Spotlight: The Devil Comes to Bonn by Jennifer Harris

A novel about moral ambiguity that reflects the #MeToo movement

2015. Stella, a professor and historian, comes to the beautiful and ancient city of Bonn, Germany, for a World Heritage conference. With things at home tearing at the seams, she is determined to pretend all is well. At least, until she is assaulted over a trivial matter by another delegate, Professor Giovanni Costa. Bewildered, Stella descends into a shadowy observer, slowly becoming an obsessed stalker. When she meets the elderly Hildegard on a park bench by the River Rhine she is drawn into her wartime story, little seeing the similarities to her own situation.

1941. Hildegard, new wife to Kurt and student of architecture, surrenders to the inevitable; she needs a job for them to pay their rent. Interviewing for a hotel post, she does not realise her life now is off course, running on a track destined to collide with the sinister Fuhrer himself. Although repulsed, she must play along with the Fatherland ideals—to show anything but enthusiasm would not only leave her without a job but probably worse circumstances. She is thrust into the role of maid to Hitler in the infamous room 106 in a hotel he visited more than 70 times. She is no longer able to hide away from reality in her studies. Moving forward is the only option, no matter how dark it gets.

With the story switching between 2015 and 1941, Stella and Hildegard face questions of survival, identity, love and meaning as they juggle moral ambiguities in a world of elusive justice.

Excerpt

And then there it was. Moonlight Sonata. Stella bent over the glass case which protected the brittle manuscript bearing the beloved 1801 piano music. Quick, slightly slanted bar lines segmented the staves, with quavers and crotchets reduced to hurried dots with tapered tails. Some pages were covered in lacy tracks, a light pressure of composition coming without effort, the romantic ideal of a glorious outpouring of spirit. She had listened to the sonata in countless sad and happy times, and here was its genesis.

A voice behind. ‘What a lovely surprise to see you, my dear.’

Stella jumped. Takura? She was not sure in the conservation-darkness of the museum, but then she saw Hildegard by his side, smiling in pink lipstick.

Hildegard circled the man’s waist with her thin arm. ‘Neo, I introduce Dr Robinson—Stella—my new friend and a visitor to my Bonn.’

Hildegard beamed. ‘Neo is my son.’

Neo clasped Stella’s hand. She hid her bewilderment at the family relationship between the small, white, German woman in her green summer dress with patch pockets, and the towering, black African man in elegant dark trousers and a business shirt. In his fifties, perhaps. Stella knew a lot about Hildegard’s life, but not all; she must have gone on living richly after the war, but her eyes revealed that today she had been weeping.

Eagerly, Hildegard took Stella’s hand. ‘Neo lives most of the time in Gaborone, but we are mother and son for many years.’

Stella tried to smooth her matted hair. ‘You’re a tourist today?’

Neo shook his head. ‘I’m a classical pianist. When I visit my mother, I always come to this house; it’s a touchstone for me.’

Hildegard guided Stella back to Moonlight Sonata and beckoned to Neo.

‘A moment to share, dear ones.’

Stella let her new friend show her a treasure of Bonn—what an honour to be included with Neo. Costa’s insults diminished; inspirational music trumped his bullying. The hand of Beethoven blazed across this paper more than two hundred years ago. The yellowed pages rested on tiny props, imminent with music, islands of calm amid the museum horde. This was where Stella belonged.

‘Such intoxicating sound from these squiggles and dots!’

‘But it’s more,’ said Hildegard. ‘The sonata is part of the soul of Germany.’

‘Even more, Mama,’ said Neo. His elegant fingers hovered towards the sonata in a caress. ‘Of the world!’ His fingers dashed through an arpeggio. ‘From the third movement.’

Stella blurted, ‘You’re from Africa’.

Bemused, Neo nodded. ‘Yeah, Botswana.’

Stella flushed hotly. Neo and Hildegard had not realised that she had made a simple statement; she had not asked a question. Of course, an African could be a classical pianist. She knew that; she had not meant to suggest otherwise, how mortifying. And, of course, Gaborone was in Africa. She knew that it was in Botswana and even wanted to go on safari there one day, but they didn’t know that. She looked red and sweaty and now she appeared ignorant of geography, another patronizing Westerner who knew nothing of Africa. She would rescue the situation, show them how much she knew and cared about the issues Neo must juggle.

‘You don’t worry about Western hegemony and an oppressive musical canon?’

‘What a mouthful!’ laughed Neo. ‘No, I don’t worry.’ He shook a fist at the manuscript. ‘What a lot of chaos wrought by a sheet of old paper!’

Hildegard covered her lower face, but Stella saw that she too laughed.

‘We Batswana take what we want and leave the rest,’ said Neo kindly. ‘No-one tells us what to do.’

Stella could not meet Neo’s eyes. There was no way to make this right. She had performed like one of those Westerners who were anxious to protect non-Westerners from the West itself, as if non-Western identities lay eternally in colonial tatters. She acted the fool; she knew it. The crush of the room, the shame of insulting Neo... She felt a wave of cold, then heat. She steadied herself on the edge of the cabinet.

‘Shall we?’ Hildegard pointed to the door.

Neo took her walking cane. She linked arms with him and Stella and walked gracefully between them through the international tourists to the back of the museum and into the bare room where Beethoven was born. Stella prayed that the awkward moment had passed. She grabbed the frame of the low door, ducked, and passed dizzily into the attic, with its scrubbed, wooden floor and small windows tucked under the narrow eaves, the shatteringly inauspicious birthplace of a genius.

Tourists dropped their voices. Stella hunched her shoulders, making herself small in the tight space. It was here that Beethoven first breathed, a little before Christmas in 1770, with ice clinging to the wavy, misting windowpanes and his parents still mourning the death of their first born. The new infant, Ludwig, was born into grief. So many identities criss-crossed in the impoverished space and somehow found a home as each place and time and culture and person discovered Beethoven’s music.

Tourists tried to separate themselves from others, each family group seeking to photograph itself in the lowly chamber as if it was occupied by a single family alone. Hot and cold waves accelerated across Stella’s head and body. Her bottled water was finished, and headache throbs converged behind her eyes.

Hildegard turned to Stella. Her eyes were penetrating and compassionate; how concerned she was to see her friend’s distress. Horrified by the misunderstanding with Neo, Stella pulled out her camera to give herself something to do. Hildegard probably thought her a racist. To steady herself, Stella copied the tourists who crammed into the bare room trying to photograph the interior, but it was impossible. Everywhere—floor, window, wall, door—sunburnt, twenty-first century tourists cooled themselves with museum brochures. The famous dark, furrowed brow and waves of romantic Beethoven hair flashed around the room as flapping pamphlets turned into fans.

Bonn was fixated on Beethoven, but the fate of Tzipi and Daniel was erased from daily memory. Stella panted in the claustrophobic birth chamber, sensing the children’s tragedy slipping into the casual violence of present-day Costa. Her body tingled, fiery then icy. Costa…she itched to slap him hard. Leave a bruise on his cheek. And then what dreadful consequences? An assault charge? Sacked from the university? She had always been self-disciplined, denying herself, forcing herself to do what she did not want to do. She had missed out on the joy of impulse her whole life. Creativity emerged from impulse, and she’d killed it. She was at war with herself. Stella blinked; Neo and Hildegard swayed. The short space across the plank floor to mother and son expanded and contracted. She wiped her eyes and tried to focus. They watched her, muttering. Their eyes met and travelled back to her.

Voices sighed, hummed, murmured in the tiny birth space under the old eaves. A foul sibilance sprayed. Saliva from every language spat, stripping out oxygen, coating the room in a repulsive slick. The walls glistened in a foul coating of hissed worship. The stifling birthplace shrank, reeking with sweat, as the walls tilted. Stella could scarcely see the wooden floor around her own feet. Through her lens, she tried to line up the tiny window with the dark grey bust on the garden plinth, but the image blurred, the window frame in sharp focus, and the bust, no more than a blotch. She grabbed the frame and shut her eyes.

Hildegard grasped Stella’s elbow and spoke muffled words. When Stella opened her eyes, Neo had appeared on her other side; tentatively, he touched her shoulder. She babbled an excuse— ‘hot, tired, conference’ —and teetered downstairs, knocking into visitors, blundering from step to step. Staircase too narrow. Walls swinging. Manuscripts jumbling.

Hildegard called, ‘Stel-lah! Stel-lah!’

But Stella did not look back from the door nor the scorching street beyond.

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About the Author

Photo credit: Joel B. Gilman

Jennifer Harris writes literary fiction inspired by the historic environment—not historical fiction, but fiction set in the contemporary era that responds to the past, remembered either publicly in monuments and memorials, or in subtle, private ways. Her PhD is in Cultural Heritage theory and she has lectured in and researched cultural heritage and museums for many years. She has also run a small museum, and worked as a journalist in Australia and London.

Jennifer is from Western Australia and has lived also in France and the UK. In 2020 she relocated to Seattle in the spectacular Pacific Northwest of the USA.

Connect: https://www.jenniferharriswriter.com/

Spotlight: Keeping Pepper by Scott Brody

Beneath the weight of four long years in confinement, a story of liberation unfolds, igniting a whirlwind of love, fear, and even hope.

Ed and Stacey's departure from San Clemente at daybreak would prove to be much more than the start of a simple road trip.

The motorhome's tires kissed the asphalt of Orange County goodbye as they navigated towards the sprawling, glittery embrace of Las Vegas, and their friend Pepper.

That night, amidst the clinking of chips and shuffling of cards, Ed played at the $10 Blackjack table for hours, his thoughts swirling like the gin and tonic in his glass. His mind dances between the past and reconnecting with Pepper, a symphony of melancholy notes for the years gone by.

Their visit with Pepper the next day was supposed to be short. But his dementia had gotten much worse since being admitted, and Ed didn’t have the heart to leave him behind.

So Ed, Stacey, and Pepper embark on the next leg of their road trip together, to visit more old friends at Clear Lake near Santa Rosa.

At the reunion Pepper meets Sandy Martin, and sparks fly almost instantly, putting into motion a very different life than the hospital could offer him. Because facing the unknown together is better than being alone.

But when a local psychopath hears Pepper on a radio talk show and decides he wants Pepper to be his friend, things take a very dark turn.

Excerpt

Konocti

In the end, twelve of them decided to make the trip. Several others begged off, leery of the trails and opting to take the day at the farm. They took three vehicles. A car and two SUV’s, packed with lots of food, drinks and gear in addition to the people. It took them about twenty minutes to get to the bottom of the mountain. The road goes through the village of Kelseyville, down some residential blocks, then the road slopes up through a series of farm fields and orchards, followed by open rocky hillsides. As they rose up on the hill, the tableau took shape - Clear Lake at the foot of the mountain with towns and suburban blocks in the distance. Going higher, the view got bigger, and the lake got both deeper in color, and silvery where the sun reflected off it. They all stopped talking and watched the view changing and developing with some awe as they drove. As they got higher, they disappeared into a cloud bank, then the road popped out of the cloud, and they were in a thick stand of Maul Oaks in a notch between two peaks rising on either side of them. The oaks were tall, 40 to 60 feet, with big heavy curving branches that looked like trees out of an old Disney cartoon. They drove a bit further through the woods until they reached a clearing with parking spaces near a trailhead. They got out, still surrounded by trees.

“That didn’t take long,” Stacey said, stretching her legs.

Richie was organizing their stuff. He had divided them up into small packs so people could carry them easily on their backs. By giving them to a few people, he figured nobody would have too much weight to carry.

“They call it Mt. Konocti, but it’s really not much of a mountain,” he said. “Just about 2,200 feet above the lake.”

“Looked a lot higher coming up,” Hubert said. “Beautiful views on the way up. Can’t wait to see them from here.”

“Yeah, it gets better from here on.” Richie said. He turned to speak to the group. “Everybody ready? Everything good? Anyone need to pee or anything before we get started?” Nobody said anything. “Anybody wanting to take a nap yet?” He laughed, as did a few in the group.

“A nap?” Pepper asked Ed.

“It’s a joke, Pepper.”

“Ah.”

Pepper was standing with Ed, Stacey, Sandy, and Franny. They had decided to stay together as a group on the hike. They looked like an aging tribe in plaids and jeans, shaggy hair and caps in the cool morning. Bits of fog lingered and drifted through the trees around them, cooling the air and filtering the sun.

“OK, well then let’s get started,” Richie said to them all, turning to walk. “The trail-head is over here.” And they were off. They hit the trailhead and followed the path into the trees. After a few minutes, Richie started talking to them about where they were.

“This is what they call the Black Forest because it’s a very dense wood of Douglas Fir and Maul Oaks. It’s a bit of a mystery, since it’s located on the north face of the mountain where it never gets direct sunlight. Nobody really understands how it got started here or why it grows just here.”

“Kind of spooky in here actually,” Sandy said to Pepper, sliding her arm around his. Pepper thought that was nice, but he wondered if she was thinking he needed propping up. He decided not to worry about it.

“Yes,” he agreed with her. “Keep your eyes open for witches.”

Richie kept going. “Truth is Mount Kon is really pretty exceptional. It’s not so big, as I said before, but it is a special place - both the mountain and the lake. It’s an old volcano. Part of what they call the Clear Lake Volcanic Field. It has been quite active in its history. They say it last erupted around 10,000 years ago, which is pretty recently.”

He stopped to help a Cyn and Hubert over some rocks.

“I guess it was a fairly active volcano over the millennia, and through that time it created lots of caves and natural tunnels - old volcanic vents - into the interior of the mountain. Indians used to live here - lots of them. This was a large settlement of native Americans all around the lake. Mostly the Pomo tribe. They say thousands lived in the area in the 1800’s before white men came and started killing them off.”

“God Bless America,” Eddie said.

“But the Pomo explored the area more than anyone since. Their stories about the mountain told about a huge open cavern in the center of the mountain. Probably this would have been the central magma chamber from when the mountain was an active volcano. They said their

men used to crawl through the tunnels until they came to the edge of the openings, then they would drop things into the cavern to see how far they fell. Often, they never heard them land. Geologists mostly tend to believe these stories. They say this could be the tallest cavern in North

America. But the soil is very unstable and many of the vent tunnels have collapsed. So, it is dangerous to explore - nobody has ever been able to find the central cavern, if it still exists. But one thing they do know about Konocti - the mountain breathes. All the vents around the sides, and the open cavern in the center creates wind drafts and thermal currents. The changing pressures and different temperatures create its own air system. They say when the weather is changing on the outside and it gets windy, that’s when you can hear it the most, kind of whistling or wheezing. Feel it too, since the air on the inside is a constant temperature it feels either warmer or cooler than the air outside. So you get little blasts of the mountain’s breath walking around.”

He stopped and walked with them for a bit. Walking and talking got him out of breath.

“Lots of people have reported strange breezes blowing right out of holes in the side of the mountain. Sometimes they smell like old decaying soil, sometimes people say they blow warm wet air. It breathes. In storms, especially. And lots of people report finding openings into the side. Sometimes big enough to call caves. Other times just holes. This mountain -- it seems to have its own life, kind of. It’s unpredictable and kind of spiritual. One of the reasons I wanted to bring you all up here, just to see it and feel it. The Pomo felt it. This was a sacred place to them. They gave it the name Konocti which combined their two words for “mountain” and “woman.”

“Wow,” Sandy said. “You know, Richie - as long as I’ve lived in San Francisco, I never heard any of that before, and we’re so close. I’ve heard of Clear Lake, but never heard much about it. Never seemed to be anything that special.”

“I know, I don’t get that either, but people don’t seem to know much about it. I guess Napa steals our thunder, which I get. But this is a pretty amazing place. And really there’s much more. I haven’t even told you about the lake yet...”

And right on cue, as he said that they started to walk out of the trees into a more open section as they turned the corner to the eastern slope of the near peak they seemed to be heading towards, and the lake came back into view behind them. It was ringed by mountains. Now that they were near the top, they got the long view of the neighboring peaks and beyond.

“Killer view, man,” Ed said.

Richie was focusing on one spot on the lake, pointing. “Look, you see that patch on the surface of the lake over there?”

“I guess so,” Ed said. He didn’t see much, but he thought he could see some ripples around one area out in the center of the lake.

“There’s not much to see from here, I know. But it’s interesting. Of course, all this - this whole landscape - was created by volcanoes. It’s called the Clear Lake Volcanic Field, like I said, and it is still active. There’s some kind of magma pool underneath the lake. That patch in the water sits above a volcanic vent at the bottom of the lake. Lots of people have explored it. They call it a thermal spring. They say there are a bunch of vents under the lake, but that one is the biggest. Some divers explored it, but the water got too hot to go very deep. The magma is supposed to be pretty close to the surface there, less than 10 miles.

“The bubbling water from the volcanic vents gave the lake a reputation for healthy water, like mineral springs. Back in the day, maybe the early 1900’s I imagine, this area was full of

expensive resorts where people used to come to bathe in the waters. They say it was quite big back then.

“Here’s the other thing about Clear Lake - which by the way is not clear at all, very murky, nobody knows why they started calling it that - but Clear Lake is one of the oldest lakes in North America. It’s like half a million years old. Apparently, most lakes eventually get filled in with silt from runoff, but this one sits on some kind of plateau that has the ability to get pushed down as the weight from the silt increases. So, the bottom drops down as the silt comes in, which has kept the water in place all this time. Again, this is a function of the volcanic formation of the area. How cool is that?”

Everybody had to agree with that. Cool place. They kept walking. It was relatively level on the path. Still, Ed could feel himself getting a bit short of breath, not being used to the altitude. He had no doubt he was not the only one feeling it. He pushed on. He didn’t want to hold everybody up. The trail continued on now winding through the flat area and starting to slope up towards the nearest peak. They went through mostly shrubs and small trees now, as the side of the old volcano was strewn with sharp-edged black lava rock with plants growing around and through them. The path was relatively smooth and clear, but they all knew this would be a bad place to twist an ankle, (“God forbid”), so they watched carefully where they were walking. Between their exertion and their focus on the path in front of them, the conversation slowed to just an occasional comment. They walked in silence, just looking up from time to time to appreciate the incredible view all around them.

Richie felt like everything was going fine and according to plan. The trail was a loop trail of about two miles around, sloping up as they got closer to the peak, which was still some

distance in front of them. This wasn’t the main peak of the mountain, but a secondary one a bit lower. It wasn’t very hard to walk, but he figured they could always turn back if need be. His thought they’d stop on the rocks at the top and relax, take in the sun and admire the views, have a snack. Richie checked the time - it was almost 11AM. Everything was fine, but he was already stressed with the responsibility of the group. He hoped this was a good idea. There were some flat rocks nearby so he called a quick break and told everybody to relax. Nobody objected. Pepper sat with Sandy and Ed. Stacey was talking to Cyn.

“You both doing ok?” Ed asked them.

“Yeah, sure - feeling good,” Pepper said, with an energy that surprised Ed a little. “Well, good. That’s great, man. How about you Sandy?”

“I’m good. I’m pretty good about exercising. Nothing radical, but I stay in pretty good shape. So far this isn’t very challenging.” She pulled out half of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and waved it. “A little protein, some carbs... tastes good up here!” She laughed. “How about you, Eddie, how are you doing?”

“No problem. I was feeling a little out of breath walking up here, but I’m OK. Great up here, I love it.”

“Yeah, nice,” Sandy agreed.

Ed was thinking how well Pepper seemed to be doing. He hadn’t been sure this hike was such a good idea for him, but now he decided maybe it was just the thing. Pepper seemed in clear mind and having fun. Ed didn’t know Sandy very well. He felt like he would like her well enough. She seemed nice. Certainly, she seemed to be good with Pepper. They seemed to be good together. She coaxed him to eat some of her sandwich, telling him he needed the boost for

the hike. Pepper said something to her that made her laugh again. Wait, he thought, looking at them again, how far has this already gone??

At that moment Pepper’s phone began to ring.

Pepper was clearly as surprised as anyone. He just managed to pull the phone out of a pocket and answer it before the call went off to voicemail.

“Hello? Yeah, it’s me.”

Ed was looking at him, curious. “It’s that guy from the radio station,” Pepper told him. Ed held out his hand. “Give me the phone,” he told Pepper.

“Eddie, it’s OK, I like talking to him. I don’t want to stop.”

Ed nodded. “I know, don’t worry. I just need to talk to him.”

Pepper gave him the phone, nervous, not knowing what Eddie was going to say. “Who’s this?” Ed asked.

“This is Will Shockley, from K-Talk Radio in Santa Rosa. I do the midday talk show here. Who is this?”

“Don’t worry about that right now. First - we’re not on the air now, right?” “No I’m not on ‘til later. Go ahead and turn on the station now if you have any doubts. Legally I actually have to get your approval for that anyway.”

“And you’re not taping this? Is anyone else listening?”

“No. You’ll have to take my word on that. But it’s just me calling Mike, that’s all.” “And you’re calling him, why?”

“Mike’s a trip, man. I like talking to him. Our audience loves him.”

Ed laughed in spite of himself. Pepper was a trip alright. Will heard the laugh and felt maybe he was breaking the ice. He waited.

“Alright look,” Ed said, “I get that, sort of. And I’m not trying to cut him off from you. I just need to be sure we can observe some rules, OK? I need to make sure to keep him safe. It’s easy to take advantage of him. You know what I’m talking about?”

“I don’t know,” said Will. “How am I taking advantage of him?”

“You haven’t yet. I just want to make sure that doesn’t happen, by you or anyone. Look, this is easy - don’t ask him his name, and don’t ask him questions about where he’s been the last few years. No specifics. OK?”

“I guess so.”

“That’s not good enough.”

Will hesitated but heard no give there. “OK, I can do that.”

“Good, there’s more,” Ed said. “We need to take this further. I need you to make sure nothing comes out. You run some kind of delay?”

“Sure.” Will said.

“OK, so I need to know if anything comes out, you’re going to stop it before it goes out.” “Wait, that’s really hard. We only delay 6 seconds, pretty hard to guarantee I can catch anything in that window.”

“That’s enough time, and you’re not getting this conversation,” Ed said. “This is not a negotiation. Look, I’m trying to work with you, for Mike’s sake, I’m prepared to trust you up to a point. But I’m not going to put him at any risk. If you can’t live with that, no problem. You just don’t talk to him.”

“OK...” Will was saying.

“We’re not done yet,” Ed said, “Don’t tell me what you can’t do, or why it’s hard. That’s your issue, and I don’t believe you anyway. Here’s what I want to hear, ok? Because if you and I

are on opposite sides of this, it’s not going to work. You need to be on my side of the table. Mike needs people looking out for him - I know you look at him as a potential ratings-booster, and that’s ok, but I expect you to also be on his side. Look out for him, protect him. Work with me. I don’t want to feel like you don’t give a shit and are looking for excuses to blow me off. I want the opposite - I want to trust that you’ll be thinking about him, and listening to what he’s saying, and making sure he doesn’t get close to that line. You see? I need to hear that from you. I need to hear it in your voice. Otherwise we’re done.”

Pepper was watching Ed, listening, straining to hear the phone. Ed stopped talking, waited for a response.

“Your turn to say something,” Ed said to Will. “Or not. Then I’m hanging up.” Will weighed his words. “OK. You’re right. People are trying to find out who he is. But I wouldn’t tell them. I hid your caller ID. I actually have been protecting Mike.” Ed hadn’t been expecting this, it scared him. “Who is looking for him? What happened?” “His first call here was really cool, but he mentioned splitting from some home or hospital or something. He didn’t give any details, but it was enough to set off warning bells for me. The cops called, my management was all over me. I told everyone there was no caller ID - which was a lie, of course. I kept the number and made sure it was deleted from the station phone system completely. After that, I made sure nothing was showing anywhere, and any calls I made to him were on my personal phone.”

Ed was impressed. “That’s good.”

“My instinct was to keep him away from everyone else. I mean, I will say straight up that part of why I wanted to protect him was so I could keep him on the show. He’s very interesting

and funny. Such a free spirit. You can’t believe how many calls and comments I get on him, people asking when he will be back on the show.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. I’m sure he does help my ratings. Does he have dementia?” “They say so.”

“Yeah, that’s terrible. Yet, even that, the way he seems to deal with it - it’s so open and positive. People really respond to him, you’d be amazed.”

“Oh no, I know. We’ve been friends a very long time. I see that. He’s a rare soul.” “He is that,” Will said, “So yes, I want him on with me, but also I can see he has vulnerabilities. I want to keep those away from him. He needs to be safe, I’m good with that. I was calling him just now, mostly just to ask him how he was doing. I do worry about the old dude.” He stopped. Eddie was still thinking.

“We OK?” Will asked. What’s your name anyway?”

“Name’s Ed. I guess we’re ok, so far. I want to trust you, believe it or not. He does enjoy talking to you and I think it’s good for him. But I don’t have a very good impression of Talk Radio people in general. Maybe you’re different, I guess we’ll see. For his sake, don’t let us down, OK? I reserve the right to pull the plug on you anytime, and there will be no second chance. Clear?”

“Clear,” said Will.

Here...” He handed the phone to Pepper.

Pepper took the phone, aware that by now everybody was watching. “Yeah,” he said. It sounded to Ed like Will was just making small talk with him for a bit. No doubt because he

figured Ed was listening. Which he wasn’t much, actually, His knee had gotten stiff during the call with Will, so he walked a little and stretched it out.

Pepper must have told him they were up on the mountain because he was trying to convince Will they weren’t all crazy and everything was going to be fine. “We’re good, dude, don’t sweat it... It’s really nice up here...OK, sure I’ll let you know if we have a problem. Right, right.” He punched off the call, rolling his eyes. “Man, what a worrier.”

Everyone laughed at that. Stacey thought about explaining to Pepper why that wasn’t really so crazy but didn’t.

Richie felt like it was time to push on. He got them up and going. The path continued sloping up, heading generally towards the peak to their right. A taller peak watched over them to the left, but that one was definitely too much of a climb. The land sloped up much steeper in that direction. The weather was perfect, sunny and around 60 degrees. Several of them took off their coats. As the trail got closer to the peaks, there were smaller pine trees.

Pepper was in a good mood. Everything felt good to him. Here he was walking between Hubert and Sandy, holding Sandy’s hand. His body was working fine, he thought. Legs felt good, no problems. He couldn’t get over how beautiful everything looked and felt. There must be something perfect about the air up here, he thought; everything looked so incredibly clear, colors so brilliant, sunlight sparkling. He just kept looking all around, marveling at it. And the feel of the air - how could it be that good, that perfect? How could our bodies be in such synch with the environment? He had never thought about it that way. How many years of evolution had it taken to achieve that; thousands... millions? Brilliant miraculous harmony. And by the way, who had thought to create this fantastic little mountain they were walking around on?

Hubert must have seen Pepper looking around and appreciating everything. “Nice, right?”

“Amazing,” Pepper said. “I mean seriously, I’m just walking here, but I’m totally blown away at how incredible this all is.”

“Yeah, you forgot about all this, didn’t you? Back in Las Vegas.”

“Yes. I forgot the world could look like this.” Pepper turned and yelled up the line to Ed, walking 30 feet or so in front of them. “Hey Eddie!”

“What’s up, bro?” Ed yelled back.

“You rock, dude.”

“I know. What’d I do?”

“Saved my life. Brought me here. Walked me right out the front door of that miserable place. Put me in your fantastic bus and drove off, just like that. You know you’re out of your mind, right? You and Stacey both. No telling what kind of shit you’ll get into.

“I don’t know, man,” Ed said. “Probably you’re right. But… we couldn’t leave you in that box.”

“Bless you for that. Seriously, you can’t imagine.” He turned to Sandy as they walked together. “And you, you’re another little miracle that just appeared. Who knew I could even have sex anymore?”

“Pepper!!” Stacey yelled at him, but everyone was laughing too hard, Sandy included. She just shook her head.

“What?” he said to Stacey, “is that wrong to say? OK, sorry Stace.”

“Not me,” Stacey said, “apologize to Sandy.”

“Sorry Sandy. But really it was incredible, right honey?” He said to Sandy. “I mean, who would have thought?”

Sandy laughed at both of them and agreed with Pepper. “Yeah, who would have thought?”

Pepper turned back to Stacey. “There, you see?”

“I see,” she said, waiting for the conversation to move on.

“I did get confused.” He turned to Sandy. “Who did I think you were at one point?” “Carla.”

“Of course Carla. My first love and my first wife. You remember her, right Eddie?” “I do,” Ed said. “Why do I remember her so well?”

“It works that way,” Hubert joined the conversation. “Your long-term memory is much more stable than your short-term.”

“That was nice, but also sad,” Pepper said. “Like some ghost from far in the past. I’m glad I saw her. I see them a lot, those ghosts. Sometimes I don’t know who they are, although I’m sure I did know them. But the older the memories, like my grandparents, are blurry and tattered. Fading away, like an old picture losing its color.”

The rest of the group was quiet as they walked, listening to Pepper.

“That’s how our consciousness works,” Sandy said. “I read a book about it one time. They said consciousness is the constant blending of all the inputs to the brain. Seeing, hearing, touching, smelling, tasting. Somehow our brain assembles all those senses into a unified picture of the world around us, and poof… consciousness. And every micro-second it changes and updates. We file the memories away and compare them against other ones.”

“Right,” Pepper said, “I think that’s what I was getting at. I guess that memory thing is what’s failing me. You know, at the Lombard Center they gave us lectures to explain what was happening to us. They figure our memories are created by the different senses and are stored separately around our brain. Then when we go to call them up, our brain locates the files it had stored and re-assembles them. Sounds like some kind of hard drive, huh? Anyway, when you have dementia that filing system gets messed up. That’s why the older memories are easier to find than the newer ones. Because the newer ones don’t get filed right, so our brains can’t find the parts or put them back together right. The older ones were filed right, so those are still find able. Is that a word?”

“I think so,” said Richie. “I use it.”

“I’m not sure where I was going with that.”

“You were talking about how everything is connected,” Hubert said. “Which I think is right. We’re all perceiving the same things, but differently. We think different thoughts, make different associations. That’s our brains. It always amazed me that people talk about some ancient person performing relatively trivial things and calling them miracles, when we are confronted with the most astounding miracles every day. What could be more miraculous than our brains? I guess life itself is equally miraculous. And society takes them both for granted every day.

“Right on,” Richie said.

“I don’t know what creates our unique personalities,” Richie said. “But no doubt our accumulated memories have a big effect on who we are. That’s the difference between all of us being friends or strangers.”

“Yes, it’s true,” Pepper said. “I look at someone and feel like there ought to be memories there, but I can’t seem to pull them up. The brain can be a scary place. Sometimes it just won’t work the way you want it to. All those synapses and connections... Something starts firing wrong, nothing much we can do. I try not to be scared. I try to let it be, maybe to enjoy the old memories. I’m OK now, more or less. But I see the way you all look at me. I know. I don’t want to bring anybody down. I just want a little more time to have fun, see a few more things, do some things I never got to do. Or maybe do them again because I forgot I did them the first time.” That made him laugh. “I guess at some point I’ll have to go back to the Center, or someplace like that. I mean, I saw those people, I lived with them. I can see what the future is. Not pretty… not at all. But… I’m not there just yet, right?”

“No not yet,” Sandy said. “You’re OK. We’re OK.”

“There you go, Pepper,” said Ed. “Sandy says you’re OK. That’s really all you need, right?”

“Hell, yeah,” Pepper agreed.

It was almost time for Will to go on the air. He was punching buttons back and forth with a few callers off the air, finding out what was on their minds that day. Nothing much very exciting, it turned out. Jeannie was in the studio. She had stopped by to ask him what he was

going to do that day. He had a couple of ideas and was looking through the paper for more, but that was mostly for her benefit. He figured to basically wing it, as he usually did, and see where the callers took the conversation.

But Pepper was on his mind. He decided to talk to her about it.

“I talked to Mike earlier,” he said.

“Mike that older guy, with dementia?”

“Yeah, he’s up on Konocti today with a bunch of his friends. I’d really like to get him back on.”

“Wait,” Jeannie said, “He called you?”

“I called him,” Will said.

“Shit,” she said again. “OK. I agree. Get him on the show, I’ll run interference. Can you make it sound like he’s calling you? Frank is buddy-buddy with everybody in this town, so he’ll want to keep the local cops happy.

“You just stand up to him.”

He thinks I’m a lamebrain,” Jeannie said. “I never did figure out why he hired me.” Will didn’t see the big mystery. She took the job for $42k.

Will tried dialing Pepper back but got no answer. He left a voicemail but realized he’d need to find something else to talk about for the show. Back to the second-string callers blinking on hold.

Richie led the group up the path as it moved into the trees. They were approaching the peak he had picked as their goal for the day, and that peak was surrounded by a small wood. The trail got more shaded, and Richie had to warn everybody to watch the roots and rocks in the ground. He slowed down so the group could tighten up and everybody could take their time over the terrain. No broken ankles today, was his mantra for the climb. The trail wound along for several hundred yards. They came out on a small ridge, with another fabulous panorama of the hills, the land dropping off down to the lake below, and the bigger mountains beyond to the horizon. They all oohed and aahed as the view came into sight for them.

Next, the path came off the ridge and dropped into another stand of trees – mostly cedars and pines. Once again, they were in the trees. After another fifty yards or so, Richie stopped the group.

“What is it?” Cyn asked him.

“I just want to check the map. The trail splits here. I just want to make sure we go the right way. This is a loop trail, but I don’t think we’re at the loop split now. Too early.” He studied closely. He had a paper map in addition to the GPS. “The maps just don’t show this quite right. I think we go left here, but I’m not sure.” He looked down the trails in both directions where they split.

“Hubert, you’re doing fine, right?” Richie asked.

“Yes, fine,” Hubert said. “What do you need?”

“Just come with me down this trail a bit. Let’s take a look and make sure this is the right one.”

“Buddy system. Sure, let’s go,”

“OK.” And to Cyn, “Just keep everybody here. We’ll be right back – we’re not going far at all. Don’t worry.”

“Not far, right back, right?” she said. “Stick together - no getting lost. Richie, seriously, if we turn back now, everybody will have had an incredible day. If there’s any question about where to go, let’s forget it. We declare victory and go home”

“Right,” he said to her, “just a quick look up the trail. We won’t be out of earshot, promise.”

And off they went, Richie and Hubert, taking the trail to the right. Richie was serious, of course, he had no plans to take it very far. It snaked around a bit, and maybe 30 yards down, came to an outcropping of rock. Richie was saying this was what he expected – the trail was about to end. This was not the way to the peak. He was about ready to turn around. He just wanted to walk out on the crag a bit where the visibility was better to get a look around. Hubert told him to be careful and hurry up off that rock.

“I know, just a minute,” Richie said. But the rock was tricky. Since Konocti was a volcano, the rock around them was mostly volcanic, which was hard like any granite, only black, very uneven, and full of sharp points and edges. And since the lava cooled in place, there were cracks and holes randomly everywhere. A warm breeze seemed to be blowing around his feet, which struck him as odd. Richie very carefully picked his way up on the rock. Then he twisted around to see where they were.

Bad idea. He could feel himself losing his balance as he twisted. He realized his ankle was wedged in a crack in the rock and he knew he was beyond being able to catch himself – he was going to fall. It all happened in slow motion. He stumbled backwards over the rock, his ankle pulling free as the weight of his body pulled him down. The level of the rock was lower

behind him, so he dropped maybe two feet further as he fell back. He was in free-fall for an instant that seemed to last forever, he looked at the sky as he fell back – knowing the rock was coming next.

The pain was blinding.

He crashed down on the rock below. He hit his head, his ribs, his legs. But it was his back that bore the weight of the impact. The pain, unlike anything he had ever felt, radiated from his lower back like a tsunami ricocheting and pulsing around his body. The sky went black. He thought he heard Hubert calling him, but the ringing in his head drowned everything out. Including his own screaming – if that was coming from him, he really didn’t know. His body was on fire. And his lungs – something wrong there – he didn’t seem to be able to get much air. It seared him to breathe.

Then he passed out.

Above him, Hubert was in a panic. He also had seen it playing out as if in slow motion, watching Richie twist, lose his footing, stumble, then sail down backwards landing on the volcanic rock behind him. Even before Richie saw it coming, Hubert knew this was going to be bad. But the sound of Richie landing bone on rock almost made Hubert throw up. He started screaming for help right away. Now Richie was lying motionless below him. Hubert’s mind locked in horror. He didn’t know whether to run back or stay with Richie. All he could do was to scream to for help.

Back up the trail, the group was relaxing quietly when they heard a terrified sounding screaming coming from where the two had gone down the path. Cyn and Eddie jumped up. They couldn’t tell who was screaming at that point, but obviously something was very wrong. Cyn took off ahead of Ed.

“You stay here with everybody,” was all she said to him as she started running down the path.

Ed realized that was probably right but felt like Cyn would need help. “Stacey,” he said to her, “you better go. That sounds bad.”

Cyn reached them quickly. She ran past Hubert, who was still screaming. She saw Richie on the rocks and scrambled down to him. She fought to control the rising panic in her as she tried to see how badly hurt he was and start to take care of him. Gently, she took his head and started running her hands over his body feeling for wounds or breaks. She knew she was crying since she had to keep wiping her eyes.

Stacey was right behind her, trying to take it in. She climbed down to be with Cyn. “Did he break anything?” she asked Cyn.

Cyn didn’t answer, she couldn’t take her eyes off Richie. Stacey spoke to her evenly and directly, trying to get her to focus. “Cyn, where is he hurt? What did he break?” Richie was starting to move now, moaning but breathing and struggling to regain consciousness. His eyes fluttered, looking glassy.

“Richie, can you hear me?” she asked him.

“Aaah, aah” was all he said, but Stacey could see him looking and trying to focus on her. “OK stay with us now,” Stacey said. “Just relax, you’re going to be ok. Cyn, talk to me. Now!”

Cyn blinked at her, still crying. “Yes, what?” she said. “He’s really hurt. Oh my God, Stacey.”

“OK listen to me, honey,” Stacey said, “we need help here for him. Right now. I’m going to go back and tell Eddie. He’ll get it done. But we can’t lose any time. OK? So I need you to

stay with Richie. Try to keep him awake and warm. Make him comfortable if you can, but don’t move him. We don’t know what’s really broken. You got that, ok?” Cyn nodded. “I need you to look at me and tell me you’ll do that,” Stacey said. Cyn did. “OK,” Stacey said, “I’ll be right back.”

She climbed back up to Hubert, who had calmed down some.

“I can’t believe this happened,” he said.

“I know. But are you ok now Hubert? I need to get back to the group and get help.” Hubert couldn’t seem to focus on her. “He hit so hard, that was so terrible. That noise… I think he hit his head on the rocks. That was too loud. I never heard anything like that before.” He looked at her now for the first time. “I hope this wasn’t my fault.” He seemed to be questioning this.

She did her best to reassure him, but this new info made her even more frightened for Richie. She wanted to tell Eddie. “I really have to go, Hubert. You just stay here.” “Yes, I’m ok now. You go, I’ll stay here with Cyn. Go.”

Stacey hurried back up the trail until she got back to the group “It’s Richie – he took a very bad fall.” Then she turned to Ed.

“He fell on his back on the rocks. I can’t tell what he may have broken, but he’s barely conscious. Hubert says he cracked his head pretty good. You need to get us help up here like right now. It’s bad – I’m scared.”

She saw Ed taking out his cell “Do we have bars up here?”

“Yes,” he said, dialing 911. “Thank God we’re high up. You have your phone, right?” She nodded.

“OK, you go back. Take some water with you. I’ll let you know what I find out.”

Stacey went back down the trail, telling everybody else to just stay there, don’t wander off.

The phone was being answered, so he turned his focus to that. Ed really didn’t have that much to tell the 911 operator. They were hiking on Mt. Konocti, near one of the peaks. One of his friends had taken a bad fall and needs medical help right away. No, he can’t walk – he’s barely conscious. That was really all he knew. Stacey hadn’t been able to give him any more specific info. The operator peppered Ed with questions - Did he get a concussion? Probably. Broken any bones? Don’t know. Is he breathing ok? How is his heart rate? Is he bleeding? But Ed couldn’t answer any of them. Thinking about what Stacey had said, she hadn’t mentioned any serious bleeding, so he said he didn’t think so to that question. He felt frustrated – like maybe he wasn’t making her understand the urgency of the situation.

“Look, please! We’re not doctors here, I don’t know what may be broken or hurt. But we need help – you have to get him out of here and to a hospital,” Ed was almost shouting at the phone.

“Yes sir, we’re working on that. Just stay with me on this phone please. Is the battery on your cell ok?”

Ed stopped to look. “Yes, it’s good.’

OK,” the voice on the line was level, sounding in control. She was trying to calm him. “We’re talking to Medevac now.”

“Thank you,” was all Eddie could say.

She was back thirty seconds later. “We have a helicopter coming out of Ukiah for your friend. They are lifting off in a few minutes. That’s about 35 air miles away from your location. They should be there in about fifteen minutes. Is there a clearing somewhere near you?”

Things started moving very fast. Ed went back down the path, watching for the helicopter and trying to tell the 911 folks where they were. Another EMT talked to Stacey about how Richie was doing, concerned that he was going into shock. After a while Ed heard the familiar whirring of chopper blades – at first very faint, then louder and louder until the helicopter filled the sky and the powerful downdraft blew up a cloud of dirt and dust all around them. He couldn’t remember ever hearing a more welcome sound.

Then the EMT’s were on the ground and running up the trail. They got Richie strapped in the gurney and back to the helicopter with Cyn, and then they were wheels up and on their way to Santa Rosa.

Once it was gone, a drafty silence returned to the mountainside, the group in stunned silence. The local police had also been called by EMS and a couple of cars showed up with lights flashing.

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About the Author

Scott Brody works in broadcasting and ad sales in Southern California. He’s married with a daughter, two sons, and two grandchildren. He also wrote The Org, available on Amazon.

Spotlight: Dwell Time: A Memoir of Art, Exile, and Repair by Rosa Lowinger

Dwell Time is a term that measures the amount of time something takes to happen – immigrants waiting at a border, human eyes on a website, the minutes people wait in an airport, and, in art conservation, the time it takes for a chemical to react with a material.

Renowned art conservator Rosa Lowinger spent a difficult childhood in Miami among people whose losses in the Cuban revolution, and earlier by the decimation of family in the Holocaust, clouded all family life. After moving away to escape the “cloying exile’s nostalgia,” Lowinger discovered the unique field of art conservation, which led her to work in Tel Aviv, Philadelphia, Rome, Los Angeles, Honolulu, Charleston, Marfa, South Dakota, and Port-Au-Prince. Eventually returning to Havana for work, Lowinger suddenly finds herself embarking on a remarkable journey of family repair that begins, as it does in conservation, with an understanding of the origins of damage.

Inspired by and structured similarly to Primo Levi’s The Periodic Table, this first memoir by a working art conservator is organized by chapters based on the materials Lowinger handles in her thriving private practice – Marble, Limestone, Bronze, Ceramics, Concrete, Silver, Wood, Mosaic, Paint, Aluminum, Terrazzo, Steel, Glass and Plastics. Lowinger offers insider accounts of conservation that form the backbone of her immigrant family’s story of healing that beautifully juxtaposes repair of the material with repair of the personal. Through Lowinger’s relentless clear-eyed efforts to be the best practitioner possible while squarely facing her fraught personal and work relationships, she comes to terms with her identity as Cuban and Jewish, American and Latinx.

Excerpt

DWELL TIME: A Memoir of Art, Exile and Repair By Rosa Lowinger

© 2023 Published by Row House Publishing, October 10, 2023. All Rights Reserved.

Pages 46 - 51

I was born three months before Fidel Castro, his brother Raúl,Ernesto “Che” Guevara, and fifty-seven other would-be revolutionaries left the Yucatan bound for Cuba on a yacht that was designed to hold twenty people and whose name was Granma, a misspelling of the word Grandma. Recounted in books, newsreels, and magazines, the events of that period are the stuff of opera: A storm throws the Granma off course. The landing is ambushed by the dictator’s army. The Cuban press deliberately misreports that the revolutionaries were all killed or captured. Then, finally, a clandestine visit by New York Times reporter Herb Matthews to the Sierra Maestra Mountains, where he reveals that the swaggering, cigar-smoking Fidel Castro is very much alive and in the throes of a full-scale guerrilla war.

Described as the best journalistic scoop of the twentieth century, Matthews’s front-page story appeared on February 24, 1957. I was almost five months old then—the second generation of my family to be born in Cuba. That I would be the last would have seemed as absurd a notion to my parents as a spaceship landing on the moon. What on earth could have wrenched us away from this prosperous, welcoming country? Though Cuba was ruled by the same white Catholic elite that had brought the world the Inquisition, Cuba’s bigotry in the mid-twentieth century was reserved for its population of color, not Eastern European whites. Racism in prerevolutionary Cuba was so pernicious that even President Batista, of mixed race, was not allowed to join the Havana Country Club. This fact was, of course, lost on people like my family, who only noticed that our fellow Cubans, whether Black or white, took no issue with our religious beliefs.

Eastern European Jews—Ashkenazis—were generally referred to as “Polackos,” or Poles. That was not viewed as a slur, just Cuban shorthand, a moniker like “Chino” for Asians, “Gallego” for Spaniards, and “Alemán” for anyone not Jewish from a German-speaking country. Violence toward Jewish people, as had been seen during the war and its horrific aftermath, when

emaciated concentration-camp survivors returned to towns in Hungary, Ukraine, and Poland only to be met by murderous mobs, simply was not prevalent in the Caribbean.

There were exceptions. Most notable among them was the St. Louis affair, a devastating 1939 refusal by then-Cuban president Federico Laredo Brú to allow an ocean liner carrying nine hundred Jewish refugees with proper visas to disembark at Havana. The boat was also turned away by Canada and the United States, resulting in the death of a third of the passengers and harrowing escapes for those who managed to elude capture by the Nazis. My mother recalls marching on the presidential palace as a child with all the island’s Jewish students, the residents of the Froyen Farayn among them, waving Cuban flags to protest the decision.

By the mid-1950s, those days were ancient history. Jews were well-established members of Cuban society. Most were middleclass merchants—a group with whom Batista had no problem. One of his closest associates was Meyer Lansky, a Jewish “businessman” he brought to Cuba to sanitize gambling operations after a high-profile 1953 article in the Saturday Evening Post singled out the island’s casinos for particular corruption. Most of Cuba’s twenty thousand Jews lived in Havana, a city that boasted Jewish schools, kosher restaurants, and three synagogues, the most well-attended being Beth Shalom (better known as El Patronato), a Conservative, meaning non-Orthodox, congregation. Construction had been funded by the most prosperous of Havana’s Jews, my grandfather Alberto among them.

In late 1956, when I was born, Cuba quivered with revolutionary fervor. Acts of sabotage, including bombs exploding in neighborhood trash cans, were commonplace. Students would be found shot dead by military police. “We were used to political violence,” my father said. “It was more or less the way regime change happened in Cuba.”

Two months after my mother came home from the maternity hospital, revolutionaries opened fire on the Montmartre nightclub, a nightspot a few blocks from our house that had featured performances by Lena Horne, Édith Piaf, and Cab Calloway. The chief of the island’s feared military intelligence service was killed in the attack, and the international press reported that bleeding women in evening gowns stumbled into bullet-riddled mirrors as they tried to flee the horror.

Then on New Year’s Eve, the busiest night for Havana’s nightclubs, a bomb detonated at the Tropicana. That one really shook my family. One of their neighbors in the building was a radio announcer who broadcast his shows from the glamorous open-air nightclub, and regularly invited my parents to sit at his ringside table. “We probably would have been there if you hadn’t just been born,” recalled my father.

Still, the warfare that mattered most to our family was in-house. My mother and grandfather were at it constantly. He, who had “saved a dime out of every dollar he made,” according to my father, criticized her spending. The whole family worked at the store on Calle Bernaza, the men arriving in the morning, and the woman coming only for the afternoon shift, after lunch and siesta. But while Abuela Blanca took the trolley from Vedado to Old Havana, my mother would wait around until the last minute, then treat herself to taxis. At home she had a cook and laundress. When I was born, a nanny came along. My grandmother did all her own cooking and housework.

“Your father wanted to give me everything I didn’t have,” my mother explained defiantly. This included renting a summer house in the beach town of Santa Maria del Mar, paying for her brother Felix’s schooling, and looking the other way as she filched cash from the register to buy furniture and clothes for her father, Ana, and Felix.

Poverty has a way of gouging out all sense of moderation. As a friend who was raised in abject circumstances explains: “If you’ve ever had to stare into an empty refrigerator, you will never again have one that is not packed full, even if you can’t possibly finish what’s inside.”

My mother was also egged on by her father, the perpetual gambler, with whom she’d made up right before her wedding. “I once took him with me to El Encanto to buy a bathing suit. My father had never been inside the store before. When I tried on the suit and asked what color he thought I should get, he said, ‘Get it in every color!’”

The clashes between my mother and paternal grandfather reached a breaking point just months before I was born. The store on Calle Bernaza was packed to the rafters with merchandise, some of which was on high shelves. One busy day, a customer came in, asking for a particular doll for his daughter’s birthday. Six months pregnant, my mother asked another employee to climb the steep ladder to bring a box down. My grandfather Alberto barked, “Get it yourself and don’t bother others with work you should be doing.” Whether that is what he said or what my mother heard is lost to history. She started up the ladder, then missed a rung and fell to the ground.

Rushed to the hospital, she was terrified of losing not only the baby, but her own life, given what had happened to her mother. She was confined to bed rest for the next three months. Alberto was contrite and despondent. “He came to visit me, white as a sheet,” recalled my mother. “He practically got onto his knees, begging for forgiveness. I told him: ‘If I lose this child, I’ll kill you. I’ll go to jail, but I will kill you. Count on it.’”

In conservation there’s a term for works of art that come with intrinsic defects: inherent vice. In paintings, such fabrication flaws appear when an artist uses impasto (the thick application of pigment to a painting) that is too heavy to be held by a canvas, or oil paint underneath acrylic, a condition that leads to cracking and flaking as the oil paint cures, releasing gases that get trapped beneath the plasticky acrylic. When bronzes leach the remnants of an inner mold, called the “investment,” through tiny pores or casting imperfections, that is inherent vice. So is the galvanic corrosion caused by welding two disparate metals together.

Items made of fired clay, such as ceramics, tiles, and terracotta, can display inherent vice in many ways. My friend and colleague Amy Green, a conservator and trained ceramist, explains: “Clays can have imperfections and inclusions. The firing temperature can be too low or too high. The temperature can be correct, but the item can be sitting in a cool spot in a kiln, or there can be an incompatible coefficient of expansion and contraction between the glaze and the clay, which can cause lifting or ‘shivering’ of the glaze, eventually having it fall off.”

A conservator can’t reverse such damage; she can only manage it.

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About the Author

Rosa Lowinger is a Cuban-born American art conservator and founder of RLA Conservation of  Art + Architecture, LLC. (www.rlaconservation.com), the U.S.’s largest woman-owned materials conservation practice. She is also a published author, most well-known for Tropicana Nights: The Life and Times of the Legendary Cuban Nightclub (Harcourt, 2005), a book on Havana’s pre-Castro nightclub era currently optioned for television by Keshet International, the company  responsible for Homeland, Our Boys, and The Baker and the Beauty. Other fictional works by Rosa include The Encanto File, a play produced off-Broadway by the Women’s Project and Productions and published in Rowing to America and Sixteen Other Short Plays, edited by Julia  Miles (Smith & Kraus, 2002), and The Empress of the Waves, a short story published in the anthology Island in the Light/Isla en la Luz (Trapublishing, 2019). 

Rosa’s academic and professional distinctions include the 2008-09 Rome Prize at the American Academy in Rome, where she researched the history of vandalism, graffiti, and street art; and  Fellow status in the American Institute for Conservation and the Association for Preservation  Technology.  

She holds an M.A. in Art History and Conservation from NYU’s Institute of Fine  Arts, lectures regularly at numerous universities around the country, and serves on the boards of  the Amigos of the Cuban Heritage Collection at University of Miami, Florida Association of  Museums, the Partnership for Sacred Places, and the Florida Association of Public Art  Professionals.  

Rosa co-curated the exhibits Promising Paradise: Cuban Allure American Seduction (Wolfsonian Museum, 2016) and Concrete Paradise: Miami Marine Stadium (Coral Gables  Museum, 2013). She writes regularly for academic and popular media about conservation, the arts, and Cuba. Her 1999 cover story on Havana for Preservation spawned a career in cultural travel that has taken her to Cuba over 100 times since 1992. 

Spotlight: Can You Be by Sonee Singh

Naina's life is as it has always been. She lives in a self-imposed sheltered manner in Charleston, South Carolina, yet wants nothing more than to have the support of friends and family. She is too afraid to put herself out there, having been hurt so much in the past. Her routines give her a sense of safety ... until an early August morning, when Naina receives a box. It has no information about its sender and is left on her doorstep. A mysterious man shows up at her work asking her about it.

Everything begins to change after the arrival of the box, and Naina is presented with a chance to change her life and explore compassion, forgiveness, and believing in herself. She struggles to understand the power of connections and the potential of expanding her horizons. Naina's journey is mystical and, in portions, it takes her through Stockholm, Helsinki, and the Baltics. 

Will this quest lead her to discover who she can be?

Excerpt

Naina now knew her perceived invisibility as a child hadn’t been a superpower, but she was grateful she had been left alone. She inferred it was because she was odd, the kind of odd people choose to stay away from.

But she hadn’t been able to outgrow her love for libraries. After consulting all those books, Naina had learned more about angelites and spheres, but they weren’t able to tell her who had sent her the crystal or why. The crystal hadn’t done anything. No matter how much she stared at it or held it in her hands, nothing happened. She hoped it would show her the future, like the psychics she’d read about in so many novels. Maybe she would see how to handle this date with Raiya.

Naina left work that Thursday afternoon and ran into the same mysterious man who had stopped by the real estate office. He was waiting for her at the corner of Meeting and Wentworth. He ate a vanilla ice cream in a cone and wore the same off-white linen suit and dark brown loafers as he had two days before. Naina disliked people who wore shoes without socks. There was no way to clean sweat from shoes, and she was sure when he removed his shoes, his feet would stink.

“Hey there, Naina,” he greeted as she approached. His skin was glowing with the same pearl-like quality she’d noticed on Tuesday, contrasting with his dark brown wavy hair. There was an ethereal quality to him, like he wasn’t really tangible. She wondered if he might be her angel but reasoned he was flesh and blood and thus, clearly from this dimension. He looked young still, although clearly older than her.

She couldn’t quite place his age. She wanted to think he was in his forties but he appeared youthful and yet old with wisdom. Once again, she was disappointed in herself because she couldn’t come up with any story about him.

“Hi,” she said. She stopped two meters in front of him and clutched her purse, as if he were about to steal it. She might have appeared like she was protecting the contents of her bag, but really, she was stopping herself from touching him. Naina had not seen skin so perfect on a man before. It was too tempting. She had to keep her hands holding onto her bag or her instincts would get the best of her.

“I won’t hurt you.” He gave her the tooth-whitening smile.

Again, Naina could have sworn his teeth gave off a twinkle. She said nothing and didn’t smile back. He certainly appeared to be in his mid-forties and there was a fatherly quality to him. She thought maybe he was an actor and that’s why he looked so perfect, but he didn’t look familiar. She squinted at him, scrunching her nose and her forehead, and narrowing her large eyes.

“You shouldn’t squeeze your face. You’re more likely to wrinkle,” he admonished, still smiling. He truly belonged in an infomercial.

Naina straightened her face. She couldn’t believe her lapse in judgment. She had let herself get carried away by the musings of the man and had forgotten all about her skin. That hadn’t happened to her before. “The sun is too intense.”

“Easily resolved,” he said. He walked under the shadow of the tree at the entrance of the Grand Bohemian Hotel.

Naina followed, wondering why she had taken to following strange men without question. There was something about him that felt nurturing and safe, in an odd light-hearted way. “Did you send me the box?”

“I simply made sure it got to you.”

“You didn’t send it?”

“Nope.” He smiled again.

“There was no label.”

“That’s not important. Tell me what you found out about the crystal.”

“It’s an angelite?”

He nodded in confirmation. He ate his ice cream cleanly and efficiently. Despite the heat, there wasn’t a single melted drop. She was impressed. She only indulged in ice cream while indoors, exactly and precisely to make sure there was no mess, which was a near certainty in the muggy heat.

“What do you make of it?” he asked.

“It’s meant to protect me somehow or connect me with angels, but I haven’t heard anything and the crystal hasn’t done anything.”

“It’s not meant to do something tangible. It won’t come alive in the middle of the night or when you’re not looking – like in Toy Story. Its energy has an effect on you. We are affected by everything around us. Everything carries energy. Crystal energy is subtle, yet potent.”

Naina didn’t confess she was already attached to the crystal. Over the past two days, she had carried it in her purse whenever she left her apartment, taking it out only in the safety of her home.

The mystery man licked his ice cream and stared at her intently, as if peering into her soul.

It unnerved her. “Why did you give it to me?”

“As I said, I didn’t give it to you. I’m merely the delivery man. Continue carrying it with you, Naina. Trust. It is for your good. I’ll check in another time.” He patted her on the shoulder and walked away.

Naina was surprised his touch didn’t cause her to tense. She was unaccustomed to people touching her. Her mother had been the affectionate one. The last time her father hugged her was before he shipped her off to boarding school.

She was filled with a sense of ease as she watched him walk away, continuing to lick his ice cream.

At that moment, she called him Holy Man. At least in her head. For some reason, she felt like celebrating. If she couldn’t come up with a story about him, at least she’d come up with a fictional name. That alone was reason to celebrate. He gave her a sense of security she hadn’t felt in years. She hadn’t asked for his name and she wasn’t sure she’d gather the courage to do so.

Naina walked further down Meeting Street and picked up a chocolate mint ice cream sandwich from Piece Pie before heading home. It wasn’t her cheat day, but she didn’t care.

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About the Author

Sonee Singh is a Doctor of Divinity, a cross-cultural seeker of deep knowledge. She's an award-winning and best-selling author of poetry and stories of self-discovery to encourage people to accept themselves for who they are and live life on their own terms. Her writing centers on the definitive moments on life's journey. The mystical and spiritual are integral in her poems and storytelling, as is her multi-cultural background. 

Sonee is of Indian descent, born in Mexico, raised in Colombia, and resides in the United States. When not traveling, reading, or writing, she indulges in meditation, yoga, and aromatherapy. She has multiple articles published on Elephant Journal and Medium.com. Her debut novel, Lonely Dove, was released in 2022. 

Visit Sonee online: Website * Facebook * Twitter * Instagram

Spotlight: Centaur Rift by Ellie Horn

Genre: Dark Why Choose Romance

About Centaur Rift:

I thought I understood the way the world worked. Family was something other people had. Trust was rarely rewarded. Survival depended upon a clever mind and a strong body.

Until a stallion in a corn field proved that everything I had believed was a lie.

Because he wasn’t exactly a horse. Hung like one, yes. But this former centaur shifts to six and a half feet of gorgeous warrior who houses a destructive secret.

When he tells me he’s from another realm, I decide he’s more broken than he seems. To make matters worse, he takes me through a portal—and reveals that werewolves and dragons are real. But that isn’t the biggest surprise.

Turns out I have a few secrets of my own.

Who knew?

The Warrior Hearts Academy Centaur Trilogy is a dark, slow-burn, paranormal/fantasy romance where the strong female main character has many love interests that she doesn’t have to choose between. A Happily Ever After is guaranteed in book three. The subject matter within is only suitable for mature readers. To avoid spoilers, if you have specific triggers, please contact the author to discuss whether this trilogy is right for you.

Exclusive Excerpt:

When Marcus appeared, I was momentarily caught off guard. With his messy, damp hair, fresh-scrubbed look, and tee shirt and sweats that actually fit, he suddenly looked much younger.

Still a bloody big guy, but more human. And sexy as hell.

I wrenched my gaze away from him and bent to pull the chicken out of the oven. Sitting at the table, we both gobbled the wings down as though we hadn’t seen food in eons.

Then I basically shoved Marcus down the hall and into the spare room. Considering the thoughts cruising through my head, manhandling him may not have been the best idea, but it was the only way to get him to move.

He only did so to be polite. Touching him was like touching stone. He was that hard. No way I could have moved him if he hadn’t decided to give to my wishes.

“Cara will be back soon—” he protested.

“She told you to rest. And that is what you should do,” I insisted.

His eyes sparked golden fire at me as the door closed. I paused outside for a moment, seized with the overwhelming urge to follow him in. But then I remembered the presence looming over me in the shower. And I reminded myself that until I found balance in this new life, jumping into bed with an ex-Centaur that sprouted wicked claws at unexpected times might not be the best idea…

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About the Author

Ellie Horn--A dark fantasy writing duo that doesn't take themselves too seriously.

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Spotlight: Sea Stars Christmas by Annie M. Ballard

Publication date: October 10th 2023

Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Holiday, Romance

Synopsis:

Mackenzie and Declan need a miracle. Or two.

Mackenzie wants to belong – to Declan, her boyfriend, and to Stella Mare, her new Canadian home. Putting on the village’s first-ever Sea Stars Festival at Christmas will help, but it must be perfect. She can’t risk making a mistake.

Declan can’t commit – except to his writing career. Much as he loves Mackenzie and teaching at the high school, he dreams of moving to the city as a successful novelist. In the meantime, he’s producing his first-ever play.

Pulled in different directions, a distance grows between them as the play and festival near. Emotions flare amid twinkling lights while personalities clash, equipment fails, and people fall short. They need a miracle. Or two.

Crusty villagers with a past, problem principals, an errant Santa all do their part as Christmas spirit blooms in the village. Come home to Stella Mare, as Mackenzie and Declan explore what it means to belong – to a village and to each other.

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About the Author

Annie M. Ballard writes about women and family ties in the small villages that feel like home. With one foot in the Canadian Maritimes and the other in New England, she digs deep into the lives of her characters. When she’s not writing, she’s happily baking, gardening, powerlifting and trying to make friends with every dog in her neighbourhood.

Annie’s stories include strong women living real lives, good men trying to do better, and always a happy ending.

Connect:

https://anniemballard.com/

https://www.bookbub.com/authors/annie-m-ballard

https://www.instagram.com/anniemballard/

https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100071779791861

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/21745788.Annie_M_Ballard