Post by Immanuel Taylor on Mar 29, 2011 15:46:51 GMT -5
"The Russian has lived for centuries with a strict sense of social correctness and hierarchy: we are not used to the idea of freedom of choice" a Moscow psychologist named Stanislava Gorodenskaya warned a month after the country broke apart "Most of our people live according to an unconscious bargain: Society will provide certain things for me if I obey the rules. (Now) faith in anyone or in anything is failing"
The Brindisi café is purposefully Italian and advertises itself as favoring “traditional Italian cuisine with the occasional modern twist”. How occasional a modern twist would be or the occurrence of said occasions is ambiguous. Vitali Khodorkovsky would find this out today at exactly 8:00 PM as he heads over from the Mission District, all geared and dressed up, and makes his way to 88 Belden Place to meet the new EUW potentate Mark Rivera for a hastily scheduled dinner
Khodorkovsky arrived there four minutes early, generously tipping both the cab driver who drove him there and the homeless man who morbidly lurked on the pavement a couple of feet away from the café’s entrance. Vitali is clothed in a suit, a recently bought Valentino jacket and pants combination with a strikingly red tie he had brought along with him from his former job in Chicago. Vitali also had an overcoat on in order to properly hide that monstrous Desert Eagle handgun he carries with him all around the place in addition to his straight razor and the discreet back-up handgun. Vitali had learnt many, many times before that life is way too spontaneous and chaotic to relax your primal instincts.
The Brindisi café’s initial impression is indeed Italian, as the Russian Khodorkovsky found to his immediate senses. The Italian music was a dead giveaway, yes, but the interior and design of the place itself also gave out a vibe that made one feel as if he or she was strolling down the infamous squares of Rome or circling around the Bologna Cathedral.
“I have a reservation with a Mr. Mark Rivera” Khodorkovsky said to the young receptionist with perfect English.
The young receptionist, they are always young and pretty, dutifully checked his little clipboard and followed it up with a trio of a smile, a nod and a “Follow Me” instruction. The café itself is named after a city in Italy as the young man trivially told the silent Khodorkovsky. The tables themselves were the standard white cloth you’d normally find in classy restaurants and the red-wallpaper layered walls housed large mirrors that hung doomishly over your head as you sat down to enjoy your meal.
Mark Rivera lowered his glass of wine, the product of a Louie XV bottle named after the ruler of the Italian town of Brindisi, and put on one of those fake smiles of his as he got up and shook the hand of Vitali Khodorkovsky, who had equipped himself with a fake smile of his own.
“Vitali”
“Mr. Rivera”
“Sit sit” Rivera turned to the young and pretty waiter. “Bring another bottle and glass. The Louie XV.”
Vitali took a seat after removing his coat and placing next to him, close enough for a quick reach. Rivera himself was clothed in a casual but stylish attire.
“So Vitali, you watch wrestling?”
“No”
“Then let me bring the relevant things up. The boy who hired you is gone. A casualty in the war going on. I’m in his place and you work for me now. Any objections?”
“No” Vitali said, mastering the sudden questions.
“Why don’t you order something?” Rivera abruptly changed the subject as he took a sip from his glass of wine. Khodorkovsky noticed he was reading the latest edition of the Journal of Foreign Affairs. “Come on, order something.”
Vitali, not wanting to irritate his new employer, picked up the folder menu and smoothly parted it open. He took out his reading glasses, placed them on his aged face, and began reading the folder. Rivera took this opportunity to scan Vitali’s face. This is one of Rivera’s greatest strengths, he could focus in on another person’s face, study his form, and get a respectable indicator of his character. Vitali’s folder told Rivera a lot but the presence of Vitali itself, especially his 58 years of age, added a lot of knowledge. In fact, Rivera felt a tiny twinge of respect when Khodorkovsky put on those glasses.
Vitali intentionally took his time contemplating his choice. He had calculated the possibility that Rivera would ask him to eat and thus came to the meeting with an empty stomach. Rivera’s eyes darted between Vitali’s face and the atmosphere of the café. His copy of Foreign Affairs is closed and pushed to the side. Vitali looked up and raised his hand for a waiter, young and pretty, to approach.
“Can I please have the Grilled Sword Fish?” Vitali turned to another page fold. “And a cup of black coffee, please”
The waiter nodded and disappeared after placing a glass of water along with the bottle of Louie XV. Vitali folded the menu and placed it back behind the customary table’s selection of spices and salts. Rivera took a sip from his wine, a Louie XV, as Vitali noticed he was eating some kind of salad. Rivera set down his glass and looked at Vitali, not hiding his gaze, and eyed the tattoos
“What do the tattoos on your knuckles say?”
“Name of my parents” Vitali replied, lying. Rivera noticed it in the quickness of Khodorkovsky’s response but let it go. Rivera cleared his throat before speaking.
“I used to have a Russian friend once. A young man, grew up here in America. His name was Konstantin.” Vitali nodded as Rivera finished his trivial revelation before taking another sip from his wine glass. He set it down and refilled it while continuing speaking “Where’d you grow up in? Moscow?”
“A few miles from it. Izhevsk.” Vitali replied, lying again.
“During the Soviet Union I assume?”
“Yes” Vitali’s bottle of wine arrived. The waiter popped upon the corkel and poured the contents into a stainless glass. Vitali smiled and nodded before picking up and trying it. Rivera waited for him to consume it and put him down before furthering the conversation.
“And you came after it dissolved, yes?”
“Two years after the Berlin wall was taken down”
“Oh” Rivera, himself an aged man, nodded his head. Vitali passively nodded as he took another sip from the complimentary glass of water."And you're enjoying America? Capitalism is good, yes?"
Vitali passively nodded. Rivera’s interest Vitali Khodorkovsky began fading away but he managed another question.
"You really ex-KGB?"
"Yes"
Vitali’s food and cup of coffee arrived just as Rivera finished his glass of wine and his interest in Khodorkovsky's past, beyond what his folder says, diminished. Vitali's short responses helped accelerate that.
“Ok. Now that we’ve got the introductions out of the way and you’ve got your food and cup of coffee, let’s get into business. This Immanuel Taylor guy, I don’t trust him for a single second. He’s hiding something. I’m positive of that. Now I’m not saying he’s the Antichrist but this guy walks around like he has the weight of the world on his shoulders. The problem isn’t that he’s dangerous, it’s that the guy is…well, he’s empty. I seriously cannot define Immanuel Taylor. Do you understand me?”
“Yes” Vitali said after swallowing a mouthful of sword fish and washing it down with a glass of water. He sipped his coffee. Rivera noticed a dollar tattoo in-between Vitali’s thumb and index finger but didn't make anything of it.
“Good and I’m assuming you’ve made some legitimate progress so far?”
“Yes” Vitali wiped his mouth and folded the napkin before reaching for his coat. He pulled out the book he was currently reading, A History of Western Philosophy by Bertrand Russell, and removed the bookmark which was a folded piece of white paper. Vitali unfolded it exposing both its contents and the recent photo of Immanuel Taylor. Vitali slid the paper across to Rivera and kept the photo as a bookmark in his book. Rivera picked up the paper, put on his reading glasses, and indulged in its contents.
While Rivera was doing so, Vitali looked around the café. As noted from before, the Brindisi café at the heart of downtown San Francisco, in Union Square, is aesthetically “nice”. That was the only word Vitali could conjure up to describe the bloody place. The waiter who brought Vitali his coffee and grilled fish nervously eyed his tattoos, the visible ones, while other patrons in the café were taken back simply by his frame. Rivera finished reading and eyed Vitali.
“Ok, so you’re going to investigate his military background?”
“Yes”
“When did you receive this e-mail?”
“Some time ago” Vitali sipped his coffee. “I sent it to the local recruitment office in Baltimore City, Maryland. That's where his folder says he grew up.”
“I see, but it says here that they cannot grant you access to that information”
“Yes, which is why I printed it out and brought it with me to this meeting. Maybe you can do something. Call someone to help you get Immanuel’s folder or bribe someone to do it or whatever needs to be done.”
“You really think he served in Kuwait? I mean, he could have been in the Army Reserves.”
“He is a soldier” Vitali said reassuringly before grabbing the Immanuel Taylor photo bookmark from his book and sliding it across the table. “I know because he’s got that look on his face”
“What look?” Rivera said as he inspected the photo.
“A look that says he’s been in combat. I know that look. My uncle was in Leningrad back in 1941 when Nazi Germany invaded Soviet Russia. While Immanuel's file says he served in Kuwait, you can never be positive about these things. But I am sure he has been through something similar to warfare”
Rivera looked up at the stone-faced Vitali before looking down at the recent photograph.
“Oh….well, Kuwait isn’t Vietnam” Rivera slid the photograph and printed paper back to Vitali before pouring the remaining of his Louie XV bottle of wine into his glass. “Ok, I can probably get his recruitment folder for you. Anything else?”
“Yes” Vitali said as he took another formidable bite of his grilled fish and rubbed his mouth eloquently and very gentlemen-like with the napkin. “Do you want me to do more work while you focus on getting the folder?”
“Sure. Why not?” Rivera signaled to one of the nameless, faceless waiters to bring the check. “Try to find a new angle. If it’s something you haven’t noticed before, go after it. I’ll get you the folder by the end of the week and you can lump it with whatever you’ve found. Where are you staying?”
Vitali grabbed the printed paper, flipped it over, took out a Uni-Ball pen from his coat and scribbled on the paper his address at the Hotel Tropicana on Valencia Street at the largely Hispanic Mission District of San Francisco. He slid it to Rivera who glanced at it before placing it into his copy of Foreign Affairs.
“Ok. The folder should be easy. Anything other than these two things?”
Vitali consumed, chewed and swallowed the last bite of his excellent Grilled Sword Fish. “Yes. Can you arrange for me to see Immanuel up close without him noticing?”
“That’s easy” Rivera finished his glass of wine before leaning a bit forward towards Vitali. “The guy has a fatal four way match at the PPV in Houston, Texas. I’ll get you a ticket for a seat close to the ring. You can come and see him get beat up.”
“Do you think it could be risky to get that close to him?”
“What’s he going to do? Bite you? Vitali, you are going to be in the midst of thousands and thousands of faceless sycophants. Plus, it’s a title match. I put him in one because I wanted him to focus entirely on that and lower his guard outside the ring. That way, you’d have an easier job. Your welcome. “
Vitali nodded, seeing the added advantage of Rivera’s booking. Rivera himself looked around the café, lost in thought. Vitali wiped his mouth with the napkin and pushed his plate away before standing up, keeping this meeting as formal as possible. He grabbed his coat and placed it on. Vitali then snatched his book, along with the photograph of Immanuel Taylor as a bookmark, and placed it in the interior of the coat before taking out his wallet.
“Don’t worry” Rivera interrupted, briefly lost in thought but back in reality “I got it.”
“Thank you”
“Hey before you go. What’s the Russian word for this?”
“For what?”
“For this. This meeting. You and I agreeing on certain issues. An agreement. What’s the word for this?”
Vitali stood a bit, contemplating which word to use for this. He took out a strip of Halls mint drops and placed one of the drops in his mouth to combat the lingering after-taste of coffee and his meal. He then eyed Rivera and spoke.
“Po Ponyatiyam” Vitali said, in fluent and picturesque Russian mirroring his fluency in English.
“Well Po Potayamini to you to, Ivan” Rivera said after getting up and offering his hand. Not only did he mispronounce “Po Ponyatiyam” but he even added an “Ivan” generalization, in either a will of good gesture or just mere Rivera-esque jerkiness. Vitali reluctantly shook his hand and smiled before making his way out of the restaurant. It’s night now, light rain in downtown San Francisco. He looked back at the Brindisi café, at what it represented and at what type of people frequent this café.
“Azhalek” Vitali said before spitting at the sidewalk. The receptionist eyed him but turned his gaze when Vitali, the big scary Russian, eyed him back. Vitali Khodorkovsky does not belong here, Vitali Khodorkovsky does not belong with these people. The rain kept pouring, the cabs driving to and fro. Vitali decided to walk back home instead. He simply chose to walk back home through the rain and the filth like he did during the days of his youth.
The Brindisi café is purposefully Italian and advertises itself as favoring “traditional Italian cuisine with the occasional modern twist”. How occasional a modern twist would be or the occurrence of said occasions is ambiguous. Vitali Khodorkovsky would find this out today at exactly 8:00 PM as he heads over from the Mission District, all geared and dressed up, and makes his way to 88 Belden Place to meet the new EUW potentate Mark Rivera for a hastily scheduled dinner
Khodorkovsky arrived there four minutes early, generously tipping both the cab driver who drove him there and the homeless man who morbidly lurked on the pavement a couple of feet away from the café’s entrance. Vitali is clothed in a suit, a recently bought Valentino jacket and pants combination with a strikingly red tie he had brought along with him from his former job in Chicago. Vitali also had an overcoat on in order to properly hide that monstrous Desert Eagle handgun he carries with him all around the place in addition to his straight razor and the discreet back-up handgun. Vitali had learnt many, many times before that life is way too spontaneous and chaotic to relax your primal instincts.
The Brindisi café’s initial impression is indeed Italian, as the Russian Khodorkovsky found to his immediate senses. The Italian music was a dead giveaway, yes, but the interior and design of the place itself also gave out a vibe that made one feel as if he or she was strolling down the infamous squares of Rome or circling around the Bologna Cathedral.
“I have a reservation with a Mr. Mark Rivera” Khodorkovsky said to the young receptionist with perfect English.
The young receptionist, they are always young and pretty, dutifully checked his little clipboard and followed it up with a trio of a smile, a nod and a “Follow Me” instruction. The café itself is named after a city in Italy as the young man trivially told the silent Khodorkovsky. The tables themselves were the standard white cloth you’d normally find in classy restaurants and the red-wallpaper layered walls housed large mirrors that hung doomishly over your head as you sat down to enjoy your meal.
Mark Rivera lowered his glass of wine, the product of a Louie XV bottle named after the ruler of the Italian town of Brindisi, and put on one of those fake smiles of his as he got up and shook the hand of Vitali Khodorkovsky, who had equipped himself with a fake smile of his own.
“Vitali”
“Mr. Rivera”
“Sit sit” Rivera turned to the young and pretty waiter. “Bring another bottle and glass. The Louie XV.”
Vitali took a seat after removing his coat and placing next to him, close enough for a quick reach. Rivera himself was clothed in a casual but stylish attire.
“So Vitali, you watch wrestling?”
“No”
“Then let me bring the relevant things up. The boy who hired you is gone. A casualty in the war going on. I’m in his place and you work for me now. Any objections?”
“No” Vitali said, mastering the sudden questions.
“Why don’t you order something?” Rivera abruptly changed the subject as he took a sip from his glass of wine. Khodorkovsky noticed he was reading the latest edition of the Journal of Foreign Affairs. “Come on, order something.”
Vitali, not wanting to irritate his new employer, picked up the folder menu and smoothly parted it open. He took out his reading glasses, placed them on his aged face, and began reading the folder. Rivera took this opportunity to scan Vitali’s face. This is one of Rivera’s greatest strengths, he could focus in on another person’s face, study his form, and get a respectable indicator of his character. Vitali’s folder told Rivera a lot but the presence of Vitali itself, especially his 58 years of age, added a lot of knowledge. In fact, Rivera felt a tiny twinge of respect when Khodorkovsky put on those glasses.
Vitali intentionally took his time contemplating his choice. He had calculated the possibility that Rivera would ask him to eat and thus came to the meeting with an empty stomach. Rivera’s eyes darted between Vitali’s face and the atmosphere of the café. His copy of Foreign Affairs is closed and pushed to the side. Vitali looked up and raised his hand for a waiter, young and pretty, to approach.
“Can I please have the Grilled Sword Fish?” Vitali turned to another page fold. “And a cup of black coffee, please”
The waiter nodded and disappeared after placing a glass of water along with the bottle of Louie XV. Vitali folded the menu and placed it back behind the customary table’s selection of spices and salts. Rivera took a sip from his wine, a Louie XV, as Vitali noticed he was eating some kind of salad. Rivera set down his glass and looked at Vitali, not hiding his gaze, and eyed the tattoos
“What do the tattoos on your knuckles say?”
“Name of my parents” Vitali replied, lying. Rivera noticed it in the quickness of Khodorkovsky’s response but let it go. Rivera cleared his throat before speaking.
“I used to have a Russian friend once. A young man, grew up here in America. His name was Konstantin.” Vitali nodded as Rivera finished his trivial revelation before taking another sip from his wine glass. He set it down and refilled it while continuing speaking “Where’d you grow up in? Moscow?”
“A few miles from it. Izhevsk.” Vitali replied, lying again.
“During the Soviet Union I assume?”
“Yes” Vitali’s bottle of wine arrived. The waiter popped upon the corkel and poured the contents into a stainless glass. Vitali smiled and nodded before picking up and trying it. Rivera waited for him to consume it and put him down before furthering the conversation.
“And you came after it dissolved, yes?”
“Two years after the Berlin wall was taken down”
“Oh” Rivera, himself an aged man, nodded his head. Vitali passively nodded as he took another sip from the complimentary glass of water."And you're enjoying America? Capitalism is good, yes?"
Vitali passively nodded. Rivera’s interest Vitali Khodorkovsky began fading away but he managed another question.
"You really ex-KGB?"
"Yes"
Vitali’s food and cup of coffee arrived just as Rivera finished his glass of wine and his interest in Khodorkovsky's past, beyond what his folder says, diminished. Vitali's short responses helped accelerate that.
“Ok. Now that we’ve got the introductions out of the way and you’ve got your food and cup of coffee, let’s get into business. This Immanuel Taylor guy, I don’t trust him for a single second. He’s hiding something. I’m positive of that. Now I’m not saying he’s the Antichrist but this guy walks around like he has the weight of the world on his shoulders. The problem isn’t that he’s dangerous, it’s that the guy is…well, he’s empty. I seriously cannot define Immanuel Taylor. Do you understand me?”
“Yes” Vitali said after swallowing a mouthful of sword fish and washing it down with a glass of water. He sipped his coffee. Rivera noticed a dollar tattoo in-between Vitali’s thumb and index finger but didn't make anything of it.
“Good and I’m assuming you’ve made some legitimate progress so far?”
“Yes” Vitali wiped his mouth and folded the napkin before reaching for his coat. He pulled out the book he was currently reading, A History of Western Philosophy by Bertrand Russell, and removed the bookmark which was a folded piece of white paper. Vitali unfolded it exposing both its contents and the recent photo of Immanuel Taylor. Vitali slid the paper across to Rivera and kept the photo as a bookmark in his book. Rivera picked up the paper, put on his reading glasses, and indulged in its contents.
While Rivera was doing so, Vitali looked around the café. As noted from before, the Brindisi café at the heart of downtown San Francisco, in Union Square, is aesthetically “nice”. That was the only word Vitali could conjure up to describe the bloody place. The waiter who brought Vitali his coffee and grilled fish nervously eyed his tattoos, the visible ones, while other patrons in the café were taken back simply by his frame. Rivera finished reading and eyed Vitali.
“Ok, so you’re going to investigate his military background?”
“Yes”
“When did you receive this e-mail?”
“Some time ago” Vitali sipped his coffee. “I sent it to the local recruitment office in Baltimore City, Maryland. That's where his folder says he grew up.”
“I see, but it says here that they cannot grant you access to that information”
“Yes, which is why I printed it out and brought it with me to this meeting. Maybe you can do something. Call someone to help you get Immanuel’s folder or bribe someone to do it or whatever needs to be done.”
“You really think he served in Kuwait? I mean, he could have been in the Army Reserves.”
“He is a soldier” Vitali said reassuringly before grabbing the Immanuel Taylor photo bookmark from his book and sliding it across the table. “I know because he’s got that look on his face”
“What look?” Rivera said as he inspected the photo.
“A look that says he’s been in combat. I know that look. My uncle was in Leningrad back in 1941 when Nazi Germany invaded Soviet Russia. While Immanuel's file says he served in Kuwait, you can never be positive about these things. But I am sure he has been through something similar to warfare”
Rivera looked up at the stone-faced Vitali before looking down at the recent photograph.
“Oh….well, Kuwait isn’t Vietnam” Rivera slid the photograph and printed paper back to Vitali before pouring the remaining of his Louie XV bottle of wine into his glass. “Ok, I can probably get his recruitment folder for you. Anything else?”
“Yes” Vitali said as he took another formidable bite of his grilled fish and rubbed his mouth eloquently and very gentlemen-like with the napkin. “Do you want me to do more work while you focus on getting the folder?”
“Sure. Why not?” Rivera signaled to one of the nameless, faceless waiters to bring the check. “Try to find a new angle. If it’s something you haven’t noticed before, go after it. I’ll get you the folder by the end of the week and you can lump it with whatever you’ve found. Where are you staying?”
Vitali grabbed the printed paper, flipped it over, took out a Uni-Ball pen from his coat and scribbled on the paper his address at the Hotel Tropicana on Valencia Street at the largely Hispanic Mission District of San Francisco. He slid it to Rivera who glanced at it before placing it into his copy of Foreign Affairs.
“Ok. The folder should be easy. Anything other than these two things?”
Vitali consumed, chewed and swallowed the last bite of his excellent Grilled Sword Fish. “Yes. Can you arrange for me to see Immanuel up close without him noticing?”
“That’s easy” Rivera finished his glass of wine before leaning a bit forward towards Vitali. “The guy has a fatal four way match at the PPV in Houston, Texas. I’ll get you a ticket for a seat close to the ring. You can come and see him get beat up.”
“Do you think it could be risky to get that close to him?”
“What’s he going to do? Bite you? Vitali, you are going to be in the midst of thousands and thousands of faceless sycophants. Plus, it’s a title match. I put him in one because I wanted him to focus entirely on that and lower his guard outside the ring. That way, you’d have an easier job. Your welcome. “
Vitali nodded, seeing the added advantage of Rivera’s booking. Rivera himself looked around the café, lost in thought. Vitali wiped his mouth with the napkin and pushed his plate away before standing up, keeping this meeting as formal as possible. He grabbed his coat and placed it on. Vitali then snatched his book, along with the photograph of Immanuel Taylor as a bookmark, and placed it in the interior of the coat before taking out his wallet.
“Don’t worry” Rivera interrupted, briefly lost in thought but back in reality “I got it.”
“Thank you”
“Hey before you go. What’s the Russian word for this?”
“For what?”
“For this. This meeting. You and I agreeing on certain issues. An agreement. What’s the word for this?”
Vitali stood a bit, contemplating which word to use for this. He took out a strip of Halls mint drops and placed one of the drops in his mouth to combat the lingering after-taste of coffee and his meal. He then eyed Rivera and spoke.
“Po Ponyatiyam” Vitali said, in fluent and picturesque Russian mirroring his fluency in English.
“Well Po Potayamini to you to, Ivan” Rivera said after getting up and offering his hand. Not only did he mispronounce “Po Ponyatiyam” but he even added an “Ivan” generalization, in either a will of good gesture or just mere Rivera-esque jerkiness. Vitali reluctantly shook his hand and smiled before making his way out of the restaurant. It’s night now, light rain in downtown San Francisco. He looked back at the Brindisi café, at what it represented and at what type of people frequent this café.
“Azhalek” Vitali said before spitting at the sidewalk. The receptionist eyed him but turned his gaze when Vitali, the big scary Russian, eyed him back. Vitali Khodorkovsky does not belong here, Vitali Khodorkovsky does not belong with these people. The rain kept pouring, the cabs driving to and fro. Vitali decided to walk back home instead. He simply chose to walk back home through the rain and the filth like he did during the days of his youth.
