by LRH Balzer
Illya finished his survey of the room and turned back to Tony, apparently satisfied with his surroundings. "I have question for you. There is difference, nyet, between being young and looking young and being treated as young?"
"What? You are a bit of a smart aleck, aren't you?"
"Have always been smart," Illya grinned slyly. "What is aleck?"
"Look it up," Tony said teasingly.
Illya shrugged, his smile fading, and drained the rest of his drink. "I know spy. What else to be?"
"Dad say's you're a genius. You know physics. You have college degrees. You could be anything."
"I came to America to work for Alexander Waverly." Illya's face was quiet, serious, and a little bored with the topic. "I have wanted to do this long time."
"But Alexander needs more than just agents. He needs scientists, too."
"Am only little bit scientist. Like little bit dancer. Like little bit everything. Spy, I know. Was raised, trained for that."
"You could train for another career. You're still young. I'm still going to school."
Illya shook his head. "Is best not to try to be something one is not. I know what I am. What I want. What I can be. I have obligations I must fulfill. I must be what I am. Or I am nothing."
Tony was quiet, slowly drinking his beer and staring out at the dancers. "I guess so. If that's what you need to make you happy," he said, then glanced back to his companion.
Illya looked impatient, a frown creasing his forehead. "Everyone speaks happy here. Is so easy, to be happy in America? So important?"
"One of our inalienable rights." Tony took another swig. "Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. It's in the Declaration of Independence. You'll learn all that when you apply for citizenship."
Illya looked startled. "Me? Citizen?"
"You'll be eligible in a few years. Naturalized citizen, they call it. You take some classes, take a test -- I think. I was adopted, so I became a citizen automatically. And so did Mom, when she married Dad. You'll like it, Illya. I don't miss Russia at all."
"You were little child when you left. And you brought your family. Is not same for me. I left as adult. And I did not know I would not go back." Illya signaled to the waitress and pointed to his empty glass.
Tony shook his head as she looked at him inquiringly, and he watched Illya light another cigarette. "No. I guess it isn't the same," he said, subdued. "But you'll make new friends in America. And you have us for family."
Despite the vodkas, the blue eyes were surprisingly quick to meet Tony's eyes. "Your family has been very kind to me. I am grateful to them. And to Alexander Waverly for asking them to take me. But I am nothing to them. And soon I will be gone," he said, with a resigned shrug.
Tony looked amused. "What do you think, we're some kind of way station for Waverly's displaced spies? We have never done this before, taken someone in like we have with you. Don't you know why you're living with us?" He met Illya narrowed eyes. "My mom loved your father."
Illya stared at him without expression from behind a cloud of smoke.
Tony shrugged at his lack of reaction. "I was too little to know if they talked about marriage, but they were serious enough. They were together a lot, for months." Tony was silent for a moment. "I even started calling Kolya Papa." He shrugged again. "My own father had died a long time before, and I missed him. That's why it hurt so much when Kolya went away. That's why I wasn't exactly thrilled when you first came. I didn't know I was still angry about that." His eyes challenged the Russian's. "Just think, you might have been my step-brother... Actually, as far as Mom's concerned, you are. And her step-son."
"No."
Tony laughed. "A terrible fate, nearly averted, having me for a brother? I know I haven't been that nice to you, but really, I'm not so bad. Mom thinks of you as her own. And Dad is great." His face was thoughtful. "Well, maybe it was a terrible fate, averted, for me. If Mom had married Kolya, I mean. It would have been a very different life than I've had. Not that I think Mom would have gone back to Russia -- and I suppose Kolya would have died anyway – but I can't imagine not growing up with a father like Norm Graham." He shook his head, "It's weird. I never really knew you existed, but now that you're here... It really does feel like you're part of our family who's been misplaced for a while and has finally come back." He looked up to smile, but the smile faded as he saw how white Illya had become. "Hey, are you okay? You look like you're going to pass out."
"Nyet. No. Is not true."
"What isn't true? About Mom and I knowing Kolya?" Tony shrugged. "You saw the pictures." He looked over Illya's pale face, the light from the candle on their table flickering over his features. "And as for belonging to us, well, why do you think Mom and Dad took you in? Gave you the room next to mine, instead of the guest room, or a room in the Safe House? Mom decided that as Kolya's son, you belonged to her -- she had an obligation to you, for his sake. Especially since you don't have anyone else. And anyone who belongs to Mom, Dad takes in and adopts. That's you, Ilyusha. Welcome to the family."
Illya was shaking his head in refusal. "I am only KGB agent who came to work for U.N.C.L.E. and Alexander Waverly. I knew nothing of this."
"Didn't Mom tell you she knew your father?"
"Da. But -- But is nothing --" He stumbled, and started again. "I did not understand -- I was not told --"
"It's okay, Ilyusha. Don't look so worried. It's not like we're trying to kidnap you or anything. You really are free to walk away. But you should know that we all consider you family. It's up to you how much distance you want to keep." He was silent a moment. "But you could be a little nicer to Mom. She's trying awfully hard to make you feel at home, you know."
Illya stared right through him, the words he was hearing scarcely seeming to register on his mind. "I want another vodka."
"Right."
An hour later, Tony was only on his second beer, but he had lost track of bow many vodkas Illya had consumed. The young Russian seemed none the worse for them, except for letting down his guard a trifle more than usual. Right now he had unbent to the extent that a slight smile was playing around his mouth.
"So you actually hit Alexander Waverly? The head of U.N.C.L.E. North America? You socked him in the jaw?" Tony asked.
"I was little child."
"Even better. God, I wish I had been there. I would have loved to see that. If you had sold tickets, you could have financed your new life in America. Nobody touches Waverly. I can't wait to tell Dad this."
Illya's eyes widened at that, then he shrugged philosophically. "He would not be angry?"
"He'll probably want to shake your hand. Hell, I want to shake your hand. I want to buy you another drink. Every U.N.C.L.E. agent who hears it, will want to buy you a drink. You are in an elite, Kuryakin."
"Because I struck Alexander Waverly?"
"And lived to tell the tale. Don't get me wrong. I grew up knowing him -- kind of like a great uncle." He groaned at the play of words. "But Waverly is like a king. He has this absolute power over everyone in U.N.C.L.E. And you socked him. Unbelievable. Can I touch the hem of your robe? Or is that blasphemy?"
"You are crazy American."
"You are a crazy Russian. You socked Waverly. Wow." Any further comment was halted as Tony looked up to see several friends of his stop at their table.
"Hey, Tone. What happening? Where's Sandra?" they asked.
"She's won't be here until tomorrow. Guys, this is my cousin, Illya. He's new around here, so I thought I would show off the place. Illya, meet Rick and Geoff -- or Mutt and Jeff as they're known around campus."
The two young men nodded at Illya with friendly smiles, chatted to Tony for a few minutes, then left.
"Who is Sandra?" Illya asked quietly, leaning forward on the table to be heard over the music.
"My current girlfriend." Tony looked back at him. "What about you? Did you leave anyone behind?"
Illya shook his head. "No. There is little time for such things." He g
ave a choked laugh and leaned back. "Besides, I was recently married and does not look good with government."
Tony choked on his beer. "Married?"
"Da. Or am I not old enough for this, too?" Illya said sarcastically.
"Is that why you wear the ring on that finger? You're married?"
Illya glanced down at his hand. "Is such a concern? Your mother, also, she was surprised. Is common in Russia. To marry for city paper, for permission to live in city. Here, I think you may move about where you wish, but in Soviet Union, you must have papers. Because my father lived in Leningrad, I have papers for city. Marya came to visit her brother Sasha. Then she wanted to stay in Leningrad because her... how you say... her lover was there, in ballet company. He only is having temporary papers for city while in Kirov Ballet. So, she marry to me, then get papers, then marry to him."
"So you just married her so she could live in Leningrad?"
"Da."
"So... did you sleep with her?"
Illya smiled and looked away, shaking his head slightly. "No. But as my friend, Sasha, would like to say, there is never shortage of warm beds with ballerinas." He lit another cigarette off his last one, chain smoking with obvious practice.
"You smoke a lot," Tony noted, some time later, gesturing to the filling ashtray.
"Not recently." Illya grinned again as another vodka was placed before him. "Pei da dna." The alcohol disappeared just as quickly as it had arrived.
"I don't understand what you said. It's been a long time since I had to speak Russian."
Illya shrugged and patiently pointed to the bottom of his empty glass. "Is expression when drinking. Bottom is up." His hand missed the ashtray, scattering ashes over the table.
"I think our time is up. I don't know how many that makes, but we better get heading home before I have to carry you out of here over my shoulder. I've already hauled you out of one building today."
Illya's eyes glowed in the darkened room. "Eta verna. Is true. I to thank you. Was kindness." His hand waved unsteadily in the air, indicated the nightclub. "This here, too, is kindness. Is... is maybe feel happy."
"If your rapidly deteriorating English is any indication, at least you are feeling no pain," Tony muttered, as he pulled him to his feet and steered him toward the entrance.
They came home not too much the worse for wear. Tony had limited his drinking to three beers in three hours, and felt fine. He'd lost count of all the vodkas Ilyusha had imbibed, but they didn't seem to have done the Russian any harm. Illya wavered a little when he walked in from the car, but they made it through the sliding glass doors with no trouble, then the blond young man headed straight for his bed, collapsing face down on it, kicking off his sneakers and burrowing his face in the pillow.
"You okay, Ilyusha?" Tony asked from the doorway.
"Da. Spakoynoy nochi, Antosha."
"Good night to you, too, tovarich." He stepped out into the hallway, pulling the door almost shut behind him, and stopped in surprise. "Dad. Hi. You're up late. Something up?"
"I've been waiting up. For you."
"What for? I'm a little old for you to be doing that."
Norm glanced to Illya's bedroom door left ajar, then motioned for his son to follow him upstairs.
Mystified, Tony joined him in the kitchen, where Norm turned and faced him. "What could you possibly have been thinking of? You and Illya disappear late at night? For hours? And you come back drunk?"
"I had a couple beers," Tony said, insulted. "I'm certainly not drunk."
"What about Illya?"
"So, he had a few vodkas. What the hell, Dad? He wasn't driving. And he's a grown man. I don't blame him one bit. After today, he certainly had cause to get drunk."
"You take him drinking with the CIA watching his every movement?? I wonder how many agents they had in the club. And getting drunk is no way for him to handle his problems."
"That's his business. Who am I to tell him what to do? Or you, for that matter? He's not a child. You won't have much luck treating him like one, I can tell you that."
"Getting drunk may be the way he's handled his problems in the Soviet Union, but it is not acceptable here."
"Fine. If you don't want him to drink, you tell him that. I told Mom I'd treat him like a brother. I think I can be his friend. But I'm not his jailer, or his watchdog. I don't really care if there were CIA agents watching. We didn't do anything wrong. Or were you lying when you said he was free to leave the grounds at any time? Do we have to get written permission in triplicate and have an armed guard with us? We didn't just walk out; I left a note saying where we were going and what time we left. The club closes at one a.m., so surely you could figure we'd be home by one-thirty at the latest. It's only one o'clock now!" Irritated, Tony brushed past his father, to be caught by an encompassing arm. He stared down at the arm and raised his eyes slowly to meet his father's.
Norm let go and raised both hands in surrender. "Okay. You're right. I guess that is a bit much to ask. But couldn't you have brought him home sooner?"
"We were talking. I was just getting to know him. We were having fun. He was having fun -- the first time he's had any in awhile, I bet. You expect me to bring him home at eleven fifty-nine like some fairy godmother telling him his time is up? We had a good time, Dad. I had a good time."
"We'll have to find other ways for him to have fun. Maybe I am overreacting. But I can't afford to let Illya damage his chances in this country by destructive behavior. He's in this country on trial, Tony. He is not a college kid at a beer bash, who can engage in indiscreet behavior with impunity. He's a potential agent, and agents who abuse alcohol are labeled as dangerous liabilities. I can't allow this to become a pattern. Do you think the CIA would clear him if they thought he could be compromised into spilling U.N.C.L.E. -- not to mention U.S. -- secrets?"
"Are you saying that agents don't drink? I know lots of agents in your office, Dad. They go out, too, on the weekend. I hear them talking."
"Yes. But they know the rules and the risks. And they aren't ex-KGB agents or defectors. The stakes are higher for Illya."
"It looks like they always are," Tony said, subdued. "All right, Dad. I didn't understand. But I'll do my best."
"Thanks. I appreciate your trying to befriend him. But take him swimming, Tony. Or cycling. Or to the beach. Try to avoid the bars and nightclubs, for now." Norm was silent a moment. "He had fun, you say? How could you tell?"
"He smiled and laughed and even told me some wild jokes. It wasn't just the alcohol; he liked going out, Dad. He appreciated being treated like an equal, and a friend."
"But a nightclub?" Norm sighed. "Why can't you stay ten and just let me take you miniature golfing for fun?"
"When Illya was ten," Tony said mischievously over his shoulder as he headed down the kitchen stairs. "He socked Alexander Waverly in the jaw."
"He what?"
*****
Sunday, July 2
Illya was distant over the weekend, quietly relieved that the Graham family respected his overwhelming need for solitude. Or else, of course, they could equally be relieved to not have to entertain him. Whatever the case, he joined them only for meals, finding his appetite had returned with a vengeance. The meals served were always good, a mixture of familiar food with what he assumed was standard "American" fare.
Sunday afternoon he wandered across the back lawn and down to the river, standing safely on the bank. The dock looked inviting, the wild river racing beneath it. He wondered again if there were ever boats tied up to it. River conditions at this time probably precluded that. Where did they put the boats when the river was swollen like this? He started down to the wooden dock to see if he could see other boats moored along the river, when vague memories of the previous week's fiasco led him first to the boathouse, where he found, and struggled into, a life jacket.
Disobedience was punished in this place. He had seen several occasions of it, but had been impressed that Graham had kept his temper with the c
hildren. If he was angry, it did not reflect in the discipline. The punishment fit the crime. Illya had heard this expression before, but had never understood what it meant. Punishment was always violent, in his experience, and could never be properly gauged.
It was different here. There was no physical beating or whipping, other than the gentle spanking of the child. And it seemed the man was as pained by the experience as the child, instead of finding any satisfaction or venting of his anger. There had been only two spankings that Illya had witnessed, both because Misha had broken strict rules deliberately.
There had been no punishment when Misha had accidentally dropped a glass, and instead, the child had been assured that everything was fine and he was not blamed. Misha seemed to be constantly getting into trouble, for forgetting to close doors quietly, for leaving his toys about, or for having the television too loud, but that was the way of babies, Illya supposed.
Norm Graham was not like Mikhail Zadkine. His step-father's strong heavy hand would suddenly strike out and send him flying from the table. A reason did not need to exist. If he stepped out of line in any way, he had been whipped with a leather belt until the welts bled on his back. It did not matter if he broke a glass accidentally, or was late returning from a class, or had come in second when he had been expected to win, or even if he had been reading one book when he should have been reading another.
At first, Illya had thought it was just the child Graham was gentle with, but he saw that Graham dealt with Tanya and Tony with equal restraint. Only the method of punishment was different.
On Saturday at 4:30 in the afternoon, the girl had come home from shopping and Graham had been angry. She had purchased some cosmetics and had tried to hide it from him. From the conversation that followed, Illya surmised that apparently she had earlier been forbidden to wear makeup and this was a current point of contention between the two.
What had caught Illya's attention was something that happened at the end of the encounter, a ritual that was surprisingly like that between Graham and the child. Graham was sitting on the staircase leading to the upper floor, and the girl stood within the circle of his arms and tried to wipe the tears from her eyes. Illya couldn't hear what they were saying, but Graham was talking quietly and the girl was nodding dejectedly, then she put her arms around his neck and the father hugged her. Illya did hear them repeat their love for each other. But the girl was not allowed to go to the party she had planned to go to that night. There was no mention of the incident at the evening meal an hour later, and the girl seemed to be in a good mood.