Collection 4 - Kolya's Son

by LRH Balzer

  "Yea!" The little boy charged out of the room and Trish turned back to her guest.

  "Norm had to go back to the office, but he told me to give you the grand tour when you woke," she smiled slightly, "if you feel up to it. Come upstairs to the kitchen when you're ready. The kitchen is directly above your room. Is there anything you need at the moment?"

  "No, thank you," Kuryakin said with stilted politeness, memorizing her instructions. He waited for her to leave, thankful that she closed the door behind her, and then rose, bewildered.

  Why was he being guarded by only the woman? He did not delude himself that he was an important prisoner, but it seemed impossible that he was not to be interrogated, that he had not already been interrogated when he had first arrived and his defenses were at their lowest. Was this not a jail? How could Graham have left him here, alone, with what was evidently his family? Why would they treat a prisoner as a guest? Nothing made sense, but he had learned the value of playing along with a situation, especially an incomprehensible one, while he gathered facts. At least, it was better to do so until the man came back.

  He straightened the twisted blue plaid quilt, embarrassed that he hadn't thought to pull it back before collapsing into sleep. Prisoner or guest, he knew better than that. From his adopted family in the Soviet Union, to his first KGB handlers, to Alexander Waverly himself, he had been made painfully aware of how deficient his early background had been in such matters. But he was an ignorant child no longer and such lapses reflected badly not only on himself, but on his family and his country. He felt ashamed that he had been caught wanting in proper manners. Even captured prisoners could comport themselves with honor. Until the opportunity to escape arose.

  He had to be more careful in that regard. Self-conscious about his equally-rumpled appearance, he went to clean up.

  His rucksack was sitting on the desk chair. He picked it up and carried it into the small bathroom, splashed water on his face, dried it with the corner of a washcloth, which he fastidiously replaced to look as if he had not touched it, and after a wistful glance at the shower/tub, combed his hair with the black comb Alexander Waverly had given him.

  He carried the rucksack into the bedroom and looked around at the blue lamp and shades, and the matching pine furnishings. After a moment, he set the blinds back to where they had been before the woman had adjusted them. He put his hand on the doorknob and examined the room again.

  It looked as if he had never been there. Appropriate.

  He glanced down at the rucksack in his hand and hesitated. It would be nice to leave it in this room, to in some small way claim this place for his own, but he couldn't afford to risk losing the few possessions he had left. And his papers.

  He walked into the outer corridor, leaving the door open, and paused outside the rec room. At the far end, the television was on and he approached it slowly, fascinated. He had heard of, but had never seen, a color television. Hypnotized, he stared at the garish cartoon images for several moments before he noticed the girl sitting on the floor on one side of the room. She looked up at the same moment and rose to her feet, shoved her long blonde hair behind her ears, and held out her hand in a businesslike fashion. "Hi. I'm Tanya. You must be Ilyusha."

  Flustered, Illya moved his rucksack to his left hand and automatically took the hand outstretched to him. "Forgive me," he stumbled over the apology. "I did not mean to disturb you."

  Tanya glanced at the television. "Oh, that? Those are Misha's cartoons. He must have he left it on when he ran upstairs." She leaned over and punched a button and the picture disappeared down to a pinprick of light that vanished a second later. "We might as well go up, too. Mom said something about snacks and I guess we better take her up on it, cause she doesn't usually go for that." She looked pointedly at the jacket he had never taken off and at the rucksack in his hand. "Are you going somewhere? Aren't you staying here?"

  "I do not know," Illya said truthfully, feeling a warm flush coloring his cheeks.

  "Sure you are. That's your room you just came from." She spoke slowly, as though talking to her little brother. "You can leave that bag there. Misha is a pest, but he knows better than to bother stuff." Before he could react, she took the rucksack from his hands, crossed to the bedroom door, and tossed it on the bed. "How do you like your room?" she said on her way out.

  Illya looked from his lost rucksack to the girl at his side, not sure of what to do. "It is very nice," he said, finally.

  "Good. Mom thought you would like it better than the guest room upstairs. It's more private, even with it being off the rec room. Tony likes his. They built the second room for friends of his to stay in, or in case they need the extra space. Guess it came in handy, huh? Take your jacket off -- Aren't you hot?" She waited until he had pulled off the wrinkled jacket, tossed it next to his rucksack, then grabbed his hand and dragged him along after her, across the rec room again and up the carpeted main staircase. They passed through the living room, then into the kitchen he had been in before. This place had more hallways and staircases than a maze, he thought dizzily.

  *****

  "Hi, Mom. I brought Ilyusha up."

  "I see you have met Tanya." Trish put a cookie into Misha's outstretched palm, the boy's upper lip already sporting a white mustache.

  "He likes his room. I think," Tanya said with a smile.

  "Good. Sit down, Ilyusha. We are having a small snack -- legkaya zakuska. What would you like?" Trish indicated that he should sit down next to Tanya. She poured them each a glass of milk and motioned for Illya to pick his up. He ignored the cookies, but his eyes fastened on an apple in the bowl of fruit that was always on the kitchen table, and she reached over and handed it to him. He ate it quietly, staring at a spot that didn't exist on the tabletop.

  Tanya lost interest in him. "Mom, did Dad fix my bike?"

  "I don't know, darling. You will have to ask him."

  "I need that bike, Mom. I really need it."

  "I'm sure it can be fixed. Or you can always ride Tony's old bike. He never uses it."

  "That's a boy's bike, Mom. No way."

  "Well then, you must talk to your father. Fixing bikes is not my specialty."

  "I'll talk to him," Tanya promised, and looked up as the phone rang. "I'll get it." She ran to the receiver and spoke briefly, Illya's eyes following the activity around the room as he silently drank the cold milk. "It's Karen, Mom. I'm going to take it upstairs, okay?" She grabbed her glass and disappeared into the hallway.

  "Do you like Yogi Bear?" Misha asked seriously.

  Illya glanced bewilderingly from the boy to Trish.

  "He is a character in an animated cartoon, Ilyusha. On television. Misha, our guest hasn't seen cartoons."

  "He could see them now. They're on the TV."

  "Perhaps later, Misha. You've finished your cookie, why don't you go outside on the veranda and play until dinner? It looks like you started an Erector project out there that better be put away before Daddy gets home."

  He pulled open the screen door and skipped through, letting it slam behind him with a loud crack. The door opened a second later and a lisped, "Sorry, Mommy," was followed by the door closing more softly.

  In the silence that followed, Trish could hear the faint buzzing of the refrigerator and the nearly inaudible chewing of the young man at her table. She hung up the telephone as Tanya yelled down that she had the call upstairs. Four o'clock. She checked the oven, satisfied everything would be ready by six, and then turned her attention back to her guest.

  "You're looking somewhat better, Ilyusha. Did the nap help?" she asked, sitting down to a glass of tea.

  "Nap…"

  "A nap is a little sleep."

  "Yes, thank you. I regret --"

  "Nonsense. You have been through a difficult time, and you will find yourself tired. When that happens, Ilyusha, you excuse yourself and go and rest. We will understand."

  Illya sipped at the milk and flinched, nearly dropping the glass, as the
screen door opened, the child rushed through with a box, and the door closed behind him with another crack.

  "My arms was full," Misha explained passing through the room and down the hallway.

  Trish sighed and smiled at Illya reassuringly, trying to relax him, but she could see the overwhelming tension still resident in his body. Definitely, we will not be dragging him through Macy's today. Or tomorrow either, it appears. This young man is not ready for an American department store.

  Illya finished his apple and she saw the core hidden quickly in the palm of his hand. The pale eyes flickered over the table top, then sideways until he spied the plastic garbage container near the doorway, but he made no move to approach it. He drank the last of the milk and set the glass carefully down, his breathing a little easier. Certainly by all the rules he should have relaxed. It was no coincidence that social situations usually involved the sharing of meals, and as the unofficial social representative of U.N.C.L.E. Washington, she could hardly fail to be aware of how the simplest of offerings had their disarming effects. But now she wondered if the food had really helped, or if he had set himself the task of eating something and was simply relieved the ordeal was over?

  And now that it was, he seemed unable to move at all, frozen in place at her peaceful kitchen table. Sheer white lace curtains shifted behind him as the breeze off the river came through the open screened windows and the late afternoon sun shone warmly on his back, while he sat rigidly waiting for the next directives to be given. From her.

  How strange, after all these years, to have Kolya's son sitting at her kitchen table. Seeing him in person had strengthened the memory of Kolya in her mind. She had half expected a younger version of her old friend, but Ilyusha was a disconcerting mix, with Kolya's eyes and some of his father's movements and mannerisms -- which was odd since Illya had been very young when his father died. How long had they actually been together? She had been trying to work out the years and the dates, but Kolya, even then, had been vague about his son and his circumstances, and now, it was unlikely that this young man even knew. Perhaps the old sayings about the influence of the child's first mentors irretrievably affecting his whole life were true. If so, then Kolya had indeed left his mark on the child.

  But Kolya's was obviously not the only influence. The boy's mother had given him an equal inheritance, at least physically. Slighter than Kolya, Illya lacked his father's impressive height. His features seemed softer, but perhaps it was just that he was so much younger than the Kolya she had known. And the boy's hair was a white/gold mixture she had rarely seen since leaving her homeland.

  She could see why Norm had doubts about his abilities as an agent. She was no judge of enforcement agents, but Illya didn't seem equal to his twenty-two years, both shorter and slimmer than her own son of that age -- and she certainly would not want her own child to become an enforcement agent.

  But balancing that lack of presence was a world-weary resignation that was almost painful to see. Physical features aside, the young man had an inner stillness, a quietness, that was very unlike his father. Kolya had electrified the rooms that he entered. This boy had learned to slip into them seemingly without stirring an air current. Kolya's spirit had been as a rollicking brook to this child's still stream. Perhaps the boy had learned that reserve from necessity, but she wondered if her old friend could ever have sublimated himself so.

  Or perhaps the boy's mother had given him that legacy, too. If so, then definitely Illya took after his mother in some respects.

  Studying him, for the first time she imagined what Kolya's wife would have been like. Blonde, most likely. And, if her son was any guide, small, slight, and composed. Trish could almost see the woman in her son's face and felt a kinship with her, this woman who had lost her life to the same marauding army that had taken the life of Trish's first husband. Both of them were bound by tragedy and loss. But that was not their only tie.

  There was Kolya.

  If Kolya had not returned to Rotterdam, if she had not met Norm shortly thereafter, if Kolya had not been assassinated on Illya's arrival in New York, she might well have married the dashing Russian patriot and agent. Become this boy's stepmother. Her stepson. I would have taken care of your child, had I known, she said silently to the woman who had died so many years ago. I would not have let Kolya's son -- your son -- come to this.

  Illya looked up, shifting uneasily at her scrutiny.

  She noted his apprehension, adding it to the internal list she was compiling, and smiled at him again, though she realized he would require far more than a few smiles before he would trust any stranger. Neither is he ready for a normal family, no matter how loving. "Put the apple core in the garbage, Ilyusha, and then I'll show you our home -- where you will be staying," she emphasized.

  He followed her passively up the stairs to the second floor landing that overlooked the living room. At the far end of the hallway was an open sitting area of sorts, with Tanya deep in a phone call, ignoring the floor-to-ceiling bookcases surrounding her. Four bedroom doors, all open, revealed Tanya's room, a sewing room/office, Misha's room, and the adjoining master bedroom.

  The main floor had a guest room and Norm Graham's office on the north side, near the entrance from the Safe House. The massive living room ran down the east side, and a multi-arched dining room and the country kitchen were on the west side. Besides the much-abused doorway in the kitchen, there were patio doors leading from the living room out to the wide spacious veranda that overlooked the Potomac River.

  Trish showed him the laundry room and storage area downstairs, walked him through the rec room, and, taking a deep breath, opened the door to Tony's bedroom. "You can help me. Let's get this done before dinner." She led him into a slightly disheveled room that was the mirror image of the room he had slept in, except for the red plaid quilt case and the red fixtures, rather than blue. "Oh! It's not too bad in here. Sit down." She pushed him toward the bed and started pulling open bureau drawers, trying to ignore that Illya had frozen at her light contact.

  Defensive reflexes honed by tension, nerves, and suspicion warred with the unfamiliar domestic scenes the young man had been experiencing, but after a moment, Illya capitulated, the fight going out of him like air from a balloon. He relaxed a trifle, and sat cautiously on the edge of the bed, his brow creased in a frown as he watched his hostess make a few selections from drawers crammed with clothes

  "Here, see if these are too small." She tossed him a pair of jeans.

  Illya stood quickly and held the jeans against him, and they could see there was an inch of room.

  "Good. Tony's outgrown them. There are a couple of pairs here that we can have hemmed for you, but you can roll them up for now."

  "I do not need much --" Illya began, wide-eyed, as she took them from her son's closet.

  "Ilyusha, they don't fit him anymore. No one else can wear them. I been after Tony to give this stuff away for ages, and I'll be happy if you can use it. I went a little crazy clothes-buying when he started college a few years ago -- I guess all mothers do. I was positive he would never figure out how to operate a washer." She pulled out several unopened packages of underwear and socks. "He hasn't even touched these yet. I guess there's a limit how much stuff would fit into his little Volkswagen when he headed to Boston. When there's a choice between Fruit of the Loom and his record collection, you can imagine what got packed."

  Illya frowned, looking uncomfortable.

  She picked up an armful of clothes, took them into his room, and dropped them on the bed. "I'll let you put these away." She looked him over, studying the clenched fists and the arms crossed over his chest protectively. It was unlikely he even knew he was doing it. Or, knowing your background a little, this domesticity frightens you more than a hundred assassins after you, doesn't it? She switched to Russian, something she had tried to avoid with him. "Sit down -- on your bed. Ilyusha, I want you to know that you can talk with me. I know how it is coming to a strange country. When I first came
over from Russia, I was wary of everyone, too."

  "Where are you from?" Illya asked cautiously, without meeting her eyes.

  A question, finally!

  "Moscow, born and raised, married and worked. When Tony was eight, we emigrated after his father died in the war. His father was a doctor. I met Norman about a year after coming here, we got married and he adopted Tony. I will speak in Russian with you whenever you wish, but the more you speak English, the easier it will be for you when you go to work for Alexander."

  Illya relaxed a little at her soliloquy and when he spoke again, it was in English, with softly-accented British overtones, and she wondered where his teacher had been from. "I do not yet know if I will be working for U.N.C.L.E. It is what I came to America for."

  Trish smiled wryly as she pulled apart the new packages of underwear, depositing the wrappings in a small wastepaper basket by the desk. "It sounds like a foregone conclusion to me, if Alexander wants you. Of course, it may take them awhile to straighten out all the paperwork." She glanced down at his worn shoes and frowned. "I think I've got a pair of sneakers I bought for Tony that he never wore. They weren't the brand he wanted and I never got around to taking them back. I'll go hunt them down, but meanwhile, you have about an hour before dinner. Why don't you have a nice long shower and put on some clean clothes? You'll feel better."

  *****

  Illya carefully shut the door behind her, noticing with curiosity that the lock was on the inside, not the outside, and turned to stare around his room. His room, they kept saying. He would have to check it later, surreptitiously, for surveillance devices, but at least he had a place of his own where he could retreat and regroup. That was more than he had expected, and his inner core of tension loosened slightly.

  He withdrew the pair of jeans and a T-shirt from the pile of clothes, putting them to one side. A pair of briefs and a pair of socks were added to the pile, then he bundled everything else up and crammed it into the top drawer of the bureau.

  No. That wasn't right. He pulled them all out again and tried to remember the order the clothes had been in the drawers in the other room. She had taken the socks and underwear from the top drawer so he carefully folded the new clothes and put them in the otherwise empty drawer. It smelled new. A different smell for him.