Edition #129
17.05.24
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Newsflash⚡ writes fictional stories inspired by what is going on.
This story is set in Moscow’s Sheremetyevo airport, against a background of everyday life and moving diplomatic chess-pieces.
Estimated read time: 1.9 minutes.
LINK: the story behind this story. (BBC News)⚡
“Russia gives British diplomat Adrian Coghill a week to leave Moscow”
By James Landale & Sophie Abdulla - BBC News, 16.05.2024.
-
I was actually at the airport, when I got the phone call.
Another flight back from Heathrow, and in any case, my legs were sore. I remember; I used to feel some kind of novelty for this.
I stepped onto the tarmac to the usual walkway. Moscow is a heated place - at this time of year, especially - and I was wearing clothes for slightly cooler weather. At border checks, I ran my hands through several pockets before eventually finding my passport, by which point any element of theatre had been lost, anyway. The officer stared at me politely, not saying a word. I took back my navy-blue booklet and went immediately through to the airport’s long, featureless walkway.
If there is one thing I have learned about Russia, it is this: they will not stop until they have endured something. I am not the only one who thinks this. I have heard countless tales, of the realities of this place, often from Russians themselves... the prince at Kalka, crossing the river in victory, to be slaughtered by the hordes that would ruin his land. The old serf, thrown from his fields to the farmhouse, and the young revolutionary! Sent to his death in Siberia. Even Alexei Ivanovich, dying wretchedly for his beloved Polina. But it is not always necessary to go to such lengths. The walkway was exceptionally long, and exceptionally featureless.
After several minutes, I noticed they had installed a coffee machine. It was nothing advanced, just a simple, red box that read: кофе, but I must have been in a state of some discomfort, as I had started to sweat, and decided to stop.
I reached into my pocket for my wallet, which was now wedged tightly between the fabric and my passport. In the end, I used two hands to get it out, only to realise that I had retrieved the wrong wallet, and these were, in fact, my English cards. My Russian accounts were to be found in my briefcase, where I always kept them. I decided to kneel down to open it, awkwardly, on the tiled floor.
It was at this exact moment that my phone began to ring.
“Oh, for fuck’s s-”
“- John speaking.” “John, where are you?” It was Veronyca’s voice. Sweet, lovely, hauntingly efficient Veronyca. “We’ve been waiting outside for fifteen minutes.” “I’ll be - I’ll be right with you, just - yep, hang on.” I had managed to close the briefcase with one hand. I stood up; my legs were sore. “Where are you?” “You haven’t heard. You’ve been revoked. As of this morning, PNG status.” “Righty-ho,” - hardly surprising news, but inconvenient nonetheless - “how long do we have?” “One week. I’ll meet you in the lobby.” With a click, the line expired.
I finished paying some five-hundred roubles for my drink, and watched the black, beady liquid merging with the hot water. The milk was set to one side, to be added manually by the customer. Black would have to do. I picked up the small, paper cup and kept walking.
She was waiting for me at the gates - not smiling, but with that look of shared struggle the world of business could not survive without. Often, with Veronyca, I would feel slightly infantilized; almost as though she presumed, prior to any one of my actions, that I would act idiotically. To make matters worse, I was also wearing the wrong clothes. “Hello, John. It’s good to see you.” “Hello Veronyca. It’s good to be back.” We fell into a stride towards the exit. “However briefly.” “Yes, well, it’s as we-” she suddenly stopped her train of thought, and stared down at my midsection. This was a rarity for Veronyca. “Did you buy a cup of takeaway coffee?” I could say nothing in response. I thought I could detect something of a smirk in her tone, but let it pass. “My my… the great John Lurie… stopping for a quick pick-me-up.” She began shaking her head; I was getting tired of all this walking; she might even have laughed. “Are you finally ‘all done out’, as they say?” An expression I had taught her, some time ago. I managed something of a smile, and thought about telling her of that walkway, of the hassle at security, of the unbearable heat.
“No, no,” I eventually replied, weighing the almost colourless drink in my hand. Veronyca was walking rather quickly. “I just… used to feel some kind of novelty, for all this.”
-
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disclaimer:
This is fiction. The views expressed in this publication do not reflect the views of the author. The stories themselves are based on imagined events. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is fictitious and should not be taken as representative.
Read the full disclaimer.
If my passport is not in the first pocket I check I sweat.
No doubt shall be a bit of 'tit an tat' now.
An American and Italian and no doubt many more have written and spoken out about politicians stirring up trouble. They along with leaders and royals etc get wealthy and the people pay with blood and death!
How many died between 2014 and 2021!?!?--
----------Giulietto Chiesa, an Italian journalist since 2014 too, was talking about West intervention and the coup probably organised by the US. He also added that Ukraine is where War World Three could start (or started).
Bill Blum----So why are you and others like you in mainstream media creating the same mentality that started the First World War (and the Cold War)?…….That is, demonizing Putin and Russia instead of showing the history and motivation of Western invasion and interference in Ukraine. Then ask why NATO even exists in a post Cold War world.------------------Late Bill Blum wrote a book called the ROGUE STATE. He had worked for USA government but left and became a writer etc!?!?