Ghost of Orson Welles Meets Belvedere In Istanbul

May 6, 2019 at 9:40 pm (Folklore, Geopolitics and International Relations, Ghost Story, International Intrigue, News, The Supernatural, Vampire novel) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , )

The ghost of Orson Welles was sitting in a cafe in Istanbul.

He had been told by a Russian spy beluga whale whom he had helped to defect to Norway this past weekend that the lovely mermaid Miranda when swimming through the Bosphorus Strait would often shapeshift into full human form and visit the Marmara Cafe in downtown Istanbul of which she loved the Turkish coffee being served there.

Welles could never recall meeting an actual mermaid in his past mortal life or current ghostly life so he decided to come to Istanbul and visit the Marmara Cafe on the off chance that he might meet Miranda.

Welles sat at a back table in the corner of the cafe and sipped a glass of spectral red wine occasionally glancing at the entrance to see if any woman who might be a mermaid in full human form came walking through the door.

He recited William Butler Yeats’ Sailing To Byzantium as he sat,

“… And therefore have I sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium. ”

“Orson!” A voice shouted from the doorway.

It was the voice of Belvedere the ghost of a ghost white salamander.

Belvedere had been human but back in the mid-1880s in the American Wild West had been turned into a ghost white salamander through an ancient Egyptian spell cast by a gypsy woman who worked in the Wild West saloon where he worked as a bartender.

He became the ghost of a ghost white salamander when he crawled outside and was run over by a settlers’ ox cart heading west.

The first and last time Belvedere saw Welles was back in October 1938 just prior to the then Boy Wonder delivering his famous Halloween War of The Worlds broadcast.

“Belvedere,” the ghost of Orson Welles lit a spectral cigar, “Long time no see.”

“I see we’re both ghosts now,” Belvedere sat across from the spectral cinematic talent.

“Such are the ravages of time,” Welles blew rosebud shaped smoke rings, “unless we be vampires, vampiresses, gods, goddesses or immortal dominatrixes who have eaten just the right amount of Lingzhi supernatural mushrooms, we must all succumb to the hands of the scythe wielding spectre Death there to see our flesh melt and our bones turned to dust and our spirits wandering earth, purgatory or paradise until such time as our bodies and souls are reunited into a new transformed whole on the Day of Judgment.”

“Eloquent as ever, my friend,” Belvedere was impressed.

“So, what are you doing these days?” Welles sipped his wine, “What brings you to Istanbul?”.

“I am now a reporter for The Times of London,” the ghost white salamander answered, “I’m here on assignment. Turkey’s chief electoral body has ordered that Istanbul’s local elections be re-held after President Recep Tayyip Erdogan’s Islamist AK Party lost to the opposition secularist CHP Party after a shock opposition victory this past March.”

“It is indeed a hatchet in the cake of dictatorship when the trappings of democracy come crashing down just as the cake is being wheeled into the banquet hall where Ottoman Sultans once dined and harem girls once danced,” Welles helped himself to spectral caviar and spread it on a spectral slice of bread.

“Erdogan is indeed upset about the whole thing,” Belvedere agreed, “He himself used to be Mayor of Istanbul many years ago.”

“Such is the power of the spirit of Byzantium,” Welles drank a toast, “that this city can survive the misrule of a petty despot such as Erdogan.”

“Istanbul’s new CHP Mayor Ekrem Imamoglu is confident that he can win again in the re-held election,” Belvedere remarked.

“Beware the sting of scorpions and the fangs of serpents,” Welles’ baritone voice shook the cafe, “for my friends who still fast in the fires of Purgatory inform me that Lady MacBeth’s ghost serves as an advisor to Erdogan.”

“Great Scot! And great Caesar’s ghost!” Belvedere’s ghostly white face turned even more ghostly white, “Lady MacBeth!”.

“Never was a Film Noir Femme Fatale more femme fatalish than Lady MacBeth as the Bard so adeptly captured her personality, soul and spirit in his Scottish Play,” Welles raised his finger in the air to capture the direction the Mid-East winds were blowing, “for she serves not only as advisor to Erdogan but advisor to Saudi Crown Prince Mohammad bin Salman as well. Tantalizing both claimants to a future Caliphate. Playing one side against the other. Stringing both together as if playing on a harp whose strings are made of human sinews.”

Belvedere decided to change to a cheerier subject.

“Have you ever watched Game of Thrones?” Belvedere asked.

“I have never watched an episode in full,” Welles confessed, “I have watched segments of certain programs on YouTube.”

“What do you think?” Belvedere inquired.

“What do I think?” Welles lit another spectral cigar, inhaled and then exhaled smoke rings like dragons, “I think Game of Thrones captures what the world of Medieval Europe would have been like if there had been no figure of Christ at the center of the culture of Medieval Europe.”

“Really?” Belvedere pondered this thought.

“In such a Medieval Europe,” Welles took the final sip of what remained of his glass, “Every ruler would be able to say… we are all Lady MacBeth.”

As a woman in another corner of the cafe claimed to have just given birth to dragons, the ghost of Lady MacBeth entered the cafe’s entrance still carrying stains of blood on her spectral formerly mortal hands.

-A vampire novel chapter
written by Christopher
Monday May 6th 2019
Orson Welles’ 104th
birthday.

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