I approached, he began to fade.

"NO! Gally!!!"I ran towards him, tears streaming down my face"Come back!"  I felt my hand grip the railing before being pulled back by someone "Let go of me! Gally, he's waiting!"I struggled in the person's arms as they held me.

"_____! "I turned to see Newt, desperately holding onto me"Snap out of it! Gally's gone!"

"He's...He's gone?"I blinked as I stopped struggling"Gally is gone" I sniffed and felt tears filling my eyes.

"It's alright love"Newt ran his hand through my hair as I sobbed into his chest"It's going to be alright"

FLASHBACK

"_____?"I turned to see Newt staring at me in worry "Everything ok?"

"Yeah, I'm fine"I gave him a small smile which he returned. The car came to a stop and we all got out. There was a pile of ransacked vehicles in front of us.

"Well, I guess we're on foot"Jorge said. We made our way through the cars, cautiously. All of a sudden, bullets came flying.

"Take cover!"We hid behind the cars as the bullets pinged past us.

"Hey is everyone okay out there? Thomas questioned as the bullets stopped.

"We're fine" I shouted back.

"Anyone know where those bloody shots came from?" Newt yelled. I saw Thomas peek over before quickly ducking down again as bullet just missed his head.

"What do we do?"I asked.

"Everybody!"Jorge said"Get set to sprint back to the truck! And hold your ears"We were just getting ready when we heard a gun cock behind us,

"I said drop it!" We turned to see 2 masked women holding rifles towards Jorge and Thomas.

"On your feet, let's go"Thomas and George stood up, rasing their arms"Back up"

"Easy"Jorge and Thomas made their way backwards towards Minho, Newt and I as we also raised our arms.

"You three, get up" As we stood huddled, the girl with braids stared at Aris before lowering her rifle"Aris?" She took off her bandanna and Aris stepped forward.

"Oh my god, Harriet?"

"My God. What the hell are you doing here?" She hugged him tightly

"Sonya"Aris hugged the other girl tightly too.

"Aris, you're lucky we didn't shoot your dumb ass" I shrugged at Frypan who looked at me in confusion and mouthed "What?"

"What's happening?"Minho asked.

"We were in the maze together"Aris explained. Harriet whistled before shouting the all clear. We looked around to see several figures in the mountains lower their guns.

"Back it up Joe!"Sonya shouted as she led us through the tunnel "We're taking them to base" We saw loads of heavy military jeeps parked around the entrance.

"Wait, so how did you guys get here?"Aris asked as we walked.

"The Right Arm got us out"I glanced at Thomas before catching up to Harriet.

"Wait, The Right Arm? Do you know where they are?" I questioned.

"Hop in" Harriet opened the door to a jeep in response. I held the door open for Newt and Frypan before following them in. We drove through the desert for 20 minutes for so, all the while my mind was racing with excitement and curiosity. Finally, it seemed we might be getting some answers. Newt seemed to realise the same thing as he squeezed my hand with a nervous smile. I gave him an equally nervous smile back. The car slowed down and we all got out. We stood shocked as we gazed out into the valley where dozens of people were working.

"They've been planning this over a year now" Harriet explained as we made our way down"This is all for us"

"You guys are lucky you found us when you did"Sonya continued"We're moving out at first light" She turned to a guy who hauling some boxes"Where's Vince" The man gestured to some area to the left and we continued in that direction.

"Who's Vince?" I asked.

"He's the one who decides if you get to stay"Harriet replied.

"I thought the Right Arm was supposed to be an army"Minho said, looking around.

"Yeah we were" A shaggy haired bearded man said as he came out of makeshift tent. Clearly this was Vince"This is all that's left of us"He stood in front of us, his hands in his pockets"A lot of good people died getting us this far. Who are they?"He turned to Harriet and Sonya who glanced back at us before responding.

"They're Immunes. Caught 'em coming up the mountain"

"Did you check 'em?"

"I know this guy, Aris"Harriet pointed at him"I trust him"

"Well I don't. Check 'em" Vince shook his head. I heard heavy breathing behind me and as I turned to look, one of the guys stepped closer.

"Hey Boss..."Suddenly Brenda collapsed with a heavy sigh.

"Brenda! Brenda!"Jorge rushed to her side"Brenda talk to me"He held her in his arms.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry"She gasped.

"What's going on with her?" Vince knelt down beside Jorge, his hand on his shoulder.

"I don't know. Brenda. Talk to me"

"What the hell?"Vince muttered as he lowered down Brenda's sock"Crank! We got a Crank!"He yelled, pulling out his gun and pointing it at Brenda.

"No!"Thomas and I jumped in front of Vince as the others were pushed away from Brenda

"Listen, okay?" I pleaded"This just happened, okay? She's not dangerous yet"

"You shouldn't have brought her here!"Vince yelled at us as two guys held the struggling Jorge"We let Cranks in here now, the safe haven doesn't last a week!"By now the entire camp was watching us.

"I understand, okay? I understand. Just listen. Please, okay? I told her that you could help. There's got to be something you can do" Thomas begged Vince.

"Yeah, there is" He said, lowering his gun"I can put her out of her misery"He turned his safety off and aimed again as Jorge screamed.

"Vince that's enough! Let him go."A woman yelled, silencing Jorge and making Vince scowl.

"She's infected, Doc. There's nothing we can do for her"Vince said as she approached.

"No, but they can"The woman smiled upon seeing Thomas and I "Hello _______ and Thomas"We glanced at each other then at the smiling woman who's voice sent goosebumps over my body.

"What?"Everyone turned to look between Thomas, the woman and I.

"You know us?"Thomas asked.

"Interesting"She nodded"Makes sense they'd put you in the maze"She made her way to Brenda"Though I must admit, I was worried they'd kill the two of you after what you did"

"What we did?"I stepped towards her cautiously.

"The first time we spoke, I was talking to _______ who told me she and Thomas couldn't take it anymore, watching their friends die one by one"She looked away at the ground before back at us"The last time we spoke, you gave me the coordinates of every WICKD compound, trial and lab"

"They were our source"Vince said, staring at us in shock.

"We couldn't have pulled all this off without them"She turned back to Brenda and Jorge"Take her to the tent. Get these guys some warm clothes"As they left, my gaze met with Newt who had some emotion I couldn't read in his eyes.

"Thomas, come with me please"The woman reached her hand out"I need some blood from you"Thomas looked back at me and I nodded that I would be okay so he left with her.

"Alright, you guys follow me"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[welovetheartssoutherncalifo-blog]

What You Need To Know About The San Diego Symphony

Superlative events in San Diego include the San Diego Symphony. This musical experience of live music in a symphony in Southern California is ranked in the Tier 1 category of the League of American Orchestras. Having performed since its original concert back on December 6, 1910, in what was the new U.S. Grant Hotel's Grand Ballroom, it has become one of the country's top orchestras both artistically and financially with a budget of $25 million.

What concerts does the Symphony perform?

From October through May, this live music is downtown at the Copley Symphony Hall. From late June through early September, its Bayside Summer Nights are at its outdoor venue at the Embarcadero Marina Park South on the downtown waterfront. Performed are over 147 concerts yearly.

How many musicians are in the Symphony?

There are 82 full-time musicians plus ones hired on a case-by-case basis. Particular pieces of music call for less than the full complement.

Dining

For dining, desserts, and drinks before or after the concerts, there are Restaurant Partners, most of which are in or near the B Street Music District just steps away from the Copley Symphony Hall.

Two of the Upcoming Outstanding Concerts

A Celebration of Frank Sinatra

AN EVENING WITH MICHAEL FEINSTEIN

Friday, February 22 at 8 p.m. at the Copley Symphony Hall

Ticket prices are from $20 to $80

Michael Feinstein on piano and with his vocals together with his bass and percussion trio will perform favorite standards from several different decades of music made famous by the magical Sinatra. Included will be some of your favorites as well as some contemporary surprises.

Michael Feinstein has built an extraordinary career over the past three decades around the globe bringing his concerts also featuring his interpretations of the music of Irving Berlin, George Gershwin, Duke Ellington, and Jimmy Webb. His recordings have earned him five Grammy Award nominations for his Emmy-nominated PBS-TV specials and his NPR series.

BEETHOVEN PIANO CONCERTO NO. 2

March 9 at 8 p.m. Copley Symphony Hall

March 10 at 2 p.m. Copley Symphony Hall

Tickets range from $20 to $100

Robert Spano, Atlanta Symphony Music Director and Aspen Music Festival Director, will be the conductor of this concert that will feature the acclaimed pianist, Jorge Federico Osorio, in his debut performance of one of Ludwig van Beethoven’s earliest works. Also on the program will be a rare performance of A London Symphony by Ralph Vaughan Williams.

You can join in 45 minutes before the concerts inside Copley Symphony Hall for "What's the Score?" The lively talk is about the composers and the repertoire.

Put Them On Your Calendar

When you are searching for special events in San Diego, be sure to remember how much you and your family and guests would enjoy the performances of this symphony in Southern California.

We want to thank our amazing friends over at Dixon Security Cameras for helping us share this information about the symphony. Not only do they do this, but they provide some of the best security cameras in San Diego.

Maps Driving Directions:

https://goo.gl/maps/mSH8V63vLpy

[smsvisao]

Bartholomew Court

Bartholomew Court was an apartment complex situated northbound on Rt.3 in Fredericksburg. The Court, as it was called by locals, mostly housed young adults on hourly wages and the elderly. Apartment 402 housed a drug dealer and a sex worker but just barely.

Daniel, the sex worker, was responsible for half of the living costs shared between he and Youssef, the drug dealer. The agreement was that neither of them cared how they made their money as long as they had it when it was due. The reality was that they depended on each other to generate enough revenue to sustain both of their lives because sex and drugs were a married couple. It often led to the pair arguing like a married couple but that's beside the point.

Youssef slid the black curtains dividing the rest of their studio apartment from their bed space. Or in other terms, dividing the two workspaces. "George will be here in twenty minutes to pick up his order."

Daniel was busy and counted thirteen condoms that he had available to use before he'd need more. He kept them in the top of a bedside drawer along with everything else he needed to perform - three bottles of lube, a first aid kit, and incensed oil to refill the diffuser with. For the more interesting clients, he kept a box of toys and the necessary cleaning materials in the bottom.

George. George... nope. Didn't ring a bell. He remembered most of his clients and most of Youssef's - it was easy because half of them overlapped but he'd never had a George.

Done with inventory, he pushed the drawer shut. "George who?"

Youssef pulled back the curtain just enough to stick his head through. His eyes darted around the space, probably making sure it was ready to go in case "George" wanted other services. Well it was as good as it was gonna get. The room was clean and Daniel had already bathed this morning. Half the time he didn't bother with clothes around the apartment but at least wore pants when one of Youssef's clients were stopping by.

"He's a new-new."

"New-new?" The new-news were risky. They were either clients who had never had a trip or were clients who had no known link to their services. For that reason, they met new-new customers in front of the nail salon across the street. "Thought we weren't doing those."

"He's got a big order."

"Ok but its not like we got a big supply. So again, why'd you agree to sell to him?"

Youssef crouched to the floor in front of him, folding his arms across Daniel's knees. "Hey." A depraved smile crept across his face. "Do you remember what it was like at Sovereign Hope? When you came back past curfew and got locked out?"

He was nineteen and had just been dropped back off at the shelter after meeting with his first client - the Director's husband. The Director's husband hadn't allowed him to shower and the rain that poured only made certain things worse. Everything hurt but the Director's husband was a smart man so there weren't any bruises to show for it. When the night staff finally opened the door, he was berated and then interrogated about where he'd gone and why he came back so late. They wanted to search him to make sure he hadn't brought back any weapons or drugs and normally that was fine except he was done with being probed and prodded like an animal. Refusing got him a door slammed to the face. If he couldn't follow the rules he didn't get to stay.

It was Youssef that snuck him in through a back window and begged the staff to give him a second chance. Youssef was a lot nicer back then.

A hand gloved tight in black latex gave two quick cold pats to his cheek. "Why don't you go make sure your ass is clean or something and leave the rest to me?"

"Will do," He threw his asshole of a roommate a swift punch to the gut. Youssef stumbled backwards and laughed it off.

The time that had passed since then hadn't been kind to either of them. He liked to think there were some parts of himself that he'd managed to hold onto. Youssef was different. He let himself go after he found drugs and now, he was a completely different person.

Outside, there was nowhere to go that wouldn't cost money. So, he often passed time at the main entrance of their unit watching people go in and out. Half of them didn't even live there. At some point there was probably a working code system but now it was just an unlocked door with a broken and outdated keypad next to it.

With eyes squinting at the sun, he figured there must have been a pretty sweet payoff from this George guy if Youssef was bending his own rule. It didn't make sense though. He didn't know the exact quantity, but he knew that there had been plenty of times that Youssef just didn't have the supply and Daniel had to take more clients to bring in enough money to cover rent. That was the scenario at least two times out of every month.

Another ten minutes passed before a blue sedan pulled off from the main road and slowed to a stop in front of the entrance. The man who got out of the car in gym shorts and a baseball cap was someone he'd recognize anywhere.

Not George but Jorge. One of his own clients, his favorite one. He liked Jorge because he was low-maintenance and clean. Usually he only asked for hand jobs and there was only one time that he asked for penetration. Youssef had been out on a pick-up. It was late, around 11 p.m. He never looked forward to clients but after so many sessions of only touching he'd always wondered what it would feel like to be held by the man.

When it finally happened, it was underwhelming and average, but he liked the way Jorge offered to take out the trash for him on his way out. The trash was full that night. Youssef had been gone for two days and he hadn't taken it out before he left. At the time, Daniel thought it was weird that Jorge offered but later it made sense, Jorge was always ... nice. But when he walked up the steps of the entrance in basketball shorts and a sweat stained t-shirt, the look on his face wasn't nice.

"Bad day?" Daniel asked thinking Jorge just hadn't noticed it was him hanging out at the entrance. Their eyes met and Daniel saw a flicker of interest.

"Somewhat. Hey listen, are you free now?"

"I can be. Why?"

"I just placed an order at Mr. Chun's but I won't have time to grab it now that I'm here. Think you can pick it up for me? I'll throw in some extra cash."

Mr. Chun's was the shabby restaurant in the plaza behind the complex but damn was the food good.

"Why not. What am I looking for?"

"A large sweet and sour shrimp platter with fried rice."

"Didn't I recommend that to you last time we met?"

"Oh, was that you?" Jorge looked over his shoulder and then handed him a thin wad of rolled up cash. "Thanks Daniel."

He stuffed the cash into his pocket. Sweet and sour shrimp sounded good right about now.

The door to Mr. Chun's had their menu typed on paper posted on the back of the glass from the inside so that people could see it but not touch it from the outside. A little chime went off when he stepped inside. An older woman in a red apron looked up from whatever she was writing.

"Hello, ah!" She gasped and she pointed at his bare torso. Daniel laughed. "It's too hot for a shirt out there. Go step outside, you'll take yours off too." He teased.

"Oh boy, it must be. Yesterday was in the nineties. Are you ordering now?"

"Picking up. It was a large sweet and sour shrimp for Jorge."

"Okay, this is for you." With a kind smile she handed him a folded piece of paper where she had covered the page in a floral pattern with the green of her pen.

"Wow. Thanks. You did this?"

"Yes, but turn it over, that part is for you. I made it better with my talent. Now not only can you taste our talent you can see it also."

The handwriting was small, and everything was underlined.

I know it's your favorite, enjoy it and keep the extra cash. Don't come back to your apartment. Go to this address asap and ask for Eva. 2583 Rowing St. You'll be taken care of.

"When did he give you this? What did he say?" Daniel asked in a rush.

"He said nothing, except to give it to you. Here." She handed him a plastic bag filled with two takeout boxes, condiments and chopsticks. There was also a ginger ale.

"Thanks."

She wished him a good day but when he began to make his way back to the apartment against the direction of the note he realized the day was anything but good. From the plaza parking lot he could see two cop cars parked to the side of their unit at Bartholomew Court. Not a big deal. The cops hung around sometimes and he'd had run ins with them before but nothing too serious. Youssef on the other hand…

Just as the concern crossed his mind, he saw his roommate being escorted down the steps, flanked by two officers and one in the back. They hadn't sounded the sirens when they pulled up or he would've heard it from Mr. Chun's.

"Dammit, Youssef." Jorge was a leak.

Even so, doing exactly what the note said was a no-brainer. He didn't know what Jorge was tied up in, but he understood that the man was looking out for him.

It made sense to hang back near Mr. Chun's rather than getting any closer to the unit until things cooled down. He pulled up the address Jorge left him on his phone and saw that it wasn't nearby. It was in Alexandria and that was an hour and some change away. He'd have to take a taxi. Crazy how he could spend most of his adult life with a man who helped him stay alive and then eat Chinese food and watch from the sidewalk as he got pushed into a cop car and taken away.

When his taxi arrived, he settled in and gave the address fine enough but couldn't keep his foot from tapping the whole ride north. Maybe it was survivor's guilt. It hurt to be callous, to move on without a second thought about someone he spent a good portion of his life with. Youssef was half responsible for making sure he didn't starve to death.

But what could he have done? Fight Jorge off? Run up to Youssef as he was being drug down the steps of the complex and wrestle him out of police custody? Then they'd both be in handcuffs. Jorge had sent him off and spared his life. Someone, even when Youssef wasn't, was looking out for him. He owed Youssef a lot but decided he owed Jorge more.

The taxi settled at the first red light since getting off I-95. The driver looked back to check on him. "You ever been up here before?"

"Don't think so. If I have, I don't remember."

"It's different from the south. More brown people like yourself. You don't need a car for much up here, but you will need a shirt."

Daniel raised an eyebrow. He hadn't considered himself brown. Youssef was brown. He was…damn, now he didn't know what he was. What a perfect time to have an identity crisis. He thought he was white like everyone else in Fredericksburg. Since when did people start using brown the way they used white and black? What did brown even mean? Compared to the driver's skin that looked like pizza dough, he guessed his skin was more like the color of the fried rice he'd eaten earlier. If that was brown, then so be it.

"Gotcha. What's up here? Trains? Busses?"

"Both. You got the Metro, and you got the county public transit systems. Matter-a-fact… The driver took his eyes off the road to rustle in his glove compartment. "It's not a shirt, and it might be a bit outdated but hopefully not by much."

Daniel took the pamphlets from the driver and unfolded it. "This a map?" He saw red lines, blue lines, green lines, and black targets.

"To the metro. You can pretty much get around the DMV with that."

"DC, Maryland, and Virginia?"

The driver chuckled. "You're fitting in already."

"Thanks for this."

"No problem. I got tons of them."

The rest of the ride was silent except for a few expletives let out by the driver when he was cut off in traffic. The roads got smaller and smaller until the taxi slowed to a stop outside of a row of brick buildings stuck together.

"You said 2583 Rowing St., right? Well this is it. You take care now and good luck."

He paid the driver with probably more cash than what was necessary and then cut into the flow of pedestrians to walk up the narrow stairs of 2583. The building had no sign, no business hours and the windows were tinted.

Wary of being caught without a shirt up here where everything was … new and expensive looking, he was quick to enter the building.

The door ushered him to a cluttered desk that took up most of the space in the room. There was a staircase further back but no way in hell was he taking it without knowing what this place was. At least there was AC.

A woman in grey slacks and a black polo descended the stairs, faltering on the last step when she saw him. She was a tiny thing with a stony demeanor. She probably shed her skin in the winter.

"You must be Daniel." She leaned over the desk to extend a hand. It was cold to the touch and he felt callouses. "I'm Eva. Jorge will be glad to hear that you've made it safely." He'd never met a woman with a dryer voice. Clearly, she'd seen some shit. She sounded like a cop, just in plainclothes.

"Never thought I'd end up here when I woke up this morning." Normally people smiled when they shook but he had nothing to smile about and he guessed she didn't either.

"No one ever does."

"What is this place, by the way?"

She rustled through the papers that were strewn across the desk until she found an empty manila folder. "I know this place is new to you, you coming from Fredericksburg and all but it's a nice place." She scribbled something on top of the folder in pen. "A safe place."

A safe place. He'd heard that before and the tone of her voice was far from convincing.

"Follow me upstairs. There's a place for you to sit and I can explain what Jorge's note was all about - as I'm sure you're wondering."

"Why not?" It was either follow the woman upstairs or wander aimlessly on the streets in the heat and without a shirt. It wasn't until she motioned for him to sit down in front of yet another desk that he realized she hadn't answered his first question. These rooms were just barren, just desks and unorganized paperwork. Was there even anyone else in this building?

She moved a stack of papers towards her side of the desk. "I'll be doing most of the talking and then we can go over any questions you may have after."

Daniel snorted at that. He'd ask the questions when he wanted to. It was his life that was suddenly up in the air. Not hers. "Jorge. Is he a cop?"

"I guess I did say I would tell you." She huffed. She leaned back in the office chair, then continued "No. Jorge isn't a cop, or any other type of law enforcement." Her mouth parted to start on another sentence. Probably trying to change the subject but he wasn't going to let her.

"Then what is he?" Youssef was probably in some cell by now and Jorge had something to do with it. Eva's eyes flickered toward his bare chest with displeasure.

"A private investigator working for our group. He was hired by one of your relatives - your brother, to be exact."

"Don't have one. What's the real story?"

"You do have one." She clipped.

"A man is walking around claiming to be my brother, hired a private investigator to find me, and for what? What does he want from me? This stalker."

Eva sighed. "You're his only sibling."

Was that supposed to make things make sense? Say for the sake of things this was true and he did have a brother. How was it that his brother had enough money to hire a private investigator while he shook his ass on men's dicks to pay rent? How was that fair? If it were true that he had a brother, the gods had a gross sense of humor.

"Only sibling, right. You can tell my "brother" to stay the hell away from me."

"Tell him yourself. Though, as I know him personally," She slid a business card his way. "I don't see that ending well for you."

All black card-stock. In the background was the design of a tree in a shade of gray that was just a bit lighter than the black. Folk Investigation Group was etched in a glimmering white font. He flipped it over and saw a number. Under the number was the name.

Damon Figueira, Lead Investigative Analyst. If this was the name of some long-lost brother, it may have well as been the name of a stranger because it meant nothing to him.

"Why didn't he meet me himself and lie to my face? Why have you do it for him?"

"Damon's work has taken him out of state today and the resident social worker is out of the office for the week. That means you're stuck with me, the resident attorney."

"An attorney, huh." Daniel looked at the spread of documents across the desk. 

"That makes sense."

Eva opened a drawer and pulled out a few papers. She stuffed them into the manila folder. "I'm about done with doing the grunt work for his little family project." She grumbled as she stood. "Here's more of what you need to know for now." She dropped the folder so that it landed in front of him with a smack. "Get the rest from Damon and maybe a shirt while you're at it. This is Alexandria, not the suburban boonies of Fredericksburg."

She shut the door behind her, and he heard the wooden blinds that dressed the small window in the door clatter against the pane.

But he couldn't take his eyes off what she'd written earlier on the folder in black ink and big letters.

Daniel Wood-Figueira.

[scribomaniac]

The House of Sorcery, Chapter 7: Dinner with the Undead Queen

Read from the beginning here!

Reyna blinked several times at the glasses in front of her. The ice she just added made the carbonated drinks fizzle and pop as it began to slowly melt. A Vampire was here. Knowing Dunstan hadn’t set up any appointments for today, she wondered what they wanted, and then wondered if they’d be trouble. Spinning the cap back onto the two liter pop bottle, Reyna called out, “Be right there!” And put it back into the fridge. 

Jorge was frowning at the intercom screen next to the front door when Reyna walked up behind him. “Since when does Dunstan work with Vamps?”

Raising a brow, she replied easily, “Since always. Oh,” she looked at the screen, “that’s Sophie.” Standing patiently on the other side of the door was Sophie Bernard, an exquisitely beautiful Vampire with a small button nose, thin red lips, and plump cheeks accented with high cheekbones. With a busty bosom and hips to match, the Vampire was more round than tall.  An impressive feat, considering she was just shy of six feet without her heels.

Although the Vampire looked like she was in her late twenties, she had actually been born in the early twentieth century.  She’d been turned just before the second World War by Lilith, the Queen of Vampires herself, and had been by her side ever since.

Immediately, Reyna unlocked the door and welcomed the Vampire into her home. “Reyna, darling!” She cooed, her voice lilting with her French accent, once she saw the dark haired Mage on the other side of the door. Stepping one staggeringly tall heel past the threshold, and then the other, she leaned down to press light bises to both Reyna’s cheeks. “How lovely to see you! And who is this handsome young man?” She asked, her sharp blue gaze quickly landing on Jorge. Having known Sophie since she was ten years old, the green eyed Mage immediately caught that mischievous twinkle in the Vampire’s eye and knew exactly what it meant. “This is my friend, Jorge.” She introduced, then stressed, “We’re just friends.” Sophie’s lips pursed with the shrewdness of a disappointed grandmother. She’d been trying to set Reyna up with a boy since the young Mage had hit puberty. “Jorge, this is Sophie. She’s Lilith’s personal assistant and a friend of Dunstan’s.” “Enchonte,” Sophie straightened her spine before extending her hand for Jorge to take. The blonde haired Mage looked between Reyna and Sophie with a slight frown marring his face before accepting the extended hand and shaking it. Sophie looked a little put out, probably hoping he’d kiss it, but brushed it off easily. “So,” she clapped her hands together and aimed her blue eyes back towards Reyna, “where might I find Dunstan at this hour?” Reyna frowned, thinking, "Oh, probably somewhere near Worcester by now." "Worcester? Massachusetts?" Sophie blinked, then with a pout, she asked, "And what is he doing there?"

Jorge awkwardly bumped into Reyna as he shifted, as inconspicuously as he could, away from Sophie. Leaning into him ever so slightly, Reyna took pity on her friend--she’d never seen him so uncomfortable before--and made her way back towards the kitchen, motioning for Sophie to follow.  Jorge took the opportunity to dash up the stairs without a look back. "He's driving back from a House session. He'll be back the day after tomorrow. Want something to drink?" "Coconut water, if you have any." Of course they had some, Reyna thought while grabbing a carton out from the fridge. Although neither resident drank it, Dunstan always made sure he had some on hand just in case he needed to play host to any undead guests. "Day after tomorrow, you say? Hmm," Reyna poured a glass and handed it to the tall Vampire. "Oh, thank you dear." She took a sip, then stared at the glass in thoughtfully. "Lilith will not be pleased to hear this," she said before taking another sip. Reyna held back a roll of the eyes. Lilith was rarely ever pleased, but Sophie always made it sound much more dramatic than it was. "What do you need?" Maybe if it was magic related, Reyna could help her out and send Sophie on her way. She loved Sophie, she really did, but the longer she remained in the house, the longer Jorge hid upstairs, and that didn’t make for a very fun weekend. "Oh," Sophie took another dainty sip of her water and shook her head, "it is nothing, Lilith just wished to have dinner with Dunstan soon and sent me to set a date." If that was all, Reyna would happily play secretary for her Master. Summoning his planner, she flipped the book open and found today's date, "Okay, no problem. What day were you two thinking?" Puckering her lips, Reyna skimmed through his plans for the upcoming week. "Looks like he's free the night he gets home," technically he didn't have to go to dinner with the Vankov's, "and Friday night." Clapping her hands together, Sophie smiled triumphantly, "Friday works perfectly! I'll let Lilith know immediately," she pulled her phone out from her purse and her thumbs went flying over the glass screen. "We'll expect the two of you at seven, with you arriving ten minutes early, of course. Dress shall be semi-formal, and remind Dunstan to bring a gift for his hostess, yes?” Putting her phone away, she released an unnecessary breath of relief, "Wonderful!" Leaning in to press more bises to her cheeks, she pulled away with a smile and said, "Well I really must be going, darling. I'm to make a few more visits before the day is finished. I shall see you on Friday--give me a call if you need to go shopping before then!" Wiggling her fingers in farewell, she winked, "Say goodbye to Jorge for me.” Reyna pretended to gag before opening the door for her. Sophie's bell like laugh echoed throughout the foyer and she gave one last wink before finally stepping out the front door. There was a brief silence after Reyna closed the door, and then, "Is she gone yet?" Jorge's voice asked from somewhere above her. Looking up, Reyna saw his eyes peering down at her through the banister bars.

“Yeah, she's gone. Didn't realize you were afraid of Vampires, George.”

Jorge rolled his eyes and started the trek down the stairs. “Shut up. I've never met one before.”

“Really?” That surprised her. Jorge was an Apprentice, he should've dealt with dozens of them by now. Reyna herself had been dealing with them since she was ten, and had known how to tear their hearts out of their chests at age eight.  Just in case one ever got too hungry.

Nodding, Jorge gave her a strange look, “Yeah,” he said slowly. “Why? Do they come around here often?”

“Not really, but Lilith is Dunstan’s top client, so--what?” She stopped at the look on Jorge's face. His eyes went as wide as saucers, and his mouth puckered as if he'd just tasted something sour. “What's that face for?”

“Lilith, as in the Lilith? The Vampire Queen? The original freaking Vampire?”

“Yeah,” Reyna said slowly, wondering why he was freaking out so much. It wasn't exactly a secret after all. In fact, she was pretty sure Dunstan bragged about it any chance he got.  Being Lilith’s chosen Mage was a high honor.

Running his hands through his golden locks, Jorge looked at her like she'd begun to molt. “Since when? Why? How stupid--”

Brows furrowing, Reyna crossed her arms over her chest and glared at her friend, “What do you mean since when? Since always! How do you think Dunstan makes all his money?” It certainly didn’t come from being a Sorcerer. Sure, the job paid well, but not this well. Not well enough for several houses, a Rolls Royce, and all the designer clothes in their closets.  

“Vampires are dangerous, Reyna! God, how stupid--I can't believe he's letting any of them near you! Donny would flip his shit if he knew about any of this! Hell, the whole House would!”

“Don't be so dramatic,” she told him while heading back towards the kitchen. Their glasses were just where she left them, but the ice had shrunk three times its original size. “Everyone in the House knows, even Donny.” That man was oblivious, but not that oblivious.

“Besides, they're not that dangerous, so long as you know how to handle them.” So long as you were powerful enough, she amended in her mind.  Vampires were pretty durable, after all.  Only three things could kill them: direct sunlight, decapitation, or a stake to the heart.  Ripping their heart straight out their chest worked, too, of course, but it took a lot of skill to do.  A lot of conviction, too.  Magic could only get you so far, after all.

“It's just good business.” She added with a roll of her eyes.  Reyna had heard Dunstan utter that phrase dozens of times before, so it sounded a little weird coming out of her own mouth, but it was true regardless of who said it.

Jorge snorted, “Good business,” he repeated, his tone mocking. “Yeah, right. This has nothing to do with business and everything to do with politics.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” His tone was starting to get on her nerves.  Business, politics, who cared?  It was money, it was comfort, it was survival.  Reyna didn’t understand why Jorge was making such a big deal out of this.

The blonde shrugged, feigning nonchalance, “I'm just saying they're powerful allies to have in your corner.”

Reyna grit her teeth and felt her magic coil beneath her skin, reacting to the anger and frustration brewing in her chest.  If Jorge had something to say, he should just say it. “That doesn't sound like a bad thing,” she snipped because, really, it didn’t.  

“It's not,” he shrugged again and grabbed his drink before heading back to the living room. Over his shoulder, he added, “If you're expecting a war.”

“Now come on,” he sighed from his spot on the couch, already done with the conversation, “I wanted to finish that episode. Can we rewind?”

Frowning after her friend, Reyna suddenly hated his ability to just shrug things off and move on.  He might’ve been done with the conversation, but she wasn’t.  There was more to be said, more to hash out, but the green eyed Mage knew she wouldn’t get another word out of him on the subject.  Not now, at least.  Running her tongue along her teeth, Reyna forced her jaw to unclench and sighed.  “Yeah, sure.”

Nose scrunching, Reyna knew she’d have to tone down the attitude if she wanted to have any fun this weekend.  She reminded herself that she didn’t get to hang out with Jorge often, and that she wanted to make the most out of the next couple days.  Closing her eyes and taking a few calming breaths, Reyna felt her anger slowly unwind and her magic settle.  Finally, she followed her friend back into the living room and joined him on the couch.

The week came and went in the blink of an eye. There had been no other interruptions--be it from protesters or Vampires, thank god--during Jorge's stay, and their dinner with the Vankov family had been lovely. Loud, but lovely all the same.

They'd gone to the Grand Lux, much to Dunstan’s chagrin.  “It's for tourists,” he'd said, sneering at the very thought of eating there. Reyna had to concede that her Master was right in that regard, but it was also a restaurant with plenty of options for any and all picky eaters, reasonably priced--even if Donny was technically paying--and didn't look like a hole in the wall. They could even dress however they wanted.  Fancy or casual, the Grand Lux accepted all sorts of stylings.

It had gone over smashingly.  Everyone had loved it. Elena wore a brand new dress she’d received for her birthday, Mrs. Vankov loved the restaurant’s decor, Marcus was pleased with the menu’s reasonable prices, and even snarky little Nico found nothing wrong or annoying to gripe about.

Now Reyna found herself preparing for another dinner party, though she had a feeling this one wouldn't be nearly as fun as the last.

Lilith was amazing, and Reyna looked up to the fearsome Queen with the utmost respect and even just a tad bit of hero worship.  Not everyone could rule for over two thousand years, now could they?  And then there was Sophie, who was always a laugh and a pleasure to be around.  And she always bought Reyna pretty new clothes, which easily endeared her into the young Mage’s heart.  But these dinners, they were always a little . . . dull.

On occasions like these, Reyna was really only ever invited as a courtesy because she was Dunstan's Apprentice, and she only ever went because, well, you don't turn down an invitation from the Undead Queen.  Not if you wanted to remain in her good graces, anyway.  

She hoped the dinner would at least brighten her Master's mood. After the Vankov dinner, Reyna bit the bullet and told him about the protesters. He'd taken it about as well as she had expected, with thunderous rage and an explosion of venomous words.

After his outburst, the brown eyed Sorcerer had turned inwards, keeping to his study and barely speaking a word for the past few days. Reyna could tell he was planning something, but had no idea what. Perhaps planning for the dinner with Lilith, or perhaps, as Jorge said, planning for a war.

Whichever it was, Reyna just hoped he'd tell her soon. She hated waiting.

They arrived at Lilith’s building that Friday evening, fifteen minutes before they were officially expected. Dunstan handed his keys over to the valet, a human boy with scraggly blonde hair.  He was one of the few humans working on the building’s staff.  He looked like any other normal teenage boy, with half lidded eyes and an easy smile.  He was smart, though, he had to be, and braver than most.  Most humans steered clear of working with Vampires, but Lilith paid well, and as far as Reyna knew there’d never been an accident between staff and resident.  

Lilith had bought this building five years ago and had renovated it to fit her Vampiric needs. Every window was fitted with UV protected glass, several floors were repurposed and turned into a blood bank, and iron was used to decorate almost every inch of the place to keep those pesky Fae out.

She'd intended for it to be a haven for her and her favorite children. Originally, the neighbors hadn't been too keen on the idea of the Vampire Queen living the next building over, but when that dissent reached Lilith’s ears, she smiled and said she understood. The next day every building surrounding her had been bought up by an anonymous developer, and all those who'd complained found themselves promptly evicted.

Although it was never spoken of, it was no real secret that Lilith had been the buyer. The fact that she did it wasn't surprising to Reyna, it was the fact that she could. Lilith lived in the center of the Loop. These buildings weren't cheap. Sure, she'd had over two thousand years to raise the money, but still. It was very impressive.

The building itself was built back in 2001, which, considering the ages of its residents was still very new. Lilith, of course, lived in the penthouse at the very top, which took an awfully long time to get to, even using the elevator. It’d taken the two Mages almost five minutes to get from their car to her floor.

The double ding of the elevator announced their arrival and the silver doors opened up to a grand foyer. The floors and walls were covered with a dark gray marble, with silver and black swirls running through its veins. Antique chairs and small, glass coffee tables filled the room and the walls were decorated with oil paintings and a few artifacts that looked positively Viking. Reyna had no doubt that all these pieces were original and very, very old.

The soft tap-tap of shoes hitting the marble floors echoed throughout the room as Benjamin, Lilith's butler and a fellow human, walked around the corner.

Benjamin was an older man, close to his seventies but not quite there yet, with dark black skin and a full head of hair that was so gray it almost looked white. He'd been with Lilith since he was sixteen, and besides Sophie had been with Lilith longer than anyone else on the planet.

“Good evening, Master Dunstan,” he nodded to the both of them, “Miss Reyna. May I take your coats?” Once in hand, Benjamin efficiently hung them up in a closet, “Very good. Her majesty is in the Drawing Room, please follow me.”

Even though both Mages had been to the Drawing Room enough times they could find it blind, Benjamin was a stickler for protocol and would be aghast at the idea of letting them wander through his Mistress’s home unchaperoned.

The Drawing Room was decorated similarly to the foyer, with oil paintings and Viking relics, but instead of marble, the floors were a dark hickory wood and the one wall that wasn't made entirely of window glass was covered in dark gray brick.

The first time Reyna had met the Vampire Queen, she'd been nine or ten, and thought Lilith was larger than life. She'd looked so ethereal, with her pale white skin and matching white hair that seemed to illuminate space around her. Her dark eyes, blacker than any lump of coal, seemed to see everything, and always hinted that she knew something you did not.

Now, five years later, all those things remained constant. Lilith's hair had not changed, her skin had never changed pallor, her eyes remained sharp and soul cutting, but the one thing that always took Reyna by surprise was her youth. With her round face and small stature, Lilith would forever remain a child on the cusp of puberty. Reyna, on the verge of sixteen, had already outgrown her physically.

The green eyed Mage wondered if she'd ever get over the shock of Lilith's youthful appearance, or if she'd have the same reaction once she surpassed Sophie's undead age.

Lilith stood in the middle of the room, her hands neatly folded before her. “Dunstan, Reyna, dear, how wonderful to see you again. It's been too long.”

“Lilith,” Dunstan stepped forward and took her hand to kiss it. “Thank you for welcoming us into your home.” Lilith's face remained unchanged, as unmoving as stone, as she watched Dunstan. The Vampire Queen didn't care about pretty words or any sort of flattery, she cared much more for action and gifts. “For you,” Dunstan wisely cut to the chase, a green bottle appearing in his hands.

Red lips pulling back into a dangerous smile, Lilith's elongated canines showed themselves at the sight of the blood filled bottle. Black veins appeared along her pale temple and the whites of her eyes bled red as the faint scent of blood permeated her nostrils. “How kind of you, Dunstan. Benjamin,” she paused, then forced her face back into a neutral, human like expression, “please prepare me a glass. I'll have this for dinner.”

“Of course, your majesty.” Benjamin nodded and then took the bottle back towards the kitchen.

“Where's Sophie?” Reyna asked, after giving Lilith a greeting of her own. She hoped Sophie showed up soon.

“Oh,” Lilith said casually, waving a dainty hand at Reyna, “she'll be here soon. We had a bit of a . . . we'll, I guess you could call him an intruder.” She cocked her head to the side in thought, her white blonde hair cascading over her bony shoulder. “Yes, we had an intruder. Sophie's dealing with it.”

Lilith motioned for them to sit on the black leather sofa while she sat in her white plush wing back chair. Dunstan hummed and rubbed a hand over his mouth and along his beard. “An intruder? That's . . . unusual. Your security is so tight, I'm surprised he got in. Was he a Vampire?”

“Vampire, yes. Unusual, no.” Lilith shrugged, “As for my security, don't worry your pretty little head, Dunstan.” She grinned and gave Reyna a sly wink, “it's as tight as I need it to be.”

Brows furrowing, Reyna clarified, “You let him in on purpose? Why?”

Another shrug, “Information, I suppose,” her smirk widened, making her look almost lupine, “and a bit of boredom, too.”

“Who was he?” Dunstan asked, his frown deep and stern.  

Benjamin reentered the room then, his heels hitting against the wood floor at a steady rhythm as he handed Lilith a crystal glass filled with dark, gooey blood. “Thank you, Benjamin.” She took a small sip and sighed, closing her eyes as she relished the taste. Reyna wondered who tonight's donation belonged to.

Opening her eyes, the whites a light pink, Lilith looked straight at Dunstan, “Ah, yes,” her tongue darted out to lick whatever residual blood was on her lips, “truly, he was nobody. A grunt from Louisiana who thought he'd test out the sire theory.” She scoffed before taking another sip.

No one knew exactly how Lilith had become to world's first Vampire. Some said she made a deal with the devil himself, others claimed that she was a Fae experiment gone wrong. Some rumors even claimed that a giant bat bit her, and that's how this all started. The only person who knew for sure was Lilith, and as far as Reyna knew, no one ever got a straight answer out of her.

One thing every Vampire seemed to agree on, however, was the sire theory. The theory that as their Queen, as the origin of their Vampiric abilities, every one of them was linked to her, like some sort of hive. And like a hive, if the Queen dies then so do the children.

It could, of course, be all made up. Lilith could've started the sire theory as a way to ensure her survival, and so far no one had been able to test it. No one wanted to take the chance.

“A grunt?” Dunstan raised a brow, “So he was working for someone?”

“That,” Sophie began, walking into the room as quietly as a mouse. Reyna never understood how the Vampire could be so quiet, even while wearing stiletto heels. “Is something I intend to find out.”

“Sophie, good, I was starting to worry,” Lilith narrowed her eyes as she surveyed her assistant. “I hope he wasn't too much trouble.”

Sophie puckered her lips and sat down on the arm of the sofa, “He's taking a bit longer than I had hoped, I admit.” She pushed some blond hair behind her ear, “I thought I would take a break and check in with him after dinner.”

Lilith hummed, but eventually nodded her head. Reyna watched as a silent conversation continued between the two Vampires. Lilith was not happy, and neither was Sophie, but with Dunstan and her there, there wasn't too much they could do about it.

“Very well. Shall we move to the Dining Room? Sophie, I'll have Benjamin pour you a glass of Dunstan's gift.”

Perking up at that, Sophie smiled at Dunstan and purred, “A gift? Oh how magnifique! And who do I have the pleasure of dining on tonight? You, perhaps?” Her smile was teasing, but Reyna could see the barely tamed excitement twinkling behind her blue eyes.

Chuckling, Dunstan shook his head and stood, “No, I am not the donor, Sophie.” His grin turned sharp, and his Apprentice heard what his words didn't say. You should know better than to ask that, the smile said.

Mage blood was a delicacy to Vampires, and the more powerful the mage, the more enticing the blood. Sophie had been vying for a taste of Dunstan's blood for as long as Reyna knew her, but Dunstan always refused. Reyna didn't know why, exactly, but knowing her Master, he was most likely saving it for a large favor.

“I’m sure you won't be disappointed, though,” Dunstan continued as Benjamin returned to lead the foursome into the Dining Room. Just like the rest of the penthouse, the Dining Room was decorated with accents of gray and had a large glass table in the center of it surrounded by several iron backed chairs.

“The donor is a Fae friend of mine.” Dunstan grinned as Sophie gasped. Fae blood, like a powerful Mage, was extremely potent to a Vampire, and much, much harder to obtain. “She owed me a favor.”

Reyna looked away to grimace. She knew which Fairy her Master spoke of. Clochette was the name she went by, and she, unfortunately, was a regular visitor at their house. The green eyed Mage didn't understand their relationship, and the be perfectly honest, she didn't want to.

Snapping her fingers once everyone was seated, Lilith summoned Benjamin and two servers into the room. Benjamin placed an identical glass of blood on the table in front of Sophie before turning to his mistress to refill her glass.

The two servers--two Vampires this time. They must've been young if they were still working for a source of income--placed hot plates of coq au vin before the two Mages.

“Dunstan,” Lilith began after several minutes of idle chatter and some eating, putting her glass down, the Undead Queen leaned forward in her seat, “tell me, how was Salem?” Her reddened lips curved into a wicked smile, “Anything . . . unusual happen?”

Reyna frowned and just barely suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. It was obvious that Lilith knew what happened that day, about the coup. She'd be amazed if anyone in the magical community--Elves included--hadn’t heard about it by now.

Dunstan smirked and took a sip of his white wine before answering, “Yes, actually.” Reyna had to close her eyes this time to hide the eye roll. Now Dunstan was playing along. Fabulous. “A few of my colleagues had attempted to overthrow Keeper Johnson. If it weren't for Reyna,” he turned to smile at her. Reyna’s green eyes flickered between him and Lilith suspiciously, but she merely continued chewing her chicken. “We'd probably be in the middle of a civil war right now.”

Dunstan wasn't wrong. Some Sorcerers probably would've sided with the Woodhalls and Murphy, but a decent amount would've fought back, especially considering the way they had planned to take power. It would've been long and messy--keeping her in Salem for who knew how long--and Reyna was glad it had been avoided.

“How wonderful!” Sophie declared, her thin lips tipped up in a proud smile. “Our Reyna darling, a little hero.”

“Yes,” Lilith murmured, “how wonderful indeed.” Reaching for the stem of her wine glass to take another sip, “Still, a coup,” she swirled her blood, watching the sides of the glass fog up with a red hue, “that doesn't bode well. How is Keeper Johnson dealing with such a blatant lack of faith?”

Dunstan grimaced, “She's burying her head in the sand.” He pushed some food around on his plate, considering taking a bite, “Hoping it all blows over.”

“Do you think it will work?” Sophie asked, her blue eyes a little too wide and a little too innocent. “That strategy, I mean.”

“It's not inspiring, that's for sure.” Dunstan took another sip of his wine and sat back in his chair. “Many Sorcerers now feel like a change in Keeper may be necessary.”

Reyna coughed, almost choking on a bite of food. The House wanted a new Keeper? This was the first she’d had heard of it. She'd have to contact Jorge and Marcus after the dinner and see what they thought.

Replacing a Keeper wasn't easy. First someone would have to publicly call for their dismissal, then someone would have to second the motion, then, for it to work, three fourths of the House would have to agree.

And as if that wasn't hard enough, then they'd have to go through elections. Someone would have to be nominated, then that nomination would have to be seconded. Then, once all the nominees were in, they'd have to vote. A nominee would have to have the House majority to win, which could be difficult if more than two Sorcerers were running. If no one won by majority, they'd vote again. Again, if no one achieved that elusive half plus one vote, then Duels were challenged; winner take all.

Lilith laughed, low and deep and almost like a purr, “And let me guess, they believe you to be the necessary change?”

Reyna wasn't surprised to hear that. Dunstan had wanted to be Keeper of the House for years now. The only thing that had stopped him from challenging Johnson for the position was his respect for her. Guess that had run out. Still, Dunstan becoming Keeper would change everything.

“I have a decent amount of support,” he nodded, “though I'd prefer to have a few more,” he paused, trying to find the right words, “allies in my corner before moving forward with any of this.”

“Are you sure now is the right time?” Sophie asked, her blue eyes flashing towards Reyna. “You wouldn't want Reyna to suffer because of any of this.”

Dunstan chuffed out a laugh, “I appreciate your concern, Sophie, we both do,” he winked at Reyna, “but you have nothing to worry about. Reyna's been ready to take on the title of Sorceress for almost three years now.” Sitting up straighter, the green eyed Mage preened at her Master's praise.

“She'll do just fine as this district's Sorceress, and heaven help anyone who tries to usurp her.”

Sophie hummed, not looking at all convinced, “What do you think of it all, Reyna darling?”

Sharing a quick look at her Master, Reyna folded her hands neatly on top of her lap, hiding her sweaty palms, “I think,” she said slowly, trying to keep her voice steady. She felt blindsided with this conversation. Just like with the King situation, Dunstan had chosen not to warn her in advance. She'd have to deal with that later, however.

“Dunstan is the best chance the House has to survive King and his rhetoric.” Dunstan smirked and Lilith nodded, but Sophie's attention didn't waver. “And I know I might be young, and it might be . . . overwhelming at first, but I also know that I can do it.”

Dunstan hadn't been lying when he said she was ready. Her magical prowess had already surpassed many Sorcerers in the House, which meant not many would try to steal the seat from her in a Duel. She'd also been Dunstan’s Apprentice for eight years. She'd had plenty of time to watch him and learn the ropes. She could do it. She was ready.

Sophie sighed, “Very well,” she nodded and took a sip of blood. “I still think you are too young, but--”

“Sophie,” Lilith cut her off and sent a sharp glare in her secretary’s direction. “That's enough.” Sitting up straighter, the Vampire Queen smiled at the two Mages, “Well, now that that's all settled, let's talk allies.”

“How many Sorcerers are in your corner?” She asked, her black eyes looking straight into the Sorcerer’s soul. She reminded Reyna suddenly of an asp, ready and waiting for the right moment to strike.

“One hundred and seven have already pledged their loyalty to me.” He stroked his beard in thought, going over the numbers in his head. “There are about a hundred or so seriously questioning Johnson's leadership, then there are the other hundred and fifty that are waiting for to see which way the wind blows before officially taking sides. And the remaining seventy eight are remaining loyal to Johnson.”

“Those who are still undecided, it’s them we need to focus on.  You need to show them how far your reach extends,” Lilith said simply, taking another sip of her blood before continuing. “They already know how strong you are, magically. They've known that for a while now, haven't they?”

Her lips remained a flat line, but Reyna could see the smile and laughter behind Lilith’s dark eyes. The Vampire Queen had always been amused by the story of Dunstan's rise to power. She always got a kick out of retelling the gruesome details.

“Now they need to see the power you wield by the company you keep. So,” she clapped her hands and looked to her assistant, “let's have a party. Who shall we invite? My wealthiest children, of course. We'll be needing some donations and they do love to show off their money.  Perhaps I can have them turn into a competition.  Wouldn’t that be fun?”

Sophie had pulled out her phone and began taking notes with a thin, serious line between her brows. Her blue eyes flashed up to her Queen, awaiting further instructions. “You'll want to send a list to Sophie,” Lilith continued, “of all your supporters and those you believe can be persuaded to your side.”

“We’ll invite the Fae Queens,” Lilith said slowly, almost grounding out the words. It was no secret that the Vampire Queen and the Fae Queens didn't get along. Well, hated each other was more like it. Lilith thought the sister Queens were alien entities with no right to this dimension, and the Fae Queens believed themselves better than Lilith since she was so young. The white haired Vampire was two thousand years old, and yet to the Fae Queens she was barely a toddler.

“They won't come, of course,” Lilith sighed, “but they'll send envoys, I'm sure. How many do you think they'll send, Dunstan?” Her black eyes surveyed the Mage, trying to determine his worth. “They do favor you, yes?”

Dunstan nodded easily, “They seem to, though this will be the true test, I suppose. Hopefully they like me enough to send five representatives.”

Reyna hid a grimace by shoving a large piece of chicken into her mouth. She did not like the Fae. At all. Beyond Clochette, she’d met many Fae.  Both from the Seelie and Unseelie Courts, Reyna had seen them work on their home turf and abroad, and she'd even met their Queens--which was something not many could say. They were gorgeous, all of them. The Queens especially. But there was a hunger in their eyes and mischief in the curve of their lips that always put the young Mage on edge.

They were unpredictable at best and bored at worst. Reyna remembered the first time she'd been allowed into the Seelie Court. She'd been twelve or so, they'd been in France, and Dunstan had gone to call on the Seelie Queen. It’d all been fine, too, amazing, even, until one of them, a female with amber eyes and hair the color of plums, spotted a Goblin lurking nearby. They rounded on the poor creature faster than a shark on chum and had boiled him alive just for the fun of it. Reyna could still hear his screams.

Repressing a shiver, Reyna tried to banish the memories and other thoughts of the Fae out of her mind. Five Fae at one party, her mind repeated. That was going to be . . . difficult, to say the least. Well, she'd just have to cross that bridge when she came to it.

“And, of course, we'll invite a few choice politicians,” Lilith snapped her fingers and a servant flashed to her side, ready to pour more blood into her glass. She hummed for him to stop, “Those that are sympathetic to your cause, those loyal to the current mayor.”

Mayor Hamilton was an older man in his late sixties who'd held the title of mayor of Chicago for the last two decades. He was a smug old bastard with a square chin, a receding hairline and pale, Scottish skin that turned painfully pink if he ventured out into the sun for too long. Vampires burned less easily than this man.

He wasn't a bad mayor, but he wasn't a good one, either. The people of Chicago had gone too long with tax hikes and car shattering potholes. They wanted something different, something new, and so for the first time in what seemed like forever, mayor Hamilton finally had some competition.  Reyna would've loved to watch the drama of it all unfold if that competition had come from someone other than King.

Sneering down at her mushrooms, Reyna viciously stabbed one with her fork, causing Dunstan to raise his brow at her. Shrugging an apology, she tuned back into the conversation.

“Was there anyone else?” Sophie asked, her thumbs hovering over her phone’s screen.

“Just one more person,” Dunstan cleared his throat, “Sybil Line.”

That was ballsy of him, Reyna thought with a slight frown. Sybil Line was a Seer, a Prophet descended from Apollo himself, or so the rumors went anyway. She could look into your future with startling accuracy, and always had a prophecy or two up her sleeve. Reyna wasn't sure how they'd met, but Dunstan had somehow made friends with Sybil way back before Reyna was even born. If her Master could get her to make an appearance, that'd be one hell of a statement. The only problem was that Sybil was introverted as hell and hated leaving her home in the suburbs. No way in hell was she going to come all the way up into the city just to shmooze some people for Dunstan.

Still, Reyna stayed quiet. Now wasn't the time to point any of that out. And who knows, maybe Dunstan and the Prophet had already come to an agreement of some kind. Either way, she'd find out soon enough.

With the guest list settled, and the date of the party set for the night of the winter solstice--almost four months from now--the dinner party ended and the two Mages took their leave.

Outside Lilith's apartment, Dunstan had barely closed the driver side door when the words tumbled out of Reyna's mouth, “Is Sybil really coming to the party?”

If she were honest, she'd admit that she was excited by the prospect. Reyna loved Sybil, she was like a big sister to her and had been ever since she was twelve and she'd gotten her first period. Dunstan, the uneducated male that he was, dumped his Apprentice on Sybil's doorstep, begging her to take Reyna for a week and teach her about 'being a woman’. His words.

In hindsight, the memory was pretty funny, and in the end it had been a pretty fun week.

But although the Prophet and her Master were old friends, and Reyna looked up to the misty eyed woman, their visits were few and far between. And with Sybil's nature being what is was, Reyna was trying not to get her hopes up. It was hard, though. She really wanted Sybil to come.

Dunstan shrugged, “She said she would,” he said slowly. “But we won't know until the night of probably.”

Nodding, Reyna hummed and looked out her window. She hoped Sybil came. It'd almost make the Fae tolerable. Almost. Maybe she'd call her tomorrow, maybe add some incentive.

“Oh yeah,” Dunstan said suddenly, as if remembering something.  With one hand on the wheel and the other stroking his beard, he asked, “Since when do you hate mushrooms?”

Wincing, Reyna told him what really caused her to act so harshly towards the vegetable: King robbing her of enjoyable drama.  It was pathetic and embarrassing, but Dunstan wouldn’t have let it go. So as Dunstan’s laugh echoed throughout the car--Reyna swore people three cars over could hear him--she buried her face in her hands and waited for the embarrassment to pass.

[rfsak2]

Cactus, Part III

Here we go! This one was fun to write.

Cactus, Part III Summary: This is it. Harry/Jamie Warnings: There’s some past family unpleasantness, but hopefully it shouldn’t put anyone off. It’s not specific.

This might be Harry’s favorite thing.

Her head was in his lap, his fingers idly winding a platinum spiral around one knuckle. She looked relaxed and peaceful, humming softly along with the most recent mix of Sweet Creature. The song came to an end and-

The Jurassic Park theme suddenly rent the peaceful, almost contemplative moment. She briefly looked panicked and mouthed sorry.

He shrugged. “Answer it. Go on.”

She dug the phone out of the back pocket of her jeans and smiled, answering it and hitting speaker. “Hello, Gorgeous George.”

Harry frowned. Who the fuck is Gorgeous George?

“Hey Mama. You still in Jamaica?”

“Si, Señor.”

Harry smiled down at her and mouthed, Who’s that?

My brother.

He tried not to audibly sigh in relief. The tattoo artist?

She shook her head. A different brother.

“Dom Hooper, from that rehab charity you like, wants to know if you’d be available for a charity gig in LA in November.”

She pulled up the calendar in her iPad. “What day?”

“The 16th. You guys would be like one of five acts with a short, five or six song set.”

“Let me check. We’ll be recording in LA by then so it shouldn’t be t-” She laughed. “The boss is nodding. Should be fine.”

“Alright. I’ll check with your boys.”

“I’m her boy too.” Harry leaned closer to the phone. “I want t’come.”

Her brother chuckled. “It think that can be arranged. Harry, yeah?”

“Tha’s me. George?”

“Jorge. Only my sister calls me George. She keepin’ ya outta trouble?”

Harry laughed. “Yeh don’t know yer sister, mate.”

“That’s fair.”

She huffed. “For the record, I call you Gorgeous George. Not just George. That’s so pedestrian.”

“Well then... I’m so sorry, princess. My mistake.”

“Damn fuckin’ straight.” Her brother chuckled. “Goodbye, brother dearest.”

“Adios, chica. Talk to ya later.”

“Te amo.”

“Te amo.”

Harry smiled. “He seems nice.”

“He’s a pain in the ass really.”

**

She was glorious. Absolutely glorious.

Mitch elbowed him, snorting under his breath.

She was smiling and waving at them. Harry grinned and waved back, catching the kiss she was blowing them as she ducked under her guitar strap.

Harry honestly didn’t know how he was going to survive this. Her playing his music was enough, but her playing her own music wearing that dress and those boots. Shit, if she didn’t seem to know exactly what he liked.

Jesus.

She tested her pedals and then managed a graceful kneel to check a connection. She stood carefully, one hand holding the stiff, grey lace of her skirt down. Absentmindedly, her fingers ghosted over the angel tattooed in brilliant color on her thigh as she turned to her drummer.

He really needed to get control of himself or this was only going to get harder.

The drummer, an exceptionally cool, black man, made a face. “Dolores.”

“Yes, mi hermano querido.” She grinned against her mic. “Can I help you?”

“That dress is short, little sister.”

“Little, my ass.” She flicked him off. “I’m older than you.” The crowd laughed and she turned over her shoulder as if she had just remembered they were there. “Oh hey.”

Dante made a face. “So? You’re also about a foot too short to be popping off at the mouth like that. Short… kinda like your dress.”

She stuck her tongue out at him. “Me vale madre, hermanito.”

“You don’t kiss our mother with that mouth, d’ya?” Wait were they really related?

“Simmer down, ya two.” The lead singer, stepped up to his mic and smiled, roguish and more than a little hipster. “Hey y’all! I’m Matt Reeve, behind me on the electric guitar is Jamie Schwartz, on bass we have Tommy Lazert, and last but not least Dante Schwartz on the drums. We’re Spike and Devil.”

They were more Southern than Harry had been honestly been expecting, but excellent and fun to watch. They toed a fine line between the wailing psychedelic ‘60s guitar riffs that Jamie preferred and obviously excelled in and the softer blue-grassy strumming and plucking that Matt showcased.

She somehow managed to be dignified and dare he say it, lady-like, while shredding a guitar like Slash in a dress short enough that if she turned the wrong way the entire club would know what color her knickers were. Harry had done his fair share of performing and he really didn’t know how she had managed it.

She was glorious.

Thirty minutes later, they left the stage and Harry and Mitch skirted the edges of the room to meet her at the door to the green room without attracting too much attention.

Said door swung open, Jamie popping out first followed by her brother. She lit up their little corner of the club as she threw her arms open for them.

“Hey boys!”

Mitch hugged her briefly but Harry wrapped himself around her and popped her off her suede-booted feet. “Ye’re a little monster! Yeh did so good! Fookin’ incredible!”

She giggled. “Thanks! You had fun?”

Mitch nodded but Harry refused to let her go for another half-minute or so. When he let her down, she turned to her brother. “This is my brother, Dante.” She smiled. “Dante, this is Mitch and Harry.”

Mitch shook his hand, followed by Harry, who chose to keep his free hand in the small of her back.

“Nice t’meet yeh.”

Dante grinned. “Likewise, bro. Dolores has told me a lot about you guys.”

She frowned at him. “You’re a shithead.”

Harry nodded. “I was meaning to ask you about that.”

She scoffed. “Dante is angry with me for running off one of his ‘girlfriends’ quien era una perra de todos modos.”

He laughed and shook her head. “No. Ella no fue.”

“Sí que estaba. Ella te estaba engañando.”

“You still have no proof.”

“The fuck I don’t.”

Harry made a face and looked at Mitch looked impressed and vaguely afraid. Mitch tried for a chuckle. 

Harry grinned. “So how many brothers do you have, love? Everytime you mention a brother, it’s a different one.”

She grinned, blushing. “Yeah our family is a bit complicated. I have five brothers. Jorge, who you talked to, is the oldest followed by Freddy, the tattoo artist. They are our parents’ only biological kids. The two middle kids, Leo and Ryan, Dante and I, we were all adopted.”

Dante smiled and pulled his sister into a one-armed hug. “We’re the babies.”

Harry smiled. “Shall we go get drinks?”

“Yeah. Let’s.”

They made their way to a reserved table and got comfortable, Jamie fitting nicely in between Harry and Dante.

“So Dolores…”

She elbowed her brother and huffed, turning to Harry. “Yes, Harold?”

He grinned. “Why don’t you use your name, love? Dolores is pretty.”

She shook her head. “No it isn’t! It means ‘sorrow’.”

Dante shrugged. “Seems appropriate. You’ve been nothing but trouble since you were three years old.”

“Asshole.” She turned to face Harry fully. “I don’t like ‘Dolores’.”

Harry nodded. “I gather that. Why?”

She smiled. “My birth mother named me that right before she fucked off to wherever she went. My mom hated it but by the time we got adopted, it was too late to really change it.”

His heart clenched and he laid his arm over the couch behind her, gathering her closer to his side. His other hand came up to rub a thumb over her angel. “Sorry, monster. That sucks.” When she shrugged, he smiled down at her. “Where did Jamie come from?”

“My original last name was James. My mom thought Jamie would be a cute nickname.”

“It is.” He set his chin on her shoulder. “Yeh said ‘we got adopted’. Did yeh and Dante get adopted at the same time?”

Nodding, she smiled and elbowed her brother again. “We were in the same state home… I’m barely a month older than him and our respective shit went down around the same time, so we got placed in the system about the same time. My dad is a social worker and Dante was in his workload, but whenever he went to see Dante, Dante would scream until Dad promised that he’d find me a family too. My dad kinda fell in love with us and though they hadn’t intended to adopt anymore kids, I guess he couldn’t help himself. He introduced Mom to us and the rest is history.”

Harry smiled and Dante made gagging noises behind her.

“He pretends but he loves me.”

Harry’s thumb was still rubbing against her thigh. “Is the angel fer yer mum?”

She nodded, looking down at his hand. “Her name is Angelica. Seemed appropriate.” She looked up and caught his eye. They both froze, the tension suddenly thick. “She cried when I showed it her.”

“First tattoo?”

She chuckled, eyes still locked on his. “Yeah. She doesn’t seem to mind them nowadays.”

He looked down at her lips. “Yeah.”

Harry caught Dante’s smile over his sister’s head and like that the spell was broken. Blushing, she turned to ask Mitch something.

Eventually she wandered off to talk to someone and Dante slid over to him. He sipped his beer and grinned. “Look I’m not gonna give you any ‘touch her you die’ bullshit. She’s well-protected without getting my nose all up in it and I don’t think you’re a bad dude. I don’t think you’ll ever want to hurt her. Not on purpose.

“But man, I’m warnin’ ya. She’s… She’s naive sometimes. She’s an angel. She always sees the good in people and despite the shit that she’s seen, she’s an optimist like I’ve never seen before. Maybe I’m biased because she’s my sister and my best friend but I don’t think you gonna be able to walk away from her all that easily. You should keep that in mind before you start anything you may not want to finish.”

**

Harry set his notebook down by her thigh and sat next to her on the couch. “I’ve got somethin’... new.”

She smiled. “Cool! Let’s hear it.”

He blushed and rubbed his hands on his jeans.

She frowned and grabbed his hand. “What’s wrong? You’re not normally this nervous to share what you’ve written.”

He laughed and lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a quick kiss to her knuckle. “I spent all night on it. It’s probably shit.”

“Doubt it.” She smiled and pat his leg with her free hand. “Do you want me to keep time?”

He nodded. “Yeah, that would be helpful. It’s uh… 4/4.”

She counted it out and he took another deep breath and began, feeling a bit like he was digging himself a hole.

“Open up your eyes, shut your mouth and see That I'm still the only one who's been in love with me I'll guess I'll be getting you stuck in between my teeth And there's nothing I can do about it.”

He snuck a peek at her and she seemed to enjoying the song, smiling slightly, her eyes closed like she was imagining it.

“Broke a finger knocking on your bedroom door I got splinters in my knuckles crawling across the floor Couldn't take you home to mother in a skirt that short But I think that's what I like about it.”

He licked his lips and smiled, glancing at her again, now she was looking at him, her tilted in confusion. He swallowed dryly. “The chorus is:”

“She's an angel Only angel She's an angel My only angel”

“There’d be some fun… uh vocalization. Not sure what yet. The next verse goes:”

“I must admit I thought I'd like to make you mine As I went about my business through the warning signs End up meeting in the hallway every single time And there's nothing we can do about it. Told it to her brother and she told it to me That she's gonna be angel, just you wait and see When it turns out she's a devil in between the sheets And there's nothing she can do about it.”

He nodded. “And that it. Of course, there’d be a guitar solo and um…” He sighed. “What do you think?”

She swallowed. “First, I want to say that I like the song. I can see how this one would be fun to perform. I look forward to hearing the finished product.”

He held his breath. “And second?”

She took a deep breath. “Is it…” She paused and eyed him. “This is going to sound stupid. Is it about me? I mean-” She stuttered. “I mean with the angel references and you’re so nervous and.. the sk-”

He leaned forward and kissed her, words failing him the way they normally did.

This….this was what he wanted. She must have just put on chapstick, her lips felt smooth and tasted vaguely sweet. His hand, the one that hadn’t been clutching hers for dear life, slid back in her hair, those curls tangling around his fingers like they didn’t want him to leave.

She gasped, hand coming up to grasp his shirt. He tried to keep it chaste, really but when he nipped lightly at her lip, intending to pull away, to use his words like a grown-ass man, she let out a stuttering moan and he was lost yet again.

He pressed forward and the hand in her hair, sliding across her back to her opposite hip. She came willingly closer and he groaned into her mouth.

She’s naive.

He pulled away and kissed her forehead. He took a second to collect himself but she beat him to it.

“I…” She sounded a little breathless and he had to beat back savage pride, the likes of which he’d never experienced before. “I don’t want to make you crawl... well I might be... in certain circumstances...” She blushed and Harry chuckled as she waved that thought off. “The point is: I’m no angel… but I don’t think I’m a devil either… I just don’t want somethin’ to happen if that’s what you think of me. I don’t want somethin’ to happen if you feel like you’re doing something despite ‘warning signs.’ I don’t-”

Harry laid his finger against her lips.

“Yeh are an angel.” He smiled softly and nodded. “Yeh are, love. Ye’re sweet and kind. And yeah ye’re a little kinky and if that doesn’t make yeh absolutely the most interestin’ woman on earth...” She shook her head, laughing softly. “Also I don’t think ye’re… evil or some man-eater or summat, I swear. That’s not what the ‘warning signs’ were about. Just tha’ whatever this is… It’s not gonna be easy.” He swallowed. “The paps and the media alone drive normal, sane women mad.”

She chuckled, they still weren’t looking at each other as if they were afraid that they wouldn’t be able to say these words if they were. “This is technically inappropriate office behavior.”

He scoffed. “I’m sure ye’ve seen more inappropriate things in this line of work. This is hardly on t’map, love.”

“So what is this?”

“I don’t know… But whatever it is, I want it as long as you want it too.”

She took a deep breath. “Okay, then.”

Part II Up Next: Part IV

[newstfionline]

One Day in the Life of Battered Puerto Rico

NY Times, Sept. 30, 2017

6 a.m. Near Corozal: The sun rose Wednesday morning in the low mountains of north-central Puerto Rico, near the town of Corozal, to reveal the world that Hurricane Maria has made: shattered trees, traffic lights dangling precipitously from broken poles, and, here on the face of a weedy hill, a gushing spring, one of the few places where people from miles around could find fresh water.

At 6 a.m., about a dozen trucks and cars had parked nearby. People brought rain barrels, buckets, orange juice bottles.

Some men clambered up the steep face of the hill, placing plastic pipes or old pieces of gutter underneath the running spring, directing the water into massive plastic tanks, then hauling them away. Others crouched at a spot where the water trickled down to the pavement. Jorge Díaz Rivera, 61, was there with 11 Clorox bottles. He lives in a community a few minutes’ drive away where there is no water, no food, and no help. The National Guard helicopters have been passing overhead, and sometimes he and his neighbors yell at them, pleading for water. But so far he has seen no help.

“They have forgotten about us,” he said.

Puerto Rico has not been forgotten, but more than a week after Hurricane Maria hit, it’s a woozy empire of wreckage; of waiting in line for food, water and gas and then finding another line to wait in some more. A team of New York Times reporters and photographers spent 24 hours--from dawn Wednesday to scorching afternoon heat, to a long uneasy night and Thursday morning without power--with people trying to survive the catastrophe that Hurricane Maria left behind.

6:51 a.m. Santurce, San Juan. Elizabeth Parrilla turned the corner at Calle Loíza and trudged quietly down the dead-end road leading to her home of 50 years on Calle Pablo Andino. Her wedges were beginning to get filthy from the damp foliage left behind by the waters that had inundated her street several days before.

7:44 a.m. Corozal. Three hundred cars and trucks were lined up on the shoulder of the highway just outside town. Another line of at least 100 cars had formed on the other side of the Ecomaxx gas station.

9:05 a.m. Ocean Park, San Juan. Joey Ramos descended the stairs of his two-story home in water boots and swimming trunks. He carried a green electric saw and waded across the black waters that had flooded Calle Santa Cecilia.

Ever since Hurricane Maria flooded the first floor of his house in Ocean Park, Mr. Ramos has been boxed in the second floor of his home, hunkered down with his wife and his four pitbull-mastiff mix dogs, which guard his house.

The waters stink of excrement. He’s seen fish swim by his stoop. To exit his home he often paddles an abandoned refrigerator like a gondola.

He stays to protect his home from looters after he saw the bakery across his street being ransacked. “The hurricane wasn’t even over and we saw some guys break in and take out televisions,” Mr. Ramos said. “They even waved and smiled at me.”

Several days later, he said, he scared off a man trying to steal a car.

“It sounds stupid, but it works,” he said. “I’m a humble boy. I can live without anything. I try to make the best out of it.”

11:30 a.m. Trujillo Alto. Dr. Eileen Díaz Cabrera knew it was time. The highways were less congested. Things seemed calmer. So she opened her office, which treats mostly elderly patients.

“We opened because we knew the patients needed us,” Dr. Díaz Cabrera said. “We knew there were emergencies we could treat in the office and that there would be patients without prescriptions or those whose insulin had been damaged by the lack of refrigeration.”

But she knew time was short. Her office was running on a generator and the tank was less than half full of diesel. At this rate, she would have to close by Friday. She has called two companies to ask for a delivery. One she couldn’t reach at all. The other put her on a waiting list and told her the office was not a priority.

As the day wore on, the patients streamed in. One woman had first- and second-degree burns on her arms from cooking. Others needed prescriptions for insulin. Some patients were first-timers to her office, since other doctors had not yet opened their own. She wondered: How could a doctor’s office not be more of a priority than apartment buildings that had plenty of diesel?

It was only a matter of time before people started showing up suffering the effects of dirty water and rotten food.

“We could resolve all of those problems,” she said. “Those patients don’t have to fill emergency rooms in these difficult times. But we need diesel.”

11:57 a.m. Santurce, San Juan. The storm for many was not just something to be endured. It was also a message that it was time to leave Puerto Rico.

In front of the pink and green, art deco facade of the Telégrafo building in Santurce, dozens of people checked their phones. The section of the street is one of the few spots on the island where residents can connect to free Wi-Fi.

People try to reach family members abroad or those left isolated in island towns. Many check their emails for any word from their employer. It’s common to see people break down after making contact with a loved one for the first time since the hurricane.

And for Raymond Hernández, the strip of sidewalk was a way to book his ticket out of Puerto Rico. “I’m going to Tampa to find work for a couple of months,” Mr. Hernández, a personal trainer, said. “And who knows if I end up staying over there.”

For Mr. Hernández, 46, Hurricane Maria was perhaps the final straw in a decision he’s been reluctant to make for 17 years. Over the years, the island’s economic recession forced him to close down several gyms he owned. Then his personal training business dried up after Hurricane Irma hit. After Maria blasted out the windows of his apartment in San Juan, he spent two hours during the height of the storm barricading the door with his body.

Now, people are thinking about survival, not working out.

“This hurricane has been the cause of many important decisions for a lot of people,” Mr. Hernández said, shaking his head.

12:30 p.m. Trujillo Alto. Maritza Giol waited in line at the Plaza Loiza supermarket, a flimsy curtain protecting her from the rain. She needed food for her frail 96-year-old mother, Inocencia Torres, who has been stuck in bed for so long she has bed sores. Their cupboards are mostly empty and her mother can only eat liquids and soft food.

Every 15 or 20 minutes, a security guard would allow people in five to 10 at a time to control the crowd. She shuffled forward little by little, and was grateful the line was not too long.

Once inside, she hoped to grab basic staples, like rice and some canned goods. She hoped to see vegetables or viandas, like yucca or plantains, that she could mash for her mother. If not, she will move on to the next line.

“I’ll go to another supermarket, and then the next, if I have to, until I find what I need,” Ms. Giol said. “I can’t leave Mami without food.”

She is not beyond begging. She ran after a fuel truck and pleaded with the driver to sell her some diesel for the generator to help her mom. She didn’t walk away with enough, but she walked away with something. “We lived through Hugo and George,” she said, naming two powerful hurricanes that hit Puerto Rico in recent times, “but none of those storms was like this.”

12:50 p.m. Arecibo. On another very bad day, one good thing happened to Olga Cervantes, 75, a retired government worker. She had waited four hours for gas in the morning, starting at 4 a.m. Then she waited in line at the bank for four more hours for cash--but the computer system failed, and she went away empty-handed.

“Look at that--you have money, but you don’t have money,” she said. “Emotionally, it’s terrible.”

And then she found a man selling cold juice and milk out of the back of a refrigerated truck and came away with two half-gallons of grape juice and orange juice. It was refreshingly cold in her hands. She brought the juice home to a hot, dark house, where there was little to do but wait to fall asleep.

3:08 p.m. Guayama. Three plainclothes security guards protect the Plaza Tu Supermarket, which is a mess of tangled metal, from potential burglars. “All the tire shops on the street were looted. They did it right in front of us and didn’t care,” said one guard, who would only give his first name, Albert. “You should have seen, there were tires rolling all down the street right to the projects.”

4:53 p.m. Utuado. Out in the countryside, on the west bank of the Vivi River, the remaining chunk of a bridge washed away by Maria juts violently and jaggedly, toward the east, like a broken promise.

There, two young women in exercise gear stepped carefully off the broken bridge and descended a homemade wooden ladder, some 40 feet up. They dropped onto a big pile of debris and then crossed the knee-high waters to the opposite bank.

Kayshla Rodríguez, 24, clambered up the east bank with her best friend, Mireli Mari, 27.

Ms. Rodríguez’s parents owned one of the houses on the east bank and were now stranded by the broken bridge. There was no cell service here, and there was no way for her to call her parents from her home in Mayagüez.

So she drove here with Ms. Mari, a three-hour journey with the post-hurricane traffic. When they finally got to the house, and Ms. Rodríguez finished hugging her parents, she learned that they had water from a spring at the top of the mountain and enough food for a while. Her mother, Marilyn Luciano, 49, offered them something to eat, but the daughter declined. “You need it more than I do,” she said.

Her father advised her to cross back over the river before it rose too high. Reluctantly the two women said their goodbyes, hopped in a white sedan and began the long drive back.

5:26 p.m. Utuado. A woman washed her daughter’s hair in a roadside waterfall in Utuado, a city of brightly painted concrete homes nestled in a sleepy valley. The streets were caked with mud, many of the acacias were bent and broken, and in the city and the surrounding municipality, also called Utuado, an unknown number of its approximately 35,000 residents were cut off from the rest of the world by mudslides or failed infrastructure, said Francisco Rullan, executive director of the governor’s energy policy office.

05:54 p.m. Salinas. A tree landed on the hearse, water rushed into the funeral home and the sweating mourners were being devoured by mosquitoes, but Salinas Memorial Funeral Home was finally open for business.

A generator roared in the background. It powered the two fans beside Josue Santos’s coffin as extension cords dangling from the sagging ceiling brought in extra light. The funeral director, José Manuel Rodríguez, wore jeans because the wind busted the windows and the rain drenched all his suits.

Mr. Rodríguez was happy for the business. His eyes welled up with tears as he recalled how, out of cash and food, he had resorted to killing a fighting cock worth $200 to feed his four children.

“I went to three different funeral homes, and all of them were destroyed,” said the dead man’s mother, Aileen Ayala. “I got to this one, and the funeral director was hosing it down and pulling wet furniture out to the street. He said, ‘You see how we are, but I’ll do it.’ He received us in his office by candlelight.”

Mr. Santos, 29, died of a heart condition the morning the hurricane struck. Because virtually all communications were down, his family had only been able to inform the few friends and family they had run into on the street.

“We went through that personal torment alone,” Ms. Ayala, 53, said, noting that the sparsely attended wake would have been packed had everyone, particularly her son’s colleagues at Walmart, gotten the news.

“Then you go out and stand in line--because now life here is all about lines--a line for gas, a line for the bank, and everyone starts talking: ‘I lost this, I lost that, I lost my roof! I lost my car.’” Ms. Ayala said. “And when it’s my turn, I have to say: ‘I lost my son.’”

6:23 p.m. Arecibo. Luis Rodríguez Perez, 28, sat under a freeway overpass, making a video call to his brother in Buffalo, N.Y. His wife was a few feet away, in the passenger seat of their sedan.

Mr. Rodríguez Perez lives in the country, about 40 minutes from Arecibo. He had come to this overpass, where he could get a faint cell signal, to call his brother and ask him if he could find a ticket from Puerto Rico to Buffalo. This time, at least, his brother found nothing.

6:53 p.m. San Juan. “Once night falls, you won’t see me outside,” said Ana Luz Pérez at her tidy apartment at the Luis Lloréns Torres housing project, the largest in Puerto Rico. It has 140 buildings and is plagued by crime.

She ran through her options for light in the gloom of her apartment. She decided to conserve the two candles she had left and instead used the remaining gas in her green camping lantern. She turned the knob of the gaslight, and the light flickered, bringing the shadows in the kitchen to life.

The rice with ham and sausage she had cooked for her boyfriend earlier in the day were growing cold on a small stove connected to a white gas tank on the floor. She turned on the stove to warm the meal. “It’s the last tank left,” Ms. Pérez said. “We didn’t know it was going to be so difficult.”

The blackout had given Ms. Pérez plenty of sleepless nights. She spends much of the time smoking cigarettes on her balcony or splashing her face with cool water. She’s up by 4 a.m. She thinks of her four children, ages 21 to 27, living in the Bronx. She worries about her mother, who is 60 and has cancer.

“Solitude kills,” she said, breaking down in tears at her small glass dining table.

Over the cacophony of barking dogs, her boyfriend, Carlos Rivera, climbed the stairs to her apartment. As his shadow grew bigger by her apartment door, Ms. Pérez did not attempt to hide her tears.

6:56 p.m. Arecibo. A long line formed to buy ice in Arecibo.

7:08 p.m. San Juan. Residents of the the Luis Lloréns Torres housing project watched a television hooked up to a car battery in San Juan on Wednesday.

7:42 p.m. Ponce. Curfew ended an hour and a half ago, but the street at the Ponce downtown plaza is buzzing. It’s pitch black, an older woman is preaching with a megaphone, music is playing, and Toñito’s Jr. Pizza food truck is serving, only by the box. A policeman leaning on an unlit light pole watches it all in the darkness, unfazed by the violations.

11:40 p.m. San Juan. The hotels in the capital are filling up with government workers and contractors. At the Verdanza Hotel late Wednesday, a small group of FEMA-contracted emergency medical evacuation specialists--registered nurses, therapists and jet pilots--were hanging out, waiting for their morning assignment.

The bar was mostly empty, but it was blaring dance music. The assignment was delivered by a bald and burly man who appeared at their table and told them to be at the airport at 0800 hours. They were going to fly eight dialysis patients from San Juan to the island of St. Croix, he said, where they would be transferred to the mainland by the military.

All of the specialists seated around the table work for companies that do not allow them to give their names. “You drop off Tom Cruise in Paris, you don’t feel like you’ve accomplished much,” said one of the pilots. But this was different.

1:48 a.m. Ponce. Amador García hurt his foot before the storm, but he did his injury no favors by spending the day mowing down avocado trees that toppled in the force of Hurricane Maria’s brutal winds.

Mr. García’s right foot turned purple and swelled. He screamed the whole way to the Dr. Pila Metropolitan Hospital.

He lamented his current state, mostly because it was going to inhibit his ability to stand in more lines. Lines for gas, lines for the bank. “And they only let you take out $200. Why do they do that? Why can’t we have what’s ours?” he said.

While he waited, a steady stream of police officers walked in and out, perhaps for the air-conditioning available in an otherwise steamy night. An older woman in an Old Navy sweatshirt, who walked with two canes, had been screaming because of a lack of toilet paper in the ladies’ room. The guards explained that the systems were down, and so the complaints to housekeeping were being handled manually, meaning slowly, meaning probably never.

2:30 a.m. Ponce. The Tropical Ice company does not open until 7 a.m., but already people were lined up outside. They brought lawn chairs, books and playing cards. Some brought blankets.

They clearly aimed to spend the night, and plenty of them were already fast asleep.

Roberto Gallego, 69, was first, an impressive feat in a row of people at least 100 deep.

“11 o’clock at night!” he proudly exclaimed when asked what time one had to arrive at the ice factory to be first in line for two $1.50 bags of watery ice.

Ice was not the only thing he was anticipating. Mr. Gallego was also anxious for the airports to reopen.

“This changed my life,” he said. “I’m going to Orlando.”

[paradoxically-deranged-poet]

He Who Wanders

I missed the scorching wind of Andalusia. How it pours sunlight onto your face, toying with eyelashes, flattening dry sand against cheeks and milling around hair. I missed the smell of the valley and that ripening softness of Muscat fluff glistening in the afternoon breeze.

From up here, I can see the house where I grew up. I see white chapels tucked into grape orchards like pawns scattered on a chess board. I can see patches of asphalt on El Jardinito Road hailing from the old town through dappled rocks, then waning behind the horizon with erratic headlights of beat-up trucks cruising along.

One of the pit stops along Ed Jardinito, where truck drivers stop to relieve themselves, marks the starting point to this wavy trail. All covered in blotches of spindly grass stalks and flaxen sand, the trail is barely noticeable at first. Truth is, no one even cares to notice it. Why would truckers taking a blitz-leak care to check on a mucky trail leading to God knows where? But I do. This is how I got up here, to the top of this hill, where I am standing now. I’ve climbed all the way up here, so I can finally end it all – all these years of vagrancy and fugue, exile and fear. This is where it’s all going to come to an end.

But for now, I am enjoying the view of the valley unfolding below. I am sipping the air of what could be my final memories.

He will show up soon. He always does. Like a shadow, he’s been following me right on my footsteps, always there, behind me. And there he is!

His limping figure appears behind the sharp bend off El Jardinito. He looks up and he sees me, then stops for a moment to catch his breath and leans on his cane, as if assessing the remaining trajectory for this final stretch, then resumes his walk. Or should I say, “resumes his agonizing trudging”. Years of endless chase took a toll on his body. No wonder. How long has he been chasing me? Ten, twenty, thirty years?

He is slow. Methodically slow. But for once, I will not run. I will wait. Right here, behind this rock. I will finally come face to face with him. This sharp Swiss knife blade I am holding in my hand will soon lance right through his neck bone. Yes, that’s what I am going to do.

This ends here, at the dead end of this sandy trail atop the hill overlooking the valley with its white chapels and Muscat orchards.

Funny. After all these years, I still don’t know the real name of my chaser. I always called him what master Borges called him

“He who wanders”.

He who wanders, listen. I will kill you.

* * * * * *

Borges. The Borges. I idolized him when I was in college. Many did, but I was different. It was 1961. I was an average lazy learner at the Universidad Laboral de Córdoba, floating around from one semester to another with barely passable grades. I had very few friends and almost no interests. One can say that I had an early form of an identity crisis.

Besides chugging Anisado, my only other passion was Literature. Latin American Literature. Borges and Neruda were at the forefront. One could only imagine my excitement when I saw a pamphlet hanging on the wall of the Literature faculty.

Spaces were limited. But who cared? It was the man himself, Jorge Luis Borges, coming to give us a lecture followed by an open panel of questions. Like a maniac, I rushed to the auditorium hours before the lecture. I was the first in line and when the doors opened, I got the front row seat. The auditorium was packed with drooling chins of young self-proclaimed prodigies, awaiting the arrival of the great one.

And there he was, the blind Lord of Literature, walking upright onto the stage with a cane and his loyal assistant right by his side. Standing ovation. He nodded and made a “thank you, please be seated” gesture.

Then he began. The lecture was dedicated to Spanish writers, I cannot distinctly recall if it was Cervantes or De Vega. It truly made no difference. Somehow, I managed to sit through his entire lecture, which lasted over three hours, and remember nothing. He talked slowly and methodically, pouring honey into our ears like Segovia’s guitar, with his absent eyesight affixed on the ceiling.

And then it happened. Something that caught me completely off guard.

Before closing the day, Borges was about to take questions from the audience. Of course, I raised my hand and so did about hundreds of other students. One of Borges’ assistants whispered something into his ear, which made him smile.

“It is an honor for me to be in front of an audience of young people, but our time is not infinite,” he said with blind eyes still pinned on the far corner of the hall. “For that reason, I will randomly pick questions from five of you.”

I have never won any prizes or lotteries in my life. When I played poker or blackjack, I lost far more than I won. I knew my limitations and that turned me into an average apathetic person, rarely trying to outdo oneself. And so, sitting still with little ambition – I got used to that.

Until that moment. When I saw Borges pointing his finger in my direction, that came as nothing short of a shock.

“Me?”

“Yes, young man. Senor Borges picked you. Step forward and introduce yourself,” said his assistant.

I did not know what to ask. So, I quietly mumbled my full name.

“Fernandez Augustin Navaro”

Borges shifted his gray-shaded pupils in my direction as if reacting to a sudden buzzing of a fruit fly.

“Fernandez Augustin Navaro. Navaro. Haven’t I met you once before, young man?” he asked.

“No, senor Borges. I never had the honor.”

“But you will. We will meet again, Senor Navaro. You and I will meet again. But for right now, what is your question?”

The rest of the day was foggy. I don’t even remember what question I asked, it must have been about him winning the Prix International, not sure. And maybe not important. No, not important at all.

The greatest writer in the history of mankind called me by name and then that bizarre unreal thing he said about us meeting again. When?

* * * * * *

Nine years later. In 1970.

And there I was – a somewhat-promising journalist in one of London’s somewhat-scandalous tabloid newspapers. Every week my name was featured on the second page alongside with celebrity chronicles and vile rumors. My paycheck was decent enough for a small studio flat by Manchester Square. After years of having been pent-up by directionless studies, you could say I became something more than an average. Or at least that is what I believed.

That day (it was early October, arguably the best season in London) began as usual. I ate my chic breakfast consisting of two scrambled eggs, ham, toast, and dark roast coffee at Barrymore’s Diner and was ready for a pleasant walk to the office. It was shortly after 8 am, and I was in no hurry.

Report Ad My route was the same as it was every day: pass the square, right turn on George Street, left turn on Thayer, another right on Marylebone. My thoughts that morning were all preoccupied with the piece I was working on, so I was slowly making my way through the square when something caught my eye. Or rather, someone. At first, I did not pay much attention to him, no more than I did to anybody else who idled at the square that morning. Hippy rascals with soiled hair playing guitar on every corner was a common theme in those days, and London town was certainly no exception. So here was another one of those misunderstood love proclaimers, sitting right behind the gated area of the square. Striped worn out jacket, heavy cap, sandals with clots of woolen socks sticking out. A common hippy bum as anyone may have thought. I thought so too except this one had something that made my intestines churn. I didn’t know what it was, but once I saw him, I felt the irresistible urge to instantly walk away and never see him again.

The way he looked at me, that gloomy frown that made me think of a line from Oscar Wilde, “that fellow’s got to swing.” There certainly was something outer worldly about that “fellow.”

His eyes, as if carved from a rock below his forehead were mercilessly drilling thousands of tiny holes through me. I added pace. As I turned back one last time, I noticed him slowly walking towards me. Past the gates of the square, onto the street, paying no attention to screeching tires of honking cars. Walking right towards me.

He’s just a bum. No, he is not.

Just another one of those unwashed hippies. No, no, run run run!

George Street was empty like in post-war bombed quarters. I could hear my brisk footsteps. Or was it the drubbing of my aorta against the chest? He was catching up.

Run? Don’t be silly. Yes, run. First slowly as if you’re trying to not show your chaser that you’re scared. No, not scared, more like in a hurry.

Why am I running? I can take him out with one punch.

But it really wasn’t about that. It was my first experience of that feeling, which I can only describe as some sort of primordial sense of fear. Panic. Dread. Unexplained sense of looming doom arching above you like a dark figure with a scythe.

I ran. I ran faster than my feet could move. As I turned the corner on Thayer, I paused and looked back, fearing to see him right behind. Scrambled eggs, toast, and dark roast coffee were about to make their way back up through my esophagus.

Wiping the sweat off my palms onto my pants, I bent forward in a protective position and looked around. Empty windows of George Street were checking me out like a toddler witnessing parent in a cowardly act.

Whoever that man was that incensed me into this uncontrollable panic, he was now gone. Shame on you, Fernandez Augustin, I repeated to myself while making futile attempts to enthrall palpitation to subside. Shame on you. I mumbled repeating that word. Mumbling turned into whistling that song by “Magic Lanterns”. Shame, shame. I whistled, acting calm and self-composed. I sang without knowing words only to convert my mind to something else. I sang so others wouldn’t notice me shaking.

I climbed the stairs of my office building. Three at a time. Third floor. The familiar smell of typography oils calmed me down. Safe heaven. Shame on you, Fernandez Augustin Navaro.

* * * * * *

Even now I question myself whether my journey to madness began on that day or was it underway for many years. Madness that creeps in and recedes in tidal waves. Is that how it usually happens?

All I know is that an hour later I was laughing at my little moment of weaknesses.

Preposterous and rubbish, my thick Andalusian twang spoke to me. The idea of being fully checked out by a specialist did cross my mind, and I immediately thought of Doctor Patel in Camden Town. He’d give me a comfortable medical diagnosis like a panic attack and prescribe some white pills, I thought.

Little did I know that the day had more surprises in store. The unnerving script development continued in a more eerie fashion when my boss marched to my desk with a pack of printed paper.

No, Navaro you are not going to see Doctor Patel in Camden Town who will make a judgment call on your insanity. Instead, you are going to do an article on Jorge Luis Borges’ new book. He is making his presentation today at London Public Library and blah, blah, blah.

I forgot about the panic attack. The thrill of seeing Master Borges again, nine years later, was surreal. Moments later I was sitting in a cab on my way to the London Public Library, scribbling all possible questions I should be asking him. El Informe de Brodie? Other books? Forget it! I knew very well what I would ask.

I paid the cab and galloped up the marble stairs leading to the hallway, where the Master was about to hold his new book presentation. I elbowed myself through the crowd of journalists to occupy the coveted front-row spot. Quick inventory check: wallet, j-sack along with the omnipresent Swiss knife. Seconds ticked leisurely on my wristwatch. Four more minutes.

Forget this morning’s sickness. Forget Dr. Patel. Collect yourself, Fernandez Augustin

* * * * * *

“Navaro! That’s your last name, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Yes, Senor Borges. But how do you..?”

“Nine years ago, in Cordoba. I told you we would meet again. Do you remember?”

I nodded rapidly completely forgetting he couldn’t see me. Stupid.

“Perhaps,” continued Borges, “it would be more prudent for us to speak privately after the conference. I invite you to have coffee with me. You like Colombian coffee, Mr. Navaro? I shall see you precisely at 6 o’clock at the address that my assistant will provide.”

His blind eyes were still affixed at the top far corner of the hallway, far above all the congested sharp-penciled critics and arduous followers of his divine writing. The attention was now all on me, as revealed by hundreds of photo flashes from behind. I thought of all the explaining that I would have to do tomorrow. How does Borges know you? Are you friends? You were raised in Cordova, are you his illegitimate son?

Back then I did not know.

Answers came later.

* * * * * *

Memory is a tricky animal. As I gaze over the valley and satiate my lungs with familiar smells, I cannot think of anything specific. Vague and elusive memories of my childhood home. And these orchards, these white chapels and the old town itself – nothing but an incomprehensible sensation somewhere down there, below the chest cage.

I close my eyes and let the sun twirl around with tinted specks of mosaic light. I am trying to focus without looking. Alas, nothing comes to mind. I’ve been robbed of my memory. You!

I cast my eyes at the trail again. He is closing in. It’s hard for him to walk upward, and yet I see that determination in his eyes, in his tight grip of that wobbly walking stick, in the way he periodically stops to catch his breath and eyeball the remaining distance. I am not going anywhere. Five? Ten more minutes? Come and take me, old man. If you can.

I almost see his facial expression under the heavily pronounced frontal lobe. It’s a grin. It’s an expression that says, “We shall see.”

* * * * * *

Once I read an interview in “The Morning Times”. In it, Borges was portrayed as extremely humble and minimalistic. His house was depicted as a perfectly organized space with easy access to everything. Books on the shelves (judging from the admiration of the columnist, there were lots of them) were organized by theme and by title. Dictionaries and encyclopedias were grouped together on the same rack, so he could find them easily.

In another article, dated 1966, I read that when Borges travels, and those travels were quite extensive, he carries a whole rack of books along, some of which may not even be read.

When I entered his hotel room, that very book-rack was the first thing that caught my eye. I stood perplexed at the multitude of titles, most unknown to me, when I heard the door swing wide open, and there he was entering through the doorway with a leisurely swinging cane.

“Ah, Senor Navaro, how kind of you to visit this old man!”

I took a step towards him and produced some gibberish like “pleasure is all but mine”. He half-smiled and pointed his hand to the chair.

“I know you will quite enjoy the taste of Colombian dark roast.”

Borges sat down and leaned slightly backwards, without releasing his cane.

“Do you know the biggest advantage of being blind?” he asked and answered immediately. “Blind don’t need light, so my utility bills are way lower.”

He laughed at his own joke only to be interrupted by his assistant carrying a tray of aromatic coffee poured in two small porcelain cups. Amazing how the very idea of drinking coffee instantly changes your mood before you even take your first sip.

As I was readying to go on a pre-scripted monologue of expressing my gratitude and honor, Borges jumped right into the action.

“I will get right to it, Senor Navaro. About you being here and about me remembering you. I know you have many questions. I will attempt to answer some. Some, but not all. When you leave this hotel, there will still be some questions that you will have to find answers to. On your own.”

He gently picked his cup of coffee and with hand somewhat shaking, took an artistic sip. Yes, I had questions. So many that my brain membranes were buzzing in bewilderment and disbelief. Here I was, sitting in the room with one of the greatest writers, who happened to mysteriously know my name and

“Have you by any chance read my ‘The Book of Imaginary Beings?’” asked Borges.

I have. Many times. I read it in Spanish, when it just came out. Very recently I bought the English translation in some shabby bookstore off Oxford Circus. I read that book far too many times, but never in its entirety, mostly starting on a random page. Just as Borges had intended it to be consumed by his readers.

“You see, Senor Navaro, that book was, and perhaps still is, a never-ending work in progress as human imagination has no boundaries. I have included what I had researched over ten years ago, then recently expanded and republished with more figments of collective human imagination. But the book is merely a small subset. In a way, the book writes itself. In some form, it’s a labyrinth, an endless one, a living one, where every corridor and every room is never the same. What I had always wanted is the book to reflect the labyrinth in our collective subconsciousness, the force that drives our minds to craft. For that reason, all the creatures in my book are strictly fictional. Mythical. Am I not boring you?”

“Not at all. I understand, Senor Borges.”

He nodded and wiped a coffee grind off his nose.

“That book, as its title implies, is all about imaginary beings. Tales, legends, folklore. But one thing that no one knows is that I had originally intended this book to include one more being. A being that goes by its Latin name Quietus Est. It appeared and disappeared across many cultures, sometimes centuries apart. Very little is known of it, but what I found was indeed astonishing. First, this being is physically no different than an ordinary human. You may say, it is human in many ways. As I studied this entity, I became more and more agitated. I could not stop. Like a madman, I was trying to learn more and more, but very soon the excitement turned into another feeling. Fear.”

“Fear of what, Senor Borges?”

Borges eyesight shifted from the corner of the room straight on me, as if he could perfectly see me.

“Fear of what I had uncovered. That Quietus Est is not a myth at all.”

He attempted to take another sip, but his hands started shaking, so he had to put the cup down, spilling some of it on the saucer and around the table.

“Pardon me, young man, I am trying to maintain composure. But you have not tried the coffee”, he said wiping his mouth and forehead with a knitted handkerchief.

I raised the small cup and took a sip, disregarding the aromatic fumes of Colombian beans drifting down my internal gorges.

“Pardon me sir, but you are saying that the imaginary being called Quietus Est was not imaginary. Is that why you decided not to include him in your book of imaginary beings?”

“Only in part. Fear came from the realization of what it would mean for mankind to know about its existence. You see

it’s no secret that we are all well aware of our eventual demise. We all die. But imagine what would happen if we all stared right into the face of death every single day of our lives and knew the time that was left for us in this world. Death not as a vague concept portrayed by middle-aged artists, not as a folklore tale of a grim reaper. But as a real living entity that stalks you and walks around showing you a ticking clock counting down minutes and seconds. Getting closer to you with every second, trying to grab your hand. Running from death is worse than death itself.”

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

“But I shall talk no more. Allow me to give you my scribbles from years ago. These are unedited in their raw format, so please pardon the poor language. It’s right there, in the drawer. You will find a folder with a yellow piece of paper. Read it aloud, while my ripe old body attempts to catch a breath.”

I opened the drawer, as he instructed, and found a yellow piece of cursive handwritings carved in Spanish with some Latin phrases. The scribbles were short, less than a page long with marks and scratches, but most of this was very much decipherable. He must have written this himself half-blind, I thought. What caused him to do that and not dictate to his assistant? I unfolded the paper and began reading.

Quietus Est

It is said that one shall not know about its own ways and times of demise. The imminent passing is only felt by those that are either terminally ill, and even so, they don’t possess the knowledge of when and where, or by death row inmates awaiting the exact day and time of their execution. Lack of such knowledge coerces us to exist. Sumerians believed in a certain deity (the word “deity” was scratched and replaced with “demon of death embodied in human flesh and bones”, which again was scratched and replaced with “entity”), whose sole role was to stalk its victims and inform them of how much time they have left to live. Per the ancient “Book of Dead”, which was discovered as a set of clay tablets, typically buried in corpses, only those that are “luminous” can see the deity (again crossed out twice, replaced with “demon”, then with “entity”). The “luminous” ones are thought to be either people with high spiritual powers or vice versa, the cursed ones, condemned by priests. The reference briefly reappears in some Egyptian manuscripts, but in later writings is replaced by Anubis or – in rare occurrences – by Horus. The writings again depict this unnamed being as an eternal human who never sleeps, but always wanders. What’s strange is that neither Sumerians nor Egyptians ever gave the entity a discrete name. However, the latter rare findings during Dark Ages refer to him as Quietus Est. The only depiction of Quietus Est was that of an ordinary human standing next to a sun clock, which was used to measure the time that the chosen one had left to live. From time to time Quietus Est stalks the chosen one and, when cornered, moves hands of the clock forward to shorten the lifetime. If the chosen one cannot escape, then his time eventually runs out.

The very last reference was found in

“Enough, Mr. Navaro. You understand the idea. Now on to the main question. Why are you here?”

He drew closer, and a dull shadow from a lamp cut right through his elongated forehead.

“Quietus Est is an eternal wanderer who is always with us, the timekeeper who sits at the edge of the stage with a ticking watch on his wrist. The greatest gift given to mankind is its inability to see him. When I lost sight, I thought blindness was a blessing in disguise. But one does not require eyes to see the wanderer. What eyes cannot see, ears can hear and skin can feel. I hear him. I feel him. You are here, Mr. Navaro because you and I are the luminous ones…”

Borges paused and asked me with a trembling voice: “Mr. Navaro, you saw him too, didn’t you?”

Cold shivers that have been accumulating in my lower back rushed up my spinal cord in millions of explosions. Nausea formed a massive ball of air in my throat, and for a moment I struggled to breathe. Desperately trying to cease the thumping inside, I pushed words out.

“I saw him today.”

* * * * * *

How do you get used to the notion of being a passerby on this Earth? Ordinary humans do not have to get used to that. We have that built-in protection layer, that safety cork in our brain membranes that separates the realization of being mortal from flooding down upon us. It allows us to breathe the air. It lets us exhibit this extraordinary, yet sacred carelessness. The mental block that denies the laws of life on a primitive emotional level even for the keenest scholars. The indecipherable Tetragrammaton is shown to us in every step we take, in every cup of Colombian coffee we sip, in every word of wisdom that we collect from books. Every second we bypass the sinister tick-tock and hear the name of the God being whispered into our ears. And yet we, humans, turn around and whistle “Shame Shame”, deceiving our own self-cognizance. And that, as Senor Borges called it, is the true blessing. Those who possess the name of the divine being are doomed. Knowledge is madness. Knowledge is nonexistent. Knowledge of death is worse than death.

We sat in his hotel room until early morning, the two luminous and doomed souls. Our casual exchange of words was amplified by the ticking of the clock. It was dawn when I noticed Borges nodding in his sleep. His left hand was still resting on the cane and his pupils were shuffling behind shut eyelids.

Borges was dreaming.

So must have I.

As I was exiting the foyer of the hotel, I hid behind the column and looked around the street. It was empty. Bleak light of street lamps drew strange crossbeams on pavements. Early October leaves were gyring in closed circles like witches around the fire.

I was looking around, hoping to not see him.

He wasn’t there. But he was. I felt his presence not very far from me.

* * * * * *

Muscat orchards – they resonate inside like echoes of a guitar string heard from a deep alcove, but nothing particular comes to mind. I am trying to shift focus from one object to another, but my nomad memory is lost in endless labyrinths. You took my memories away from me, didn’t you?

Wait, mortal. Wait five more minutes, and you will know the answer, I hear in my brain. He is talking to me now. I can see how the long uphill walk is wearing him out. But what are pain and tiredness when you’re crossing the finish line?

As Borges warned me, “Do not ever come close to him. Do not look him straight in the eyes. He will always be near. His watch will be ticking. If he attempts to catch on, run. But he will forever follow. In a way, he will be like a shadow of you.”

And I ran. And he wandered. I evaded. He followed.

He came too close to me in my hotel room on the second day after my long night in Borges’ quarters. The fool in me still thought that escaping from him would be as easy as moving into a new flat. Or checking into a hotel. So I did just that. It was some shabby hotel minutes from my work where I decided to spend a few nights just to think things through.

That evening, and I remember every minute of it, was my first face to face encounter with him. My room, B6, was on the basement level. As I stumbled through the dark hotel corridor, trying to find the key to my room, I felt his presence, but my ignorant foolishness dismissed all mental warnings and turned the keys. As the door hinge squeaked, I took my first step into the hotel room. A street-level window was casting two thick yellow streaks of light on the floor carpet. I smelled dust and spider webs.

He was in my room. Sitting on the edge of the bed with a rope in his hand. A thin white blanket was covering his head like a shroud around a statue. I stood in a stupor like a paralyzed insect. An avalanche of sweat gushed from every pore of my body. With hand twisted behind my back, I was feverishly trying to twist the doorknob. He got up from the bed with a groan. He took a step towards me.

Hand too sweaty to turn the knob. Open it. Open!

He grabbed my wrist.

Open! Run!

The stretched corridor of the hotel basement flashed like random shots of a silent movie. Run! B5. B2. B1. Run! Staircase. Up! Exit! Run!

“Your time is coming, Fernandez Augustin Navaro!” a whisper crawled into my ears. “Coming, coming!” hissed the wind.

I ran until my legs gave in. I fell down somewhere in the outskirts of the town, passing out in an alley amidst rubbish until sunup.

My madness has begun.

In the days following my first face-to-face encounter with Quietus Est, I’ve moved out of my London flat. I had some savings, enough to tramp town to town, continent to continent, doing temp jobs here and there, sometimes sleeping on streets. He was right behind me.

Even if I didn’t see him for a month, I knew he would soon catch on. It would be only a matter of time for him to pop up somewhere

on the opposite side of the street, in the next car over on the subway, or madly prying through shutters of windows in the house across.

My attempts to speak to Borges were futile. How does the blind master live with this curse, I wondered. How does he manage to evade his sinister follower?

I had questions. Far more than I had anticipated. But Senor Borges was already on the other side of the globe. I wrote him letters. He never replied. I tried calling hotels where he stayed. Unavailable.

The books that he wrote, I bought all of them in attempts to find hidden meanings. What if he had secret messages for me inside his writings? The Book of Sand, Dr. Brodie’s Report

I even searched his earlier writings, analyzed every word. Pointless. Futile.

Until 1983. “Shakespeare’s Memory.” His final book, as it turned out to be.

I was somewhere in Eastern Europe when I bought the book. Immediately I began my scrupulous study. Letter by letter, page by page, analyzing every space and every punctuation sign.

And that’s when I found it. The answer.

The answer was the story itself. The story that did not require much study or decryption. All I had to do was read it. I knew I had to come face to face with Quietus Est like Borges did, but not before having to go through the life of an exile. That’s what Borges had intended me to do. Such was his final and only message to me embodied within his last story. A story written for the public, but intended for my eyes only.

The story was that the protagonist receives memories of Shakespeare. Memories that overwhelm him, overpowering his own. He forgets modern day cars and engines, instead remembering faces and names from some distant past, memories he has never known. Memories that belonged to another man.

“In a way, he will be like a shadow of you,” Borges told me that night. Slowly but surely, my shadow was becoming me. That’s why I can only vaguely remember you, my childhood home. Him or me, no more running. It ends here.

* * * * * *

Few more minutes, I say to myself as I look at the watch. There he is. He is out of breath. Beaten, tired and bent by the weight of his own arid body. One last push, old man, and we will meet.

I am hiding behind the rock. His footsteps on gravel and sand, I can tell them from any other footsteps in the world. His breathing, wheezing and crackling. I am counting to five.

He knows where I am, but he is too tired to take that last step. Let me take that step for you.

I am staring at his face, wrinkled like leaves of an ancient scroll.

“Time’s up, Quietus Est,” I am telling him.

He is not fighting back, and my Swiss blade finds a comfy spot below his Adam’s apple. I am going to finish him now.

Popping sounds are coming out from his flabby throat. What are you trying to tell me, old man? Let me hear your last words. I am easing the pressure to let him talk. But the sounds that come out not words, but laughter.

“You, you are confused,” he says. “You’ve got it all wrong. Let me, let me help you understand.”

I am letting him sit up. He is coughing blood. One wrong move and he’s dead. He wipes the blood off his lips and nods in understanding.

“All my life I have followed you,” he begins slowly. “It’s a miracle I have come this far and lived this long. Ever since I left Cordoba, I was a ticking time bomb. I was diagnosed as suicidal. Doctor after doctor, therapies, specialists, prescription, yoga – I have tried them all. Some helped for a while, and the disease subsided, but then trolled back with a new stronger wave. It’s this disease that nests here” – and he points to his head – “forcing me to look for a way to end my own life. It all began in London, on that morning when I was sitting on the bench in the middle of that square, feeling the disease gnawing on my brain. My first attempt was in that hotel, room B6. I sat on the bed in that dark room for hours with a rope in my hand and a blanket over my head. Death opened the door and stood above me in the darkness of the room. Oh, how I wanted my pain to end! But it was not meant to be. Not then, not there. I had to live on. Ever since that day, it was a cat and a mouse game between us. I chased death, and death would always slip away. Until now.”

He pauses, rubbing his flabby neck, then points his finger down the valley and continues: “I was born in that house. I remember every moment of my childhood. My parents, my toys, my school. I remember playing hide and seek with my cousins in Muscat gardens and dosing off to Sunday clergy in that white chapel. I remember Eastern rugs being washed on the street and the smell of grapes. My name is Fernandez August Navaro. And you, you have no true name, but they call you Quietus Est. The one who wanders.”

Filaments of scorching infernos have been ignited all over me. The fire sets off inside my eyelids, spreading over to all facial pores and trickling down my body.

“Lies! Imbecile lies!” I roar.

“Look at me,” he says, “I am an old man. And you? Still young and strong as you will always be. You have not aged. Now think more. What do you remember of your childhood? Shakespearean memories of random sounds and smells are all you have gained from me. Master Borges knew who you were. He cracked you, and then he tricked you. He made you think you were me. That was his way of evading you – by not revealing you the truth until his final breath, final book, final story. You are the one who wanders. And those memories you have – those are my memories. And now that I have told you who you really are, you must finally finish me.”

I have heard enough of his fibs. I am throwing my knife away. I shall not require any blades to finish him. With hands clenched around his thin neck, I am strangling him. I hear him squeal as the grip tightens. I feel the crackling of neck bones between my thumbs. I see him gulping the air in warm convulsions. He looks peaceful.

I sit on his chest and watch his last breath picked up by the wind, carried down the valley to the gardens, passing by the white chapel and the house where he grew up.

The scorching wind of Andalusia is pouring sunlight onto his face, toying with eyelashes, pounding on cheeks and gyring through hair. He must have missed the smell of the valley and the ripening softness of Muscat fluff glistening in the air.

I am rewinding my wristwatch and walking downhill along the wavy trail, my thumbs still sore from killing.

I am taking small step sideways. Once I reach El Jardinito Road, I will hop on the first bus, and from there I will travel west. Or north. Destination will never matter.

Anywhere is where the roads take me.

[easytravelpw-blog]

Full text write on https://easy-travel.pw/the-12-best-things-to-do-in-bonn-germany/germany/

The 12 Best Things to Do in Bonn, Germany

01 of 12

Wander amongst Botanic Gardens on Palace Grounds

GettyImages / Murat Taner 

Bonn's Botanic Gardens (officially Botanische Gärten der Friedrich-Wilhelms-Universität Bonn) are on the grounds of Poppelsdorf Palace. Once the castle grounds for the Archbishop of Cologne, this refreshing site dates back to 1340. The castle only began to be built in 1715, replacing an earlier castle. To match the Baroque castle, the gardens were re-worked from renaissance style to compliment the castle.

Wiped out during the fighting of WWII, the gardens were painstakingly reconstructed from 1979 to 1984. The elegant 6.5 hectares are now open to public and free on weekdays. Over 8,000 plant species are grown here, including endangered species like Lady's Slipper Orchids. There is an arboretum, Mediterranean and fern houses, and even a carnivorous plant house. Take note of the exemplary mineralogical museum.

Visitors who get the chance to visit during the summer shouldn't miss the regular Poppeldorf Palace concerts which feature classical music in front of the palace.

02 of 12

Look up at the Cathedral

GettyImages / Brigitte Merz 

Bonn's stunning cathedral is the symbol of the city with its five towers poking high into the sky. Known in German as Bonner Münster, this is one of the best examples of a Romanesque church on the Rhine River. 

The site was a Roman temple and Christian church before the cathedral was built. The cathedral was constructed between the 11th and 13th centuries, making it one of Germany's oldest cathedrals still standing. Located on today's Münsterplatz, it was built on the graves of two martyred Roman soldiers who became the city’s patron saints. It is also the site where two Holy Roman Emperors, Charles IV and Frederick the Fair, were crowned in the 14th century.  

Step inside and around the current restorations (expected to continue into 2019) to admire its Gothic details and Baroque decoration. Main attractions include the 11th century crypt or the 12th century cloister, as well as the defined Expressionist art in the windows created by the saint Heinrich Campendonk. One of the newest discoveries is the tomb of Siegfried von Westerburg, archbishop of Cologne from 1275 to 1297.

03 of 12

Center your visit on Münsterplatz

GettyImages / no_limit_pictures 

The square in front of Bonn's Minster is the largest in town, and the cathedral is not the only attraction here. 

Lying to the east, Bonn's Altes Rathaus (town hall) is all pristine pink-and-gold Rococo elegance dating back from the 18th-century. A twin staircase leads inside to the mayor’s office. This noble building was once the site of all official business when Bonn was the capital of West Germany. Important visitors from John F. Kennedy to Mikhail Gorbachev have walked up those staircases. 

Today, this square is the center of Bonn city life. Autumn brings the annual Bonn-Fest, and in winter, this is the site of a picturesque Weihnachtsmarkt (Christmas Market). From December 1 to Christmas Eve the Rathaus transforms into a massive Advent calendar with new windows opened everyday.

04 of 12

Honor a Classic

GettyImages / Werner Dieterich 

Bonn is the birthplace of the great Ludwig van Beethoven and a monument to him also sits in Münsterplatz. A bronze statue of the classic composer dates back to 1845, erected on the 75th anniversary of Beethoven's birth at a festival helmed by another renowned composer, Franz Liszt. The Beethoven festival still happens every year and celebrates Germany's premier musician.

At the base of the statue are allegorical representations of the types of Beethoven's music like phantasy, spiritual, fidelio and eroica. Behind it there is a cheery yellow baroque Palais that is now just a post office, but it offsets the monument beautifully. 

Continue to 5 of 12 below.

05 of 12

Visit Beethoven’s House

GettyImages / nevereverro

If you want to pay further tribute to Bonn's most famous descendant, make a visit to Beethoven-Haus. This is the site of his birth in 1770.

A museum dedicated to his life and work was opened in 1893. A humble exterior gives way to rare artifacts and documents from his life, like an original portrait of his family, personal letters, and hand-written sheet music. Examine his instruments, ear trumpet for his poor hearing, and death mask. A digitalized research center includes all of his finest work and even rare recordings, plus an interactive 3-D show. All of this comprises the largest Beethoven collection in the world.

06 of 12

Walk Beneath a Canopy of Cherry Blossoms

Jordan Wilms

Lines of Japanese kirschbaum (cherry trees) are a star attraction for 10 to 14 days each spring. They appear across the country, but Bonn has become world-famous for its blossom avenue.

Photographers gather on this street to gawk at the heavy blossoms leaning overhead, creating a tunnel-like canopy. This means there can be more people than flowers, but it is still quite a sight. Visit in the early evening to avoid the crowds and enjoy the pink-shaded lamp light.

07 of 12

Walk Bonn’s Museum Mile

GettyImages / Iain Masterton

Bonn's culture isn't all hundreds of years old. One of the city's top attractions is its Museumsmeile (museum mile). Here are some highlights of the museum mile.

Art and Exhibition Hall of the Federal Republic of Germany: Simply called the Bundeskunsthalle, this modern museum is dedicated to 20th century art. This is the largest collection of Rhenish Expressionism in the world, as well as work by August Macke (one of the founders of Der Blaue Reiter) and Joseph Beuys.

Haus der Geschichte: The House of Contemporary German History (HDG) covers everything leading up to WWII to the present including the city's reign as the capitol. There are artifacts from the city's Roman origins to coverage of daily life in the East and West.  

Alexander König Museum: One of the best natural history and zoological museums in all of Germany.

Deutsches Museum Bonn: Covers historical technological advances.

Kunstmuseum Bonn: A museum dedicated to modern art, founded  in 1947. It focuses on Rhenish Expressionism and August Macke in particular, one of the founders of Der Blaue Reiter. Also included are post-war artists like Joseph Beuys, Georg Baselitz, and Blinky Palermo. Also watch out for the extensive video collection. 

Arithmeum: Extensively studies the history of mathematics with over 1,200 artifacts from antique calculators to rare books. These pieces of antiquity are housed in a thoroughly modern setting of steel and glass.

Rheinisches Landesmuseum Bonn: One of the oldest history museums in Germany.

08 of 12

Cruise the Middle Rhine

GettyImages / KenWiedemann 

Bonn marks the beginning of the Mittelrhein (Middle Rhine), a UNESCO World Heritage Site. This is one of the most beautiful areas along the Rhine River, a popular cruise destination with frequent stops at the many charming towns along the river.

Routes generally run from Cologne to Koblenz where the Rhine joins the Mosel. From here cruisers can enjoy views of castle after castle.

If you want to get off the more popular cruise route, try the Ahr, a tributary of the Rhine that offers more destination villages with half the tourists. 

Continue to 9 of 12 below.

09 of 12

Tour a Modern Castle

GettyImages / Creativ Studio Heinemann 

An easy day trip from Bonn, Schloss Drachenburg is in a Gothic Revival-style perched above the Rhine. Like Neuschwanstein, this isn't a stellar example of a medieval castle, but it sure is pretty.

Located on one of the Siebengebirge (seven hills) of Drachenfels, this castle was completed at the late time period of 1884 on the orders of a wealthy banker, Stephan von Sarter. He never lived there, however, and the castle passed through many hands before being given protected historical status.

Visitors can hike the long pathway up, even past the showy castle to an older ruin at the top, or take the charming and actually historic Drachenfelsbahn tram. Inside the place is decorated in showy Baroque excess, but the real attraction are the views down to the river and all the way back to Bonn.

10 of 12

Tour a Medieval Castle

Dickbauch 

If Drachenburg didn't fulfill your medieval fantasy, nearby Godesburg Castle certainly will.

This stark stone castle was built in the 13th century, but was largely destroyed by the late 16th in the Cologne War. Luckily, in 1959, the castle has been restored to its original character with modern amenities like a restaurant with spectacular views of the countryside.

Another element of its restoration is that the interior of the castle was turned into apartments. Every man's home is his castle, but for these residents it really is.

11 of 12

Get Back to Nature

GettyImages / Jorg Greuel 

Just south of Bonn and part of a public park is the Waldau forest. This beloved entryway back to nature has many animals as a game reserve like deer, owls, badgers, bats, and dangerous wild boars (seriously—boars are a real threat in rural Germany).

This forest offers many relaxing walks among its established hornbeams and oak trees. The historic Haus der Natur, an environmental education center, is open to the public and offers information on the more than 1,000-year history of the surrounding Kottenforst (to access that area directly there is a handy Bahnhof Kottenforst on the S-Bahn). Popular with families, there is also a large playground.

12 of 12

Make Bonn your ideal Base for Day Trips

Robert Harding/Getty Images

Cologne is the usual pick for a base in North Rhine-Westphalia , but Bonn makes for a less touristy, more relaxed option for day trips around the state.

Top German cities like Cologne are just a short drive or train ride away at 30 minutes. Dusseldorf is just an hour away, Dortmund an hour and a half, and Frankfurt is two.

Also in the area are lesser-known German destinations like Aachen, Münster‎, Wuppertal, and many more.

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[csrgood]

Legal Community “Shocked” by NY Bar Decision to Suspend Renowned Attorney Without a Hearing After He Helped Win Pollution Judgment Against Chevron

A New York state appellate court has taken the highly unusual step of suspending the law license of renowned corporate accountability attorney Steven Donziger without a hearing, leading to “shock” among lawyers who have followed his long-running battle with Chevron and the powerful law firm Gibson Dunn & Crutcher over the clean-up of the oil major’s massive pollution in Ecuador's Amazon.  

To short-circuit the legal process to deny Donziger a hearing, staff attorneys at the state bar grievance committee (which regulates attorney conduct) characterized him as an “immediate threat to the public order” even though he has not received even one client complaint in 25 years of legal practice and has won numerous honors and testimonials for his public service work. Donziger is most well-known for helping Ecuadorian Indigenous groups and farmer communities win a $9.5b judgment against Chevron after courts in the South American nation – where Chevron insisted the trial be held -- found the oil giant had deliberately dumped billions of gallons of toxic oil waste onto ancestral lands in Ecuador’s Amazon, decimating local communities and causing a staggering increase in cancer rates that has killed or threatens to kill thousands of people. (See this summary of the evidence against Chevron.) 

The New York bar grievance committee, led by staff attorneys Jorge Dopico and Naomi Goldstein, decided to deny Donziger a hearing based solely on allegations of misconduct produced in a retaliatory civil “racketeering” (or RICO) case brought by his longtime adversary, Chevron, even though evidence from that case has since been largely disproven and shown to be the product of enormous cash payments by the oil company to an admittedly corrupt witness who later admitted he lied under oath, said Aaron Marr Page, a human rights lawyer who is working with Donziger as he fights off retaliatory attacks by Chevron in numerous forums. The controversial findings in the Chevron RICO case – which have been rejected by 17 separate appellate judges in Ecuador – were issued in 2014 by Lewis A. Kaplan, known as a pro-business U.S. federal judge who held a strong animus against Donziger and his Ecuadorian clients as outlined in this article by Greenpeace co-founder Rex Weyler.

Dopico and Goldstein made the decision to move against Donziger without a hearing after being urged to do so in a referral letter sent by several colleagues of Kaplan who sit with him on the New York federal trial bench.  In a referral letter signed by Judge Kevin P. Castel, who has served on the bench with Kaplan for several years, Dopico was told to prevent Donziger from challenging Kaplan’s disputed findings even though he had available stunning new evidence that shows Chevron’s main witness – to whom it had paid $2 million – had lied repeatedly on the stand after being coached for 53 days by company lawyers at Gibson Dunn, as explained in detail in this 33-page rebuttal. The witness, Alberto Guerra, admitted under oath in a separate proceeding that he had lied as a way to get paid more money from Chevron’s lawyers at Gibson Dunn, who were managing him.

(See here for background on Chevron’s fabrication of evidence which is also summarized in this criminal referral letter to the U.S. Department of Justice.  Here is legal brief submitted to the U.S. Supreme Court outlining Chevron’s malfeasance. Here is a summary of Gibson Dunn’s fabrication of evidence and other ethical violations.)

Page said it was repugnant to see Chevron’s self-interested demonization campaign against Donziger being embraced, without any apparent analysis, by the staff attorneys at the bar grievance committee.  Contrary to the usual process, Dopico and Goldstein refused to meet with Donziger before they launched the process to disbar him without a hearing. They also refused to respond to a detailed letter from Donziger (available here) sent in February 2017 outlining the many flaws in Kaplan’s decision; and, in yet another unusual move, they appointed as an outside “pro bono” prosecutor a lawyer (George A. Davidson) from a major corporate firm with significant ties to the oil industry.

Page said he was particularly shocked by the characterization of Donziger as an “immediate threat to the public order” based on a “highly flawed” legal decision issued over four years ago.  “Steven Donziger has dedicated his entire career to helping the powerless and marginalized members of society, from Indigenous peoples in Ecuador to indigent criminal defendants in the United States, confront some of the most entrenched interests in our society,” said Page.  “I can’t understand how this can be recast as a ‘threat to the public order’ by New York courts.”

Some longtime New York lawyers say that the legal community is unnerved by the prospect that civil judgments – which are obtained by a low standard of proof and often (as in Donziger’s case) without a jury of impartial fact finders – can be used to prevent attorneys from even arguing in their own defense in bar disciplinary proceedings, as New York is doing to Donziger in this particular case.

Marty Garbus, an esteemed New York First Amendment lawyer who has reviewed the Ecuador pollution file and who filed an amicus brief on behalf of Donziger, said he was troubled by the decision to suspend Donziger without a hearing. “What the bar grievance committee and the judges of the First Department are doing to Steven Donziger looks bizarre and clearly does not comport with due process, especially given that Judge Kaplan's civil findings are disputed and contradicted by the findings of other courts,” said Garbus. “Judge Kaplan’s civil judgment was based on testimony from a paid fact witness who subsequently admitted to lying and it completely excluded the evidence of Chevron’s toxic dumping in Ecuador. Kaplan also refused to consider contextual evidence of Chevron’s judicial misconduct in Ecuador.” 

“This decision must be seen in light of a line of cases where the power of the legal bar is put to use for political reasons, to punish those who too aggressively take on the corporate legal establishment,” Garbus concluded.

Professor Charles Nesson, the William F. Weld Professor of Law at Harvard, has closely investigated the case given that Donziger was a former student.  Nesson, who made the Ecuador case a major theme of his trial class last year at Harvard, said he was “dismayed” and “shocked” by the way Donziger is being treated by New York courts.

“It appears to me that the judge in the civil case, Lewis A. Kaplan, has written orders clearly backing away from his own findings of bribery in the civil judgment that the bar committee is arguing that Donziger cannot contest,” said Nesson, referring to a decision Kaplan issued in February of this year ordering Donziger to pay Chevron’s court costs that seemed highly defensive about his reliance on the Guerra testimony. “If the judge in the civil case clearly no longer fully believes in his own evidence, how can it be fair to use that evidence to impose a sanction and to prevent an attorney from making arguments in his defense? Further, there is ample other extrinsic evidence that demonstrate that Kaplan’s findings were erroneous.”

Weyler, the co-founder of Greenpeace, called Donziger a “hero” for standing up to Chevron and the bar. “This is always the way the status quo power structure protects its own,” said Weyler. “The more frightened they are by the truth, the greater their lies. They did this to anti-slavery activists centuries ago, to the suffragettes, to Gandhi and Martin Luther King, to indigenous leaders throughout the world.  “This shameless pandering by the NY judiciary to power and money will be exposed in time,” said Weyler. 

“For more than two decades Steven Donziger has taken on one of the largest and most important fights for corporate accountability in history on behalf of indigenous and rainforest communities,” said Paul Paz y Miño, Associate Director of the environmental group Amazon Watch, in Oakland, CA. “His ability to stare down one of the most vicious corporate attacks ever serves as an inspiration to untold numbers of people around the world. It is just stunning that the New York bar authorities, rather than recognizing what Donziger has accomplished for humanity, now seem to have allowed themselves to become an arm of Chevron’s and Gibson Dunn’s patently unethical litigation strategy. This abdication of responsibility by public officials is yet another example of the pressure environmental and human rights defenders are subjected to for their successful work challenging corporate power.”

Leading civil rights attorney Jason Flores-Williams, who is based in Denver and is a longtime admirer of Donziger’s work, agreed. “Steven Donziger is a man of great integrity who has devoted most of his career to fighting on behalf of the voiceless and dispossessed.  That the New York state bar would sanction him for fighting Big Oil while doing nothing about sanctioning lawyers who serve the greed and corruption of Wall Street is a sad commentary on the state of our legal profession.”

The decision to deny Donziger a hearing effectively continues a campaign started by Chevron in 2009 to “demonize Donziger” as part of its long-term litigation strategy, according to an internal company email. Chevron and at least 115 lawyers it hired at the Gibson Dunn firm – part of team of 2,000 lawyers used by the company to fend off the environmental claims since the case was filed in 1993 -- were responding to Donziger’s tenacious advocacy over two decades on behalf of villagers who won the judgment against Chevron after the company insisted the trial be held in Ecuador, said Page. The Gibson Dunn team, led by former New York City Deputy Mayor Randy Mastro, is known as a bullying and notoriously unethical group of attorneys who will do virtually anything to rescue their corporate clients from large liabilities, said Weyler in his article.

The Ecuador judgment won by Donziger and his clients in Ecuador has been affirmed on appeal three times, most recently last week by Ecuador’s Constitutional Court in an 8-0 decision; it is also is being enforced against Chevron in Canada, where the Ecuadorians have won the unanimous backing of the country’s Supreme Court and where they have racked up multiple appellate court victories (see here for background).

Donziger in his 2017 letter to the grievance committee promised his full cooperation with any investigation, but months later and without contacting him Dopico and Goldstein moved for his immediate suspension.  In his letter, Donziger characterized the referral letter to Dopico from Judge Castel urging his disbarment as showing “an entirely inappropriate and injudicious approach to this matter” that stands “in stark contrast to the judicial obligation of impartiality.” He also said in reference to the Castel letter: “The prosecutorial tone – and the woefully incomplete description of the true facts and circumstances – bespeaks an interest in vindication of a colleague rather than a request for an impartial inquiry.”

A detailed report issued last year by lawyers for the Ecuadorians, Chevron’s RICO Fraud, identifies just some of the profoundly disturbing flaws in Judge Kaplan’s civil proceeding, including:

**Kaplan relied for his finding of “bribery” on the testimony of an admittedly corrupt former Ecuadorian judge, Alberto Guerra. Guerra was `paid $2 million by Chevron; the witness, after being coached for 53 days by Chevron lawyers at Gibson Dunn, later admitted he lied on the stand. Donziger was not allowed to present evidence to the bar authorities that the witness recanted much of his testimony. 

**Kaplan’s finding that the trial court judgment in Ecuador was “ghostwritten” was rejected by three appellate courts in that country; a forensic report presented in a parallel arbitration proceeding by a global expert proved the decision against Chevron was written by the trial judge, but Kaplan refused to consider the report. (See here.)

Page added that he has worked with Donziger in Ecuador for years and has seen firsthand how he is beloved by his clients and deeply respected throughout the environmental and human rights communities in Ecuador and the United States. “Steven Donziger is one of the most powerful assets we have in the fight for corporate accountability and global justice,” said Page, who wrote an article for the Huffington Post seeking support for Donziger, who has received numerous letters of encouragement from his clients.

For Donziger’s legal brief contesting his suspension by the NY bar without a hearing, apparently ignored by the New York judges, see here. For exhibits to Donziger’s filing, see here.  For a statement from Donziger in response to his suspension, see here.

source: http://www.csrwire.com/press_releases/41212-Legal-Community-Shocked-by-NY-Bar-Decision-to-Suspend-Renowned-Attorney-Without-a-Hearing-After-He-Helped-Win-Pollution-Judgment-Against-Chevron?tracking_source=rss

[dragnews]

First Trump-Putin summit has Cold War backdrop, U.S. allies nervous

WASHINGTON/MOSCOW (Reuters) – U.S. President Donald Trump and Russian President Vladimir Putin will meet for their first summit on July 16 in Helsinki, a venue famed for its Cold War diplomacy, with nervous U.S. allies in Europe and Russia skeptics looking on.

The Kremlin and the White House simultaneously announced the place and date a day after reaching agreement for the two leaders to meet following a visit to Moscow by U.S. national security adviser John Bolton.Trump will meet Putin after attending a July 11-12 summit of NATO leaders and a visit to Britain. The date will give Putin a chance to attend the July 15 closing ceremony of the soccer World Cup hosted by Russia.

The two leaders have met twice before on the sidelines of international gatherings and spoken at least eight times by phone. They have also made positive comments about each other now and then with Putin lauding Trump’s handling of the U.S. economy.

“The two leaders will discuss relations between the United States and Russia and a range of national security issues,” the White House said in a statement similar to one released by the Kremlin.

The summit could irritate U.S. allies who want to isolate Putin, such as Britain, or countries such as Ukraine who are nervous about what they see as Trump’s overly friendly attitude towards the Russian leader.

It is also likely to go down badly among critics who question Trump’s commitment to the NATO alliance and who have been concerned about his frictions with longtime allies such as Canada and Germany over trade.

Relations between Washington and Moscow became the most strained since the end of the Cold War during the administration of President Barack Obama, which imposed sanctions for Russia’s annexation of Crimea from Ukraine. U.S. intelligence agencies accused Russia of interfering in the 2016 U.S. election, an allegation Moscow has repeatedly denied.

The summit is a boost for Finland, whose capital hosted major Cold War summits between leaders such as Leonid Brezhnev and Gerald Ford in 1975 and Mikhail Gorbachev and George H.W. Bush in 1990 before going on to host a meeting between Boris Yeltsin and Bill Clinton in 1997.

Moscow hopes the Helsinki summit will restart a dialogue between Washington and Moscow, said Vassily Nebenzia, the Russian ambassador to the United Nations.

“We need each other, not because we want to love each other. We don’t want and we don’t need to be loved. We simply need to hold normal, pragmatic relations with a major country upon which – like what lies upon us – a lot in the world depends,” Nebenzia told a news conference at the United Nations.

Nebenzia said he expects the summit to primarily focus on U.S.-Russia relations, but that “we will not be able to avoid” the civil war in Syria, the 2015 international accord on Iran’s nuclear program, which Trump has repudiated, and the Ukraine crisis.

U.S. Senator Lindsey Graham of Trump’s Republican Party, said he hoped Trump would raise Russia’s conduct in southwestern Syria where Syrian government forces have been battling rebels in a “de-escalation zone” agreed last year by the United States, Jordan and Assad’s ally Russia to curb fighting.

“The question is are we going to let Putin walk all over us? Had eight years of that, kind of tired of it,” said Graham, who serves on the Senate’s Armed Services committee.

NATO Secretary-General Jens Stoltenberg played down worries about the summit saying it was in line with the alliance’s own policies which advocated dialogue with Moscow.

Others were less sanguine.

“There is unease about this meeting, just as there is unease about Trump,” said one senior NATO diplomat, who declined to be identified because of the subject’s sensitivity.

“What is he going to say, what is his preparation, is he aware of the symbolism? U.S. containment of Russia is going further than Europe would want … but if Trump then strikes up a friendship with Putin, it could leave us more in the dark about U.S. policy,” the diplomat said.

Daniel Fried, a former assistant secretary of State for European affairs, said allied leaders are worried that Trump will repeat at the NATO summit what occurred earlier this month at the G7 in Canada, when tensions over trade erupted and Trump declined to sign the leaders’ closing statement.

“What people are worried about is the president going into this meeting (with Putin) with a weaker hand if he is seen as blowing up alliances and not having a very good trip to London,” said Fried, now at the Washington-based Atlantic Council.

LOW EXPECTATIONS

Ukraine wants Russia to return the annexed Crimea region and for pro-Russian separatists in eastern Ukraine to hand back control of territory.

The Ukrainian presidential administration did not reply to a request for comment, but political analysts there said Russia was unlikely to consider a deal on Ukraine until after Ukrainian presidential and parliamentary elections next year.

“There will be no sensational results,” said Volodymyr Fesenko, a Ukrainian political analyst. “At the moment there are no obvious preconditions for any kind of compromise.”

Trump has long expressed a desire for better relations with Russia, even as Washington tightens sanctions, and the Kremlin has long pushed for a summit.

Moscow made no secret on Wednesday of its delight that such a meeting had finally been agreed with Kremlin aide Yuri Ushakov saying on Wednesday that the two men were likely to talk for several hours. He spoke of a possible joint declaration on improving U.S.-Russia relations and international security.

FILE PHOTO: U.S. President Donald Trump and Russia’s President Vladimir Putin talk during the family photo session at the APEC Summit in Danang, Vietnam November 11, 2017. REUTERS/Jorge Silva/File Photo

Trump congratulated Putin by phone in March after the Russian leader’s landslide re-election victory. Opposition activist Alexei Navalny was barred from running.

But since then, already poor ties between Washington and Moscow have deteriorated over the conflict in Syria and the poisoning of a former Russian spy in Britain, which prompted big diplomatic expulsions in both countries.

Expectations for a summit are therefore low.

A special counsel in the United States has indicted Russian firms and individuals as part of a probe into possible collusion between Russia and Trump’s 2016 presidential campaign. Trump denies wrongdoing and calls the investigation a “witch hunt”.

Bolton told reporters in Moscow on Wednesday he expected Russian interference in U.S. politics to be discussed at the summit.

‘SMALL STEPS’

“Even small steps in reducing tensions would be in everybody’s interest,” remarked Finnish President Sauli Niinistö, who said he hoped Putin and Trump would discuss arms control and heed his own concerns about tensions in the Baltic Sea region.

After Trump and Putin met briefly in Vietnam in November 2017, Trump was criticized in the United States for saying he believed Putin when the Russian president denied Russian meddling.

In a Twitter post on Thursday before the Helsinki meeting was announced, Trump again appeared to cast doubt on Russian involvement. “Russia continues to say they had nothing to do with Meddling in our Election!” he wrote.

In Washington, the tweet drew rebukes from Democrats and at least one of Trump’s fellow Republicans.

“Of course #Putin continues to deny interfering in our elections. But he did. That is not a matter of opinion, it is an indisputable FACT,” Republican Senator Marco Rubio wrote.

Democrats said the meeting was a gift to the Kremlin and worried what else Trump might give away.

In Moscow, Russian Foreign Ministry spokeswoman Maria Zakharova said it was best not to get too excited about what the summit might yield.

Slideshow (2 Images)

“In general, I’d recommend everyone not to use phrases like ‘breakthroughs’ and such like,” the RIA news agency quoted her as saying. “I suggest taking quite a pragmatic and realistic view of these meetings.”

Additional reporting by Denis Pinchuk and Maria Kiselyova in Moscow, Robin Emmott in Brussels, Alessandra Prentice in Kiev, Stine Jacobsen in Helsinki, Jonathan Landay, Richard Cowan in Washington; Writing by Doina Chiacu and Andrew Osborn; Editing by Frances Kerry, William Maclean, Andrew Heavens, Grant McCool

The post First Trump-Putin summit has Cold War backdrop, U.S. allies nervous appeared first on World The News.

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[newestbalance]

Trump-Putin summit to unfold in Cold War venue Helsinki on July 16

WASHINGTON/MOSCOW (Reuters) – U.S. President Donald Trump and Russian President Vladimir Putin will hold their first summit on July 16 in Helsinki, a venue famed for its Cold War diplomacy, with nervous U.S. allies in Europe and Russia skeptics looking on.

The Kremlin and the White House simultaneously announced the place and date of the summit a day after striking a deal to hold a meeting following a visit to Moscow by U.S. national security adviser John Bolton.”The two leaders will discuss relations between the United States and Russia and a range of national security issues,” the White House said in a statement similar to one released by the Kremlin.

Trump will meet Putin after attending a July 11-12 summit of NATO leaders and making a visit to Britain. The summit’s date will give Putin a chance to attend the July 15 closing ceremony of the soccer World Cup which his country is hosting.

The two leaders have met twice before on the sidelines of international gatherings and spoken at least eight times by phone. They have also made positive comments about each other now and then with Putin lauding Trump’s handling of the economy.

Their summit could irritate U.S. allies however who want to isolate Putin, such as Britain, or countries like Ukraine who are nervous about what they see as Trump’s overly friendly attitude toward the Russian leader.

It is also likely to go down badly among critics who question Trump’s commitment to the NATO alliance and who have been concerned about his frictions with longtime allies such as Canada and Germany over trade.

NATO Secretary-General Jens Stoltenberg played down worries about the summit on Monday, saying it was in line with the alliance’s own policies which advocated dialogue with Moscow.

Others were less sanguine.

“There is unease about this meeting, just as there is unease about Trump,” said one senior NATO diplomat, who declined to be identified because of the subject’s sensitivity.

“What is he going to say, what is his preparation, is he aware of the symbolism? U.S. containment of Russia is going further than Europe would want … but if Trump then strikes up a friendship with Putin, it could leave us more in the dark about U.S. policy,” the diplomat added.

LOW EXPECTATIONS

There is likely to be some unease in Ukraine, which wants Russia to return the annexed Crimea region and for pro-Russian separatists in eastern Ukraine to hand back control of a huge chunk of territory.

The Ukrainian presidential administration did not reply to a request for comment, but political analysts there said Russia was unlikely to consider a deal on Ukraine until after Ukrainian presidential and parliamentary elections next year.

“There will be no sensational results,” said Volodymyr Fesenko, a Ukrainian political analyst. “At the moment there are no obvious preconditions for any kind of compromise.”

Trump has long expressed a desire for better relations with Russia, even as Washington tightens sanctions, and the Kremlin has long pushed for a summit.

Moscow made no secret on Wednesday of its delight that such a meeting had finally been agreed with Kremlin aide Yuri Ushakov saying on Wednesday that the two men were likely to talk for several hours. He spoke of a possible joint declaration on improving U.S.-Russia relations and international security.

Trump congratulated Putin by phone in March after the Russian leader’s landslide re-election victory.

But since then, already poor ties between Washington and Moscow have deteriorated over the conflict in Syria and the poisoning of a former Russian spy in Britain, which prompted big diplomatic expulsions in both countries.

Expectations for a summit are therefore low.

A special counsel in the United States has indicted Russian firms and individuals as part of a probe into possible collusion between Russia and Trump’s 2016 presidential campaign. Trump denies wrongdoing and calls the investigation a “witch hunt”.

The U.S. intelligence community’s conclusion that Moscow sought to interfere in that campaign to tilt the election in Trump’s favor has also been hanging over relations with Russia since Trump took office in January last year.

FILE PHOTO: U.S. President Donald Trump and Russia’s President Vladimir Putin talk during the family photo session at the APEC Summit in Danang, Vietnam November 11, 2017. REUTERS/Jorge Silva/File Photo

Bolton told reporters in Moscow on Wednesday he expected Russian interference in U.S. politics to be discussed at the summit and said he did not rule out Trump discussing Russia rejoining the Group of Seven industrialized countries to make it the G8 again.

‘SMALL STEPS’

After Trump and Putin met briefly in Vietnam in November 2017, Trump was criticized in the United States for saying he believed Putin when the Russian president denied accusations that Russia meddled in the 2016 election.

In a Twitter post on Thursday before the Helsinki meeting was announced, Trump again appeared to cast doubt on Russian involvement. “Russia continues to say they had nothing to do with Meddling in our Election!” he wrote.

In Washington, the tweet drew rebukes from Democrats and at least one of Trump’s fellow Republicans.

“Of course #Putin continues to deny interfering in our elections. But he did. That is not a matter of opinion, it is an indisputable FACT,” Republican Senator Marco Rubio wrote.

Democrats said the meeting was a gift to the Kremlin and worried what else Trump might give away.

“If anything should happen at this meeting, President Trump must inform Putin of his intent to aggressively implement the tough sanctions that the Congress passed last year, on a nearly unanimous basis, and tell Putin we will no longer stand by while he works to destabilize and harm us and our NATO allies,” said top Senate Democrat Chuck Schumer.

In Moscow, Russian Foreign Ministry spokeswoman Maria Zakharova said it was best not to get too excited about what the summit might yield.

“In general, I’d recommend everyone not to use phrases like ‘breakthroughs’ and such like,” the RIA news agency cited her as saying. “I suggest taking quite a pragmatic and realistic view of these meetings.”

The summit is a boost for Finland, however, whose capital played host to major Cold War summits between leaders such as Leonid Breznhev and Gerald Ford in 1975 and Mikhail Gorbachev and George H.W. Bush in 1990 before going on to host a meeting between Boris Yeltsin and Bill Clinton in 1997.

Slideshow (2 Images)

Finnish President Sauli Niinistö said Russia and the United States had only been in touch with him about the summit last week and said he hoped that Putin and Trump would discuss arms control and heed his own concerns about tensions in the Baltic Sea region.

“Even small steps in reducing tensions would be in everybody’s interest,” he said.

Additional reporting by Denis Pinchuk and Maria Kiselyova in Moscow, Robin Emmott in Brussels, Alessandra Prentice in Kiev and Stine Jacobsen in Helsinki; Writing by Doina Chiacu and Andrew Osborn; Editing by Frances Kerry, William Maclean and Andrew Heavens

The post Trump-Putin summit to unfold in Cold War venue Helsinki on July 16 appeared first on World The News.

from World The News https://ift.tt/2yQkoOD via Everyday News

[cleopatrarps]

Trump-Putin summit to unfold in Cold War venue Helsinki on July 16

WASHINGTON/MOSCOW (Reuters) – U.S. President Donald Trump and Russian President Vladimir Putin will hold their first summit on July 16 in Helsinki, a venue famed for its Cold War diplomacy, with nervous U.S. allies in Europe and Russia skeptics looking on.

The Kremlin and the White House simultaneously announced the place and date of the summit a day after striking a deal to hold a meeting following a visit to Moscow by U.S. national security adviser John Bolton.”The two leaders will discuss relations between the United States and Russia and a range of national security issues,” the White House said in a statement similar to one released by the Kremlin.

Trump will meet Putin after attending a July 11-12 summit of NATO leaders and making a visit to Britain. The summit’s date will give Putin a chance to attend the July 15 closing ceremony of the soccer World Cup which his country is hosting.

The two leaders have met twice before on the sidelines of international gatherings and spoken at least eight times by phone. They have also made positive comments about each other now and then with Putin lauding Trump’s handling of the economy.

Their summit could irritate U.S. allies however who want to isolate Putin, such as Britain, or countries like Ukraine who are nervous about what they see as Trump’s overly friendly attitude toward the Russian leader.

It is also likely to go down badly among critics who question Trump’s commitment to the NATO alliance and who have been concerned about his frictions with longtime allies such as Canada and Germany over trade.

NATO Secretary-General Jens Stoltenberg played down worries about the summit on Monday, saying it was in line with the alliance’s own policies which advocated dialogue with Moscow.

Others were less sanguine.

“There is unease about this meeting, just as there is unease about Trump,” said one senior NATO diplomat, who declined to be identified because of the subject’s sensitivity.

“What is he going to say, what is his preparation, is he aware of the symbolism? U.S. containment of Russia is going further than Europe would want … but if Trump then strikes up a friendship with Putin, it could leave us more in the dark about U.S. policy,” the diplomat added.

LOW EXPECTATIONS

There is likely to be some unease in Ukraine, which wants Russia to return the annexed Crimea region and for pro-Russian separatists in eastern Ukraine to hand back control of a huge chunk of territory.

The Ukrainian presidential administration did not reply to a request for comment, but political analysts there said Russia was unlikely to consider a deal on Ukraine until after Ukrainian presidential and parliamentary elections next year.

“There will be no sensational results,” said Volodymyr Fesenko, a Ukrainian political analyst. “At the moment there are no obvious preconditions for any kind of compromise.”

Trump has long expressed a desire for better relations with Russia, even as Washington tightens sanctions, and the Kremlin has long pushed for a summit.

Moscow made no secret on Wednesday of its delight that such a meeting had finally been agreed with Kremlin aide Yuri Ushakov saying on Wednesday that the two men were likely to talk for several hours. He spoke of a possible joint declaration on improving U.S.-Russia relations and international security.

Trump congratulated Putin by phone in March after the Russian leader’s landslide re-election victory.

But since then, already poor ties between Washington and Moscow have deteriorated over the conflict in Syria and the poisoning of a former Russian spy in Britain, which prompted big diplomatic expulsions in both countries.

Expectations for a summit are therefore low.

A special counsel in the United States has indicted Russian firms and individuals as part of a probe into possible collusion between Russia and Trump’s 2016 presidential campaign. Trump denies wrongdoing and calls the investigation a “witch hunt”.

The U.S. intelligence community’s conclusion that Moscow sought to interfere in that campaign to tilt the election in Trump’s favor has also been hanging over relations with Russia since Trump took office in January last year.

FILE PHOTO: U.S. President Donald Trump and Russia’s President Vladimir Putin talk during the family photo session at the APEC Summit in Danang, Vietnam November 11, 2017. REUTERS/Jorge Silva/File Photo

Bolton told reporters in Moscow on Wednesday he expected Russian interference in U.S. politics to be discussed at the summit and said he did not rule out Trump discussing Russia rejoining the Group of Seven industrialized countries to make it the G8 again.

‘SMALL STEPS’

After Trump and Putin met briefly in Vietnam in November 2017, Trump was criticized in the United States for saying he believed Putin when the Russian president denied accusations that Russia meddled in the 2016 election.

In a Twitter post on Thursday before the Helsinki meeting was announced, Trump again appeared to cast doubt on Russian involvement. “Russia continues to say they had nothing to do with Meddling in our Election!” he wrote.

In Washington, the tweet drew rebukes from Democrats and at least one of Trump’s fellow Republicans.

“Of course #Putin continues to deny interfering in our elections. But he did. That is not a matter of opinion, it is an indisputable FACT,” Republican Senator Marco Rubio wrote.

Democrats said the meeting was a gift to the Kremlin and worried what else Trump might give away.

“If anything should happen at this meeting, President Trump must inform Putin of his intent to aggressively implement the tough sanctions that the Congress passed last year, on a nearly unanimous basis, and tell Putin we will no longer stand by while he works to destabilize and harm us and our NATO allies,” said top Senate Democrat Chuck Schumer.

In Moscow, Russian Foreign Ministry spokeswoman Maria Zakharova said it was best not to get too excited about what the summit might yield.

“In general, I’d recommend everyone not to use phrases like ‘breakthroughs’ and such like,” the RIA news agency cited her as saying. “I suggest taking quite a pragmatic and realistic view of these meetings.”

The summit is a boost for Finland, however, whose capital played host to major Cold War summits between leaders such as Leonid Breznhev and Gerald Ford in 1975 and Mikhail Gorbachev and George H.W. Bush in 1990 before going on to host a meeting between Boris Yeltsin and Bill Clinton in 1997.

Slideshow (2 Images)

Finnish President Sauli Niinistö said Russia and the United States had only been in touch with him about the summit last week and said he hoped that Putin and Trump would discuss arms control and heed his own concerns about tensions in the Baltic Sea region.

“Even small steps in reducing tensions would be in everybody’s interest,” he said.

Additional reporting by Denis Pinchuk and Maria Kiselyova in Moscow, Robin Emmott in Brussels, Alessandra Prentice in Kiev and Stine Jacobsen in Helsinki; Writing by Doina Chiacu and Andrew Osborn; Editing by Frances Kerry, William Maclean and Andrew Heavens

The post Trump-Putin summit to unfold in Cold War venue Helsinki on July 16 appeared first on World The News.

from World The News https://ift.tt/2yQkoOD via News of World

[dragnews]

Trump-Putin summit to unfold in Cold War venue Helsinki on July 16

WASHINGTON/MOSCOW (Reuters) – U.S. President Donald Trump and Russian President Vladimir Putin will hold their first summit on July 16 in Helsinki, a venue famed for its Cold War diplomacy, with nervous U.S. allies in Europe and Russia skeptics looking on.

The Kremlin and the White House simultaneously announced the place and date of the summit a day after striking a deal to hold a meeting following a visit to Moscow by U.S. national security adviser John Bolton.”The two leaders will discuss relations between the United States and Russia and a range of national security issues,” the White House said in a statement similar to one released by the Kremlin.

Trump will meet Putin after attending a July 11-12 summit of NATO leaders and making a visit to Britain. The summit’s date will give Putin a chance to attend the July 15 closing ceremony of the soccer World Cup which his country is hosting.

The two leaders have met twice before on the sidelines of international gatherings and spoken at least eight times by phone. They have also made positive comments about each other now and then with Putin lauding Trump’s handling of the economy.

Their summit could irritate U.S. allies however who want to isolate Putin, such as Britain, or countries like Ukraine who are nervous about what they see as Trump’s overly friendly attitude toward the Russian leader.

It is also likely to go down badly among critics who question Trump’s commitment to the NATO alliance and who have been concerned about his frictions with longtime allies such as Canada and Germany over trade.

NATO Secretary-General Jens Stoltenberg played down worries about the summit on Monday, saying it was in line with the alliance’s own policies which advocated dialogue with Moscow.

Others were less sanguine.

“There is unease about this meeting, just as there is unease about Trump,” said one senior NATO diplomat, who declined to be identified because of the subject’s sensitivity.

“What is he going to say, what is his preparation, is he aware of the symbolism? U.S. containment of Russia is going further than Europe would want … but if Trump then strikes up a friendship with Putin, it could leave us more in the dark about U.S. policy,” the diplomat added.

LOW EXPECTATIONS

There is likely to be some unease in Ukraine, which wants Russia to return the annexed Crimea region and for pro-Russian separatists in eastern Ukraine to hand back control of a huge chunk of territory.

The Ukrainian presidential administration did not reply to a request for comment, but political analysts there said Russia was unlikely to consider a deal on Ukraine until after Ukrainian presidential and parliamentary elections next year.

“There will be no sensational results,” said Volodymyr Fesenko, a Ukrainian political analyst. “At the moment there are no obvious preconditions for any kind of compromise.”

Trump has long expressed a desire for better relations with Russia, even as Washington tightens sanctions, and the Kremlin has long pushed for a summit.

Moscow made no secret on Wednesday of its delight that such a meeting had finally been agreed with Kremlin aide Yuri Ushakov saying on Wednesday that the two men were likely to talk for several hours. He spoke of a possible joint declaration on improving U.S.-Russia relations and international security.

Trump congratulated Putin by phone in March after the Russian leader’s landslide re-election victory.

But since then, already poor ties between Washington and Moscow have deteriorated over the conflict in Syria and the poisoning of a former Russian spy in Britain, which prompted big diplomatic expulsions in both countries.

Expectations for a summit are therefore low.

A special counsel in the United States has indicted Russian firms and individuals as part of a probe into possible collusion between Russia and Trump’s 2016 presidential campaign. Trump denies wrongdoing and calls the investigation a “witch hunt”.

The U.S. intelligence community’s conclusion that Moscow sought to interfere in that campaign to tilt the election in Trump’s favor has also been hanging over relations with Russia since Trump took office in January last year.

FILE PHOTO: U.S. President Donald Trump and Russia’s President Vladimir Putin talk during the family photo session at the APEC Summit in Danang, Vietnam November 11, 2017. REUTERS/Jorge Silva/File Photo

Bolton told reporters in Moscow on Wednesday he expected Russian interference in U.S. politics to be discussed at the summit and said he did not rule out Trump discussing Russia rejoining the Group of Seven industrialized countries to make it the G8 again.

‘SMALL STEPS’

After Trump and Putin met briefly in Vietnam in November 2017, Trump was criticized in the United States for saying he believed Putin when the Russian president denied accusations that Russia meddled in the 2016 election.

In a Twitter post on Thursday before the Helsinki meeting was announced, Trump again appeared to cast doubt on Russian involvement. “Russia continues to say they had nothing to do with Meddling in our Election!” he wrote.

In Washington, the tweet drew rebukes from Democrats and at least one of Trump’s fellow Republicans.

“Of course #Putin continues to deny interfering in our elections. But he did. That is not a matter of opinion, it is an indisputable FACT,” Republican Senator Marco Rubio wrote.

Democrats said the meeting was a gift to the Kremlin and worried what else Trump might give away.

“If anything should happen at this meeting, President Trump must inform Putin of his intent to aggressively implement the tough sanctions that the Congress passed last year, on a nearly unanimous basis, and tell Putin we will no longer stand by while he works to destabilize and harm us and our NATO allies,” said top Senate Democrat Chuck Schumer.

In Moscow, Russian Foreign Ministry spokeswoman Maria Zakharova said it was best not to get too excited about what the summit might yield.

“In general, I’d recommend everyone not to use phrases like ‘breakthroughs’ and such like,” the RIA news agency cited her as saying. “I suggest taking quite a pragmatic and realistic view of these meetings.”

The summit is a boost for Finland, however, whose capital played host to major Cold War summits between leaders such as Leonid Breznhev and Gerald Ford in 1975 and Mikhail Gorbachev and George H.W. Bush in 1990 before going on to host a meeting between Boris Yeltsin and Bill Clinton in 1997.

Slideshow (2 Images)

Finnish President Sauli Niinistö said Russia and the United States had only been in touch with him about the summit last week and said he hoped that Putin and Trump would discuss arms control and heed his own concerns about tensions in the Baltic Sea region.

“Even small steps in reducing tensions would be in everybody’s interest,” he said.

Additional reporting by Denis Pinchuk and Maria Kiselyova in Moscow, Robin Emmott in Brussels, Alessandra Prentice in Kiev and Stine Jacobsen in Helsinki; Writing by Doina Chiacu and Andrew Osborn; Editing by Frances Kerry, William Maclean and Andrew Heavens

The post Trump-Putin summit to unfold in Cold War venue Helsinki on July 16 appeared first on World The News.

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