Archaeologists working in the ancient Greek city of Soli Pompeipolis in the southern Mersin province in Turkey have unveiled the memorial tomb of the Greek poet and astronomer Aratus, who was born in 315 BC.

  


The city, located in the ancient region of Paphlagonia, was still prominent during Roman times but was only rediscovered in the 1800s with the unearthing of the ruins of Zımbıllı Tepe in the Black Sea region of the country.

Soli Pompeipolis, lying just across the river from Taşköprü, in the Gökırmak (Greek: Amnias) Valley, in ancient times stretched as far as the Küre and Ilgaz mountains

The tomb of the gifted poet and astronomer is being excavated by Professor Remzi Yağcı, who is the head of the Department of Museology at Turkey’s Dokuz Eylül University.

According to the archaeologist, the discovery is of lasting importance to the history of the area and will be of great interest to travelers who will want to see the monument. Speaking to interviewers from the Anadolu News Agency, Yağcı said “For the first time, a memorial tomb has been unearthed linked to the archaeology of the ancient city of Soli Pompeiopolis.

“Aside from more familiar structures, such as the colonnaded streets, the ancient port, the theater, and the bathhouse, something very unique has been found. This find brings dynamism to the ancient city and can influence tourism in the region – for both those interested in cultural heritage and general visitors to the region.”

The unearthing of the ruins has been ongoing since July 20 of this year, Yağcı said. Showing photographs of the unique discovery, he indicated the two rows of hexagonal structures and arches around the memorial tomb that had been unearthed by his workers.

“This place looks like a crater,” he explained, “and has a circular area (that could have been used by) an astronomer. We have also come across a solid and large monumental structure.”

Yağcı added that Aratus was widely known during both the Hellenistic and Roman periods and his works on astronomy, as well as his poetry, are still read and studied to this day.

Additionally, he noted that NASA had named a crater on the moon after the brilliant Greek thinker, leading the archaeologist to hope that the tomb of the great man will one day be included on the UNESCO World Cultural Heritage List.

The Cherubina de Gabriak hoax of 1909.


 THERE IS A FINE TRADITION of taking the wind out of the stuffed shirts who run the literary world by tricking them into publishing the work of fictional authors. In the 1940s, an Australian poetry scandal erupted over the invented poet Ern Malley, disgracing the publisher once the hoax was revealed. More recently in the U.S., the wunderkind author JT LeRoy was exposed as a fake persona created by a writer named Laura Albert. But a similar ruse from early 20th century Russia may be the only such literary scandal that ended with two men shooting at each other.



According to an account in the Russian book The Fate of the Silver Age Poets, in August of 1909, Russia’s preeminent literary arts publication, Apollo, received a curious letter. The envelope contained poems written in exquisite handwriting, on perfumed paper, signed only with the Cyrillic letter Ч (che). The unsolicited submission raised the suspicions of Apollo’s de facto publisher and noted Russian art scene figure, Sergey Makovsky, until later that day, when the author called their office.

The woman on the phone identified herself as Cherubina de Gabriak, an unknown poet, looking to find her break in Apollo. Makovsky, who found the mystery poet’s voice quite charming, agreed to publish her work. In the October issue of Apollo, 12 of de Gabriak’s poems were included.

While the author remained a near complete mystery, tidbits of information about de Gabriak emerged through her poetry and correspondence. Supposedly, she was a young girl of French-Polish descent who lived in an oppressive Catholic household, which did not allow her to associate with the outside world. Her admirers caught only glimpses of her life, such as a poem that described her family’s coat of arms, but the riddles surrounding her past just made her all the more alluring. Soon, she was being published in a number of magazines, not just Apollo.

The mystique surrounding de Gabriak created quite a stir among the Russian poets of the day, and a number of Apollo contributors fell in love with her. Most famously, then up-and-coming poet Nikolay Gumilyov, who would go on to become a giant of Russian Symbolist poetry, began a red-blooded correspondence with de Gabriak, writing her a series of love letters.

Not everyone in the scene was quite convinced of the enigmatic poet, however, noting that if she was such a talent, she had no reason to hide.

In November of 1909, it was finally revealed that (as you have surely surmised) Cherubina de Gabriak was a fake persona. In reality, de Gabriak’s true identity was Elizaveta Dmitrieva, a school teacher who had worked with the poet Maximilian Voloshin to scam their contemporaries and get her work noticed. The name Cherubina de Gabriak, was a combination of references to a short story and a wooden imp that Voloshin had once given Dmitrieva. Voloshin was also an editor at Apollo, and knew Makovsky well enough to know what buttons to push to make their character appeal to him.

Dmitrieva had been stricken with tuberculosis at a young age, leaving her with a lifelong limp that made it extremely difficult for her to walk. Her brothers were known to taunt her by tearing one leg off of each of her dolls. Far from being a poet princess cloistered in some far off tower, Dmitrieva was a teacher and studied French and Spanish literature. She had been trying to get her poetry published for some time, including sending unsuccessful submissions to Apollo.

As Voloshin would tell it, when they first met in the summer of 1909, she was writing “simple, sentimentally sweet poems.” But over time, her work evolved. Once the hoax was revealed, many found it hard to believe that Dmitrieva’s talent could have sprung from obscurity, instead choosing to believe that Voloshin must have been the true author. Both Voloshin and Dmitrieva insisted that it was she who wrote the words, while Voloshin edited her (today, it is widely accepted that Dmitrieva was the true author based on comparisons with her later work).

Neither Makovsky nor Gumilyov took the news very well. Both men, embarrassed at having been had, began publicly disparaging Dmitrieva. At one point, Voloshin overheard Gumilyov talking rudely about his affair with Dmitrieva “in the crudest sexual terms,” as 1994’s Dictionary of Russian Women Writers puts it. Voloshin, who was equally enamored with Dmitrieva, decided that enough was enough. He slapped Gumilyov in the face, inviting him to a duel.

Dmitrieva truly did have feelings for Gumilyov, and Voloshin as well. A critical analysis of her poetry from a 2013 issue of The Slavic and East European Journal describes her as “a natural seductress who maintained complex love relations with a number of Modernist poets, and was the cause of the well-publicized duel between Voloshin and Gumilev, both contenders for her heart and hand.”

Gumilyov agreed to the duel, and they met on the shore of the Chernaya River on November 22, near the same spot where the famed Russian poet and novelist Alexander Pushkin had been fatally wounded over half a century earlier. Gumilyov, an excellent marksman, fired at Voloshin but missed, possibly intentionally, and Voloshin’s gun repeatedly misfired. Both men walked away with their lives, though animosity would characterize their relationship for years to come.

Voloshin and Gumilyov went on to become some of the most important Russian poets of their time. As for Dmitrieva, while she continued to write, she was never able to reach the same level of fame during her lifetime as she had when she was de Gabriak.

Today, Dmitrieva’s life and work is finally receiving some much deserved attention. In addition to more academic explorations of her poetry, in 2008, the playwright Paul Cohen unveiled a poorly reviewed stage play based on the story of the hoax, Cherubina. The Village Voice said that it “softened and simplified the story […] bleaching it of much of its nuance and oddity.” Still, critical analysis of Dmitrieva’s work is beginning to place her as a vital member of the Symbolist movement, even if her story will always be tied to the scandal that brought her into the light.

Why chess fans dislike chess in film

 From backwards boards to king-flipping, Hollywood just cannot get chess right.

BY CARA GIAIMO

 THE SCENE FROM THE classic Ingmar Bergman film The Seventh Seal, has a unique premise. Death—a cloaked figure with a very pale face—has come for Antonius, a knight fresh off the Crusades who just wants to live out his life in peace. Understandably frustrated, Antonius does what any of us would: he challenges Death to a game of chess, with his soul as the prize.

A regular schmo watching this scene picks up on a few things: the terror, the suspense, the artful composition of the shots. A chess aficionado, though, is only looking at one thing. That game board that decides Antonius’s fate? It’s set up totally backwards.

Movies and television shows are full of blunders, some more noticeable than others, and each with their specific guild of victims. Ornithologists fume when British period dramas are overdubbed with American birdsongs. Government employees will tell you that the supposed main White House staffer in Contact has a nonexistent job. Archeologists hate movie shipwrecks, and marine biologists are already mad about the zombie sharks in the upcoming Pirates of the Caribbean installment, which, as cartilaginous fishes, should not have ribs—even ghostly ones.

But these are merely occasional grievances. There’s one group of experts who can barely flip on the television without being exposed to egregious, head-on-desk mistakes: chess players.

“There are a ton of chess mistakes in TV and in film,” says Mike Klein, a writer and videographer for Chess.com. While different experts cite different error ratios, from “20 percent” to “much more often than not,” all agree: Hollywood is terrible at chess, even though they really don’t have to be. “There are so many [errors], it’s hard to keep track,” says Grandmaster Ilja Zaragatski, of chess24. “And there are constantly [new ones] coming out.”

Chess errors come in a few different flavors, these experts say. The most common is what we’ll call the Bad Setup. When you set up a chessboard, you’re supposed to orient it so that the square nearest to each player’s right side is light-colored. (There’s even a mnemonic for this—“right is light.”) Next, when you array the pieces, the white queen goes on white, and the black queen goes on black. “When I teach six-year-old girls, I say ‘the queen’s shoes have to match her dress!’” says Klein.

Six-year-olds may get this, but filmmakers often do not. Along with The Seventh Seal, movies that suffer from Bad Setups include Blade Runner, Austin Powers, From Russia with Love, The Shawshank Redemption, and Ace Ventura: When Nature Calls. Shaft and What’s New Pussycat may not have much in common, but they do both feature backwards chessboards.

Slightly less common, and a little more understandable, is the Dramatic Checkmate. This blunder occurs when one opponent surprises another by winning out of nowhere—or, similarly, when some extra-smart character walks by a game in progress and points out a checkmate opportunity the players didn’t spot. (There are a bunch of good last moves and shocked faces in the helpful Checkmate Supercut above.)

While this is understandable from a dramatic standpoint, or even a character-building one, it’s not at all realistic, says Klein. “Two reasonable chess players never get surprised when checkmate happens,” he says. “That would be like a team making a three-pointer, and the other team only then looking at the scoreboard and suddenly realizing they’d lost.” Real players also don’t make a big thing out of winning: “Chess players almost never reveal any emotions,” says Zaragatski. “Being cool is key.”

Peter Doggers of Chess.com notes another Dramatic Checkmate move: the felled king. “Tipping over your king as a way of resigning the game is only done in movies,” he says. (See Mr. Holland’s Opus, in which Jay Thomas slaps his king down after being owned by Richard Dreyfuss). A normal chess player will just go in for a good-game-style handshake. “This falling king thing has somehow become a strong image in cinematography,” he says, “But chess players always think: ‘Oh no, there we go again…’”

Finally, there are the Deep Cuts—those errors that only the most knowledgable and dedicated chess hounds will notice. “Occasionally there is simply an illegal position,” says Klein—in other words, a midgame setup that just doesn’t make sense. In Back to the Future Part III, when Marty McFly loses a chess game to Copernicus the dog, he does so despite an illegal position, and one Season 5 episode of The Office has Jim with both of his bishops on white squares, an impossible orientation in that particular game.

In at least one case, unusual play has sparked decades of academic debate: Experts still argue over whether HAL, the computer in Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey, was cheating in his game against astronaut Frank Poole, or whether Kubrick simply made a mistake.

To the experts, such errors seem needless. “It’s like if you were reading something, and you see spelling mistakes,” says the chess historian Bill Wall. Wall has occasionally worked as a film chess consultant. Although most films don’t bother hiring one of those, there are other options: “There are around 6 million chess games easily accessible in online databases,” says Zaragatski.

They aren’t the only ones bothered. Browse over to one of the many forum posts on the topic, and you’ll find people noting down movie titles and scenes as though they’re working on a hit list. “I just wanted to know if I could find some moral internet support after seeing… illegal moves, repeat positions, the knight called a horse, etc.” writes Chess.com user Politicalmusic, beginning one such thread. “I haven’t seen a good chess scene in a non-chess movie since Harry Potter,” gripes user TitanCG.

There are some upsides to being one of the lonely few, says Klein, who admits to pausing most movie chess scenes to try to puzzle them out. “I enjoy being a detective,” he says. Sometimes, what he finds brings a bit more satisfaction: if a knowledgable person set up the board, it could be a puzzle, or a historical reference. He and Doggers both cited a recent Simpsons episode, which guest-starred chess prodigy Magnus Carlsen, as a good example, full of in-jokes and recreations of historically important games. “It’s so cool when the chess part is actually done very well,” says Doggers. “That’s just great.”

And when it’s not—well, most people will think the film is smart because it has chess in it, while a small group is left burdened with the truth.

A short story: Sven Carlson Struck It Rich



 With the company’s blessing, the two old spies met once a week for a five mile stroll around Georgetown. He and the Old Man. He was called The Old Man, behind his back, because it was how the Old Man referred to virtually everyone “Now listen here, Old Man” 

The Old Man knew about the title and didn’t dislike it. The moniker appealed to the large streak of snob in him.  Snob was why the Company and Georgetown, both preserves for the rarified tribe, appealed to him. 
The Company is what agency is called, although the newer breed referred to it as the farm, a reference to the Virginia apple orchard that once occupied the massive plot of land on the banks of Potomac where the company’s headquarter is.
The Old Man ran been a major power there once. He fell from grace because of operation Corrective Vision. Leonidas Trujillo, AKA El Jefe, the president for life of the Dominican Republic was insane. Truly a madman. It was agreed by the powers that be that El Jefe would die in a coup. 
 On the day of the coup, the Old Man had authorized a press release through a company man on the staff at the Washington Post that Trujillo, AKA El Jefe, had been assassinated by his own military at 4:30 in Afternoon on May 30, a Tuesday, as he was driven from the capital in a sky blue Chevy Bel Air. Junior officers had shot him twice through the head. That was how the story ran.  
Unfortunately for the Old Man, the assassination actually took place four hours later. El Jefe’s son, Ramfis had been executed and his death was misinterpreted by ground agents as El Jefe’s death and that was how the relayed the news to the Company. The Junior Officer’s then killed El Jefe exactly the way they had been ordered to and exactly the way the Post had said they did. 
The world demanded to know how the newspaper Post was able to predict the assassination four in advance with such stunning accuracy. One investigation led to another and the Old Man was quietly was drummed from the company. 
As a courtesy, for there were many in company who felt the Old Man had done no wrong, the company keep him in the loop which was why the admiral was taking the  five mile stroll around Georgetown.  He wasn’t an admiral, not yet anyway. But I his days at the Academy in Annapolis, the most holiest of holy recruiting grounds for the company, he had bragged that he would leave the navy in twenty years’ time as an admiral. He was a Commander but the assignment of strolling Georgetown with the Old Man meant he was on his way to an admiralty.
So once or twice a month, it depended on many outside factors, they  met on the corner of M and 28th Street and walked west up 28th, stopping at the corner market P and 28th for a carry out coffee for him and a tea for The Old Man. Of course the Old Man  drank tea. It was what he liked to think that British drank. 
His dislike for The Old Man. H disliked his boorish behavior and his subtle bullying was beginning to overshadow his ability to make small talk with him which was the only thing that masked his growing contempt of him so they usually walked along in silence.
“So,” the old man began “What’s the word from the front lines?”
“Sven Carlson?” the Admiral said 
“One of ours?” the Old Mana sked
 “No” he answered quickly. He always answered quickly “A civilian.” 
“So what of Mister Carlson?” the Old Man asked
 “Mr.  Carlson” the Admiral began slowly “made a fortune. Three times. And with every fortune he made the less interested he became in being wealthy. We took care of his money concerns.  We spent it for him.
 “Background?” The Old Man asked without looking at him. 
“He was 64 years old when he came onto our radar.” The Admiral answered “Native of Edina, Minnesota. Episcopalian. Private school education. He referred to himself as "an imperfectly socialized person" and he was right, he was.  Stood 6-feet-2 and walked with a lean forward tilt. Had a light, nasally voice. Brilliant in many ways but his train of thought was lost on regular basis. Wore his hair long, giving him that aging-hippie-with money look. His shirt pockets were always stuffed with pens, most of which did not work. When he wore ties, they were distinct in their ugliness.”
They passed under a leafy elm towards the top of the hill.  
“Political leanings?” The Old Man asked.
“We know that had served for two years as a Peace Corps volunteer in Nicaragua when he was an undergraduate”
“Left of center” The Old Man dismissively said “Where did he study?”
“MIT.” The Admiral answered. The Old Man stuck out his lower lip and tilted his head. MIT was safe.  The company recruited from MIT. The company funds MIT projects. 
 “His area?” The Old Man asked.
 “R and D” he answered “He held several well-paying jobs as an engineer, but had a habit of getting himself fired from each place he ever worked. Then he struck it rich, about 50 million dollars. The first fortune came from inventing an early word-processing system and then made an even bigger bundle, about 100 million from the stock he got for selling his software company, which had developed a system for connecting phone networks to the Internet. He formed an investment firm called Paperboy Investments”
“Significance?” 
“So named because he delivered newspapers while growing up poor in the Midwest” he answered was they topped the hill and looked past the high black Victorian style fence in to the Oak Hill cemetery where the city’s leading citizen were laid to rest.
“He made his third fortune on a company called Aimlin Pharmaceuticals” as  he tried to make out the name on a worn white marble tombstone “It was a tiny, struggling firm that caught his eye while he evaluating drug treatments for his wife who has diabetes. Aimlin had been dong innovative diabetes research. Carlson poured $6.2 million into Aimlin’s research office, patented several new drugs and made two hundred million in two years”
“Net worth?” The Old Man asked. 
“At that point, $300 million. Almost all of it available cash” he answered “His money and willingness to foot the bill for far left causes allowed him to globetrot with celebrities, although he was, truly, oblivious to pop culture. He just wasn’t in the universe with the rest of us. He didn’t care. He drove, badly, a 15-year-old black Honda Accord with the coat hanger for an antenna. He never owned a television.” 
They continued their stroll up R Street, both of them paying a nod to the Dumbarton Oaks Mansion that sat gracefully on a finely manicured lawn. 
“Our ambassador at the time is what motivated this”
“Who was he, remind me” The Old Man asked curtly. 
“White” he answered “Nathan White”
“Oh God help us all” The Old Man sighed. 
“Carlson met him and said, essentially, 'I'm immensely rich, and I want to spend money bringing democracy to Central America” 
“And of course that idiot White encouraged him.” The Old Man grumbled. 
“He did. He kept saying, 'Think big. Spend, spend, spend. " 
“Did we have an ear on him?”
“Yes. Eventually” the Admiral answered “He poured tens of millions into building libraries and underwriting reading programs for the poor throughout the country. The Pope wrote him letters of encouragement. The UN named a day in his honor. There was talk of building a statue to him in the capitol city. The whole world was rooting for him. Hell, I was rooting for him. He decided he could do truly revolutionary things in Central America., as he put it, though philanthropy on a massive scale.
“Well that’s not good” The Old Man injected “We can’t have that. Can’t have that at all”
“Of course you’re correct “he answered.
“What motivated this action on his part?” The Old Man asked as they crossed 32nd Street and approached Wisconsin Avenue.
“Didn’t we own a man down there?” The Old Man asked.
“We did” he answered “Pepe. Remember Pepe?
“Ah yes” he said with a smile “Pepe Lobo”
“Right” the Admiral replied “Pepe the wolf. In fact he was our main man in Central America. Reliably corrupt, wonderfully greedy, brutal and completely ignorant. Basically everything the company needs in a dictator. Sven Carlson’s problem with Pepe the wolf was that Sven was a tree hugger and Pepe, beng Pepe, had raped the country’s precious hardwood mahogany forest through illegal logging operators who handed him a ten percent cut of everything. In process, the chopping decimated indigenous communities and when the locals rose up, he used the military to put them back down.  Pepe denied it all; of course. In the meantime, the well meaning Sven Carlson, with all his millions was searching the country to find a candidate to run against our man Pepe the Wolf.
“Did he find one?” The Old Man asked as they stood on the corner of R and Wisconsin. The Old Man pointed his black umbrella to the left side of the street and they cross. A light drizzle was starting. 
“He did” he answered “actually , the meddeling Ambassador White found him. A man named Zela, Manny Zela. A longtime member of the otherwise docile but blue blooded  National Senate. Zela billed himself “A man of the people”
“Oh God help us.” The Old Man said “Not another man of the people”
“He had taken on the multinational corporations that ruled over the country. He, promise to do away with a class based educational system, raise the minimum wage, promised that if elected that he would crack down on illegal logging and to improve human rights and generally, as they say, spoke with their voice. Even those who didn’t agree with his politics liked him because he said things they knew were true but that no other presidential candidate had said before.”
The rain increased and both men opened their identical black umbrella with maple handles and continued their walk.
“Carlson was everywhere during the election.” He said “He didn't trust the local media because he said it was almost completely controlled by various oligarchs, which is true enough of course. So, he took over a small newspaper, El Libertador, and encouraged the reporters to write tough stories about Lobo the Wolf.”
An attractive young woman in a black business suit and trench coat approached them and he stopped talking. When she passed, he continued speaking “Then he hired a U.S. polling firm, Cassidy and Quinlan, to conduct surveys about Lobo’s unpopularity and then ran those results in his little newspaper. He also funded  an investigation by the  Environmental Investigation Agency, an international organization that had ferreted out illegal loggers in Asia and other places. 
“Let me stop you here and ask the obvious” The Old Man said stopping to ask “why do we, the company, why do we give a damn about this?”
“We were partners with Pepe the Wolf in the logging operation. The money from that funds the pesant revolt in Tibet. I think it’s Tibet”
They crossed at R Street and cross over 34th and then 35th Street as the rain increased.
“This watchdog group, the Environmental Investigation Agency, the EIA” he continued “has one of its investigator posing as a lumber buyer secretly videotaped a meeting in Miami with a Honduran congressional candidate, Maria Noriega, and her father Jesus Noriega, a lumber dealer. He records Maria Noriega bragging about arranging higher pay off amounts to government officials to ensure the steady flow of lumber, and brags that their business will be protected if her father's best friend, Pepe the Wolf, is reelected and says that if the investigator wants to make friend sin Honduras, he should contribute to Pepe the Wolf’s campaign. 
They turned right onto 38th Street.
"Word about the tape got back to Sven Carlson who was ecstatic according to his driver”
“We owned the driver?” The Old Man asked.
“We owned the driver” he answered. “This tape, he tells his people, this will be the smoking gun that will bring down Pepe the Wolf.
Carlson got the tape and pounded the illegal logging story on the front pages of his newspaper and booked $200,000 of advertising time on the Nicaraguan television networks; he saturated the air waves with the tape, and even had operatives show it on screens set up in parks and other public places. By the time the ballots were counted, Carlson estimated he had spent $2 million trying to influence the outcome. His boy Zela won, by a squeak, but he won and our boy Lobo the wolf was out.
They turned left on Left on S Street and he continued “As you know, Zela alienated the Hondorian elite by cultivating leftist allies not only in Central and South America but in Asia and Europe. Although I didn’t think was possible the country became even more profoundly polarized and divided between two diametrically opposed sides. The haves and the Have not’s. There was tension in the air. Then he made a speech in which he called for "An insurrection." A poor choice of words in a nation where seven of 10 people live in poverty. He also said "The coffee exporters have congressmen, the bankers have congressmen, the fast-food interests have congressmen and that is why y the country has been in these difficult conditions . . . because there is not a congress that permits people to participate." Well that sealed it for him. Just before his fall his drift to the left had alarmed the conglomerates that own hydroelectric plants, coffee interests and the influential fast-food market people but that speech was the final straw. The problem was that Zela still had Carlson’s mountain of cash behind him and they were using it to popularize their programs. So we had no choice but to drain his bank accounts.
They turned left on 39 Street 
 “How much?” The Old Man asked with interest. 
 “250 million”
“Where was it reinvested?”
They turned right on to Reservoir Road.
“That is out of my area but I understand the company put the bulk of it in an oil drilling project in Iran, I think, I don’t know for sure, or maybe it was a shoe factory in China. You hear things. Anyway, in a wonderful little bloodless coup the Hondorian Army ousted Zela -- in his pajamas -- we had our boy Pepe the Wolf back in office the next day.”
“And the well menaing Mr. Carlson?” The Old Man asked “What of him?”
“The Army took him as well. He was living in his own suit in the Presidential palace. Apparently he slept in the nude. They took them both out to the jungle and executed them, buried them under a rubber tree or a cocnut tree or something.”
“Our involvement?” The Old Man asked.
“Minimal” he said “We handled the PR on Zela being alive and well and living in Miami on the fortunes he stole from the people of Honduras”
“And Carlson?”
“No one asked about Carlson. He had no family. No friends. He was an odd duck. Almost no one knew about the role he played in the national election and how he almost single handedly elected Manny Zela President” 
“Well good” The Old Man said “let’s keep it that way”
At 35th Street they took a right and the rain started to fall harder. They fell into silence for a few seconds.
“It’s a shame really.” The Admiral said. 
“Shame?” The Old Man asked as he turned to look at him for the first time.
“The whole mess” the Admiral answered 
The Old Man stopped walking, looked at him and asked “Why?” 
“Well, were Carlson not planted under a coconut tree he would have spent a fortune  for higher causes like making the world a better place.”
“It’s not a shame “the Old Man said in a chastising way “We had to make it evaporate. We had no choice. It was the right thing to do. What if Zela had succeeded in his plans?” 
“The Honduran poor would have a slightly better life and the Honduran rich would be slightly less rich” he countered.
“And the fast food chains in the first world would up the price of a hamburger by 10% or a penny more for a cup of coffee because the cost of making the Honduran rich would have to be passed on someplace.” The Old Man stared at him hard and added “Frankly, I’m very surprised to hear you say these things”
“You’re a mean old man”
“No.”the old man replied “I am a patriot sir, and you, are a fool”
The walked along in silence for a moment and the Old Man spoke “It’s human nature,  old man, the oppression of the poor. I don’t like it any more than you do but it’s a tradition as old the earth. It’s wrong of course but for the time being in the way the world is now, at this moment, it is often in our interests to stand on the side of the oppressor. As for this well meaning 
This Sven Carlson fellow, yes, he could have changed things if only he had stayed out of it. But he had to be a kingmaker. All you see is a man without greed and all I see is a man drunk with power. Saint Carlon killed himself. He doesn’t make kings. We do. That is our job in the world. That’s what we do when we must do it. Because if we don’t others, far worse than your beloved Sven Carlson, will. Of course, we don’t mind if other people in world try to become kingmakers, we expect it, in fact, we encourage it. The problem was that Mr. Carlson actually succeeded at it and he succeeded at it without us. And as I said, we just can’t have that Old Man. “

A short story: The unhappy ending of the four egg omelet.



I watched his face drop in complete shock and it captured me with such surprise that even the noise and bustle of Times Square faded away momentarily as I focused on his features.

“What is it?” I asked frantically “Are you all right?”
“It’s him” he whispered loud enough to be heard over the city’s din. His eyes narrowed as if he were seeing something completely unbelievable. 
“Who?” I asked half turning to look into the steamed covered window of the Athens and Apollo Grill. 
“No!” he said and grabbing my shoulders, he turned me full about to face him. “Don’t stare at him”
“Who?” I begged and began to turn again only to be pulled back around. 
He held his hand to his mouth and clenched his teeth into his one gloved hand and momentarily closed his eye and shaking his head sadly he said “There were stories that he had come back the city. That he had hit bottom. Like most people, I put it off as  urban legend. But it’s true. Rock bottom. Of all the gin joints in all the world, he landed here. A Greek carry out in Times Square”
I noted the ending of the sentence had a slight rhyme to it, clever, I thought. I also enjoyed homage to Casablanca although I still believe that Rick was better off without her. Victor Laszlo was a humorless bore and so was she. Now Rick, ah, Rick, now there was a man of character and don’t even get me started on Renault, Major Strasser, Signor Ferrari or Signor Ugarte and if Casablanca was French why weren’t they called monsieur? Well anyway. 
He sighed deeply and moaned, he actually moaned the words "How the mighty have fallen"
“In the midst of the battle" I added.
He looked at me and asked “What?”
“Oh how the mighty have fallen in the midst of battle” I answered.
He shrugged.
"How are the mighty fallen in the midst of the battle!" I said “King James Bible, 2nd Book of Samuel. From a report on the death of Jonathon.”
“What is that?” he asked his face twisted in confusion.
“That’s where the quote is from” I answered defensively “The Bible”
“You read the Bible?” he asked incredulously.
“Yeah” I answered “Why not?”
 He stared at me as if he had never seen me before and it made me uneasy. I tilted my head the general direction of the Athens and Apollo Grill and asked “Look, what’s this about?”
He was still looking at me as though I were complete stranger.
“Gill” I said “What’s this about”
  Climbing out of whatever though cavern he was lost in, he looked across the width of the wide street forlornly and said “It was a long time ago. He was the King of the gastronomic world, the grand earl of the epicurean, the emperor of the gourmand, the…..”
“All right” I said holding up a hand to stop him “I think I’ve got it. He was a good cook”
“Oh he was more than that” he answered with squinted eyes “He was…he was….” He couldn’t find the words because I had already found them “yeah” he said in defeat “he was a really good cook” 
Then he rolled back his head and smiled wistfully and added “But he was good. He was very good. He invented the three egg omelet. It was him. That was his baby, his darling”
“He did?” I asked skeptically with a smile that displayed by doubt “Wasn’t there always the three egg omelet”
“Oh no, my bible reading friend, oh no” he said “Back in the old days the wisdom of was that an omelet only needed two eggs and that rule was rigorously enforced by the rigid Old Guard of rations.”
I was deeply impressed with his instant command over descriptive words beginning with the letter R although I had some doubts about his usage of the word rations in context with the rest of the statement. I also didn’t care for being called his bible reading friend, but I set that aside for another time.
“The old guard of the gastronomic commanded that omelets would be prepared with two eggs and only two eggs……but he….he” He paused and clenched his gloved hand into a fist and raising his voice slightly he said with great drama “He fought them, by God! And he gave us the three omelet eggs”
“Well couldn’t have been much of fight” I added but he wasn’t listening and this wasn’t the first time he hadn’t listened to me and so once again I questioned the value of keeping him on as a friend. 
“After that” he continued “he set them all on their ears by adding cheese to the omelet”
“Get out of here” I said “He invented the cheese omelet? You’re telling me he invented the cheese omelet?”
I have wondered, now and again, if my friend was missing a screw here and there.
“Well where do you suppose it came from?” he snapped “A Greek grill in Times Square?”  
So that’s how it was going to be. Another one of those days where everything I said was wrong, erroneous and incorrect. See? I could do it too. I could have instant command of related words but just not out loud.
 “Well I just assumed the some French guy” I stopped myself. Perhaps the word Omelet wasn’t French in origin as I assumed it was all these years. Actually, I had never considered the word at all. In fact, in the priority or things, if I were ever to sit down one day and considered the origin of some words, omelet would not be one of them. It wouldn’t even be in the running. But now, tossing the word around inside my head it sounded vaguely Russian-ie/ Arabic-ie. 
  He looked up to heavens with a pained expression, sighed again and then grabbed me by my lapels and said  “After the acclaim and success of adding the cheese, it all went to his head. The publicity, the public adoration, oh the public adoration was not to be believed”  he released me and held a solitary finger in the air “Oh but he believed it!” and then he whispered “The poor damned fool” 
He waved his arms majestically across the square and said “It all went to his head. He thought himself infallible. He introduced the four egg omelet” he stopped and took a deep, deep breath of winter air “and that was his downfall”
“He flew to close to the sun” I added which seemed to disturb him, greatly.
“Do you want to tell this story or should I?” he said sharply.
“No” I answered “I was just….”
“May I continue?” he asked curtly 
“By all means” I answered formally and stiffly because by my observation most Royals seem very stiff. 
“The kings of the connoisseur, the emperors of the epicure had enough of him.” He continued  “This time, they said one and all, this time, this time, this time he has flown to close to the sun!”
“But I just said that” I offered.
“Yes” he answered “But it means something different now that I’ve said it”
Plagiaristic bastard.
“That year” he continued “At the Bocuse d'Or, the world's most prestigious cooking competition, was being held in Dubuque”
“Dubuque?” I snorted.
He turned a cold eye on me and said coldly as to match his eye “Dubuque” and he looked sharply to his left to demonstrate his displeasure with me. 
I stand by my rebuke of Dubuque.
“Anyway, the Omelet portion of the competition came around and” he stopped himself and raised his palms “I am not accusing anyone. Nor will I name names. But, the story goes that someone, a paid assassin I should think, slipped a fifth egg in his mixture while he was looking the other way and…..”
He hung his head “You can only imagine what happened next”
“No I can’t” I said “I’m not a cook what happened?”
“Take a guess!” he roared. 
“I don’t know, for God’s sakes” I yelled back “That’s it? You’re going to send me out into the world with that ending? I should sue you!”
He slapped me. I grabbed him by his throat and threw him to the ground and we wrestled there for several minutes until he, him, the one, stepped from the diner out on the sidewalk and bellowed “Hey you!”
I released him and stood to my feet and faced the great man.
“Me?” I asked breathlessly because I was out of breath.  
“Yeah, you” he said “Go someplace else and argue with yourself. You’re scaring off my customers and take that shopping cart with you”