by LRH Balzer
His life was changing so fast he wasn't sure what was happening anymore. Everyone around him seemed convinced that he would be staying in this place for some time, until the U.N.C.L.E. paperwork was done. Several months, Alexander Waverly estimated.
Here.
It was an unsettling thought, and yet...
Illya rolled over and rose from his bed, to begin yet another confusing day.
In the kitchen, on the mat that had come to mark his place at their table, was a note from Trish Graham, in Russian, telling him to fix his own breakfast and join them outside. Illya read the note twice, frowning slightly.
Having responsibilities was not a problem, but he had been pushed in the last few days to take more liberties in this house. He didn't feel entitled to take anything that was not specifically given to him or authorized for his use. This was apparently no longer acceptable. Trish Graham, in particular, had been pushing him in that vein, yesterday morning asking him to pour Misha a glass of milk and in the evening, suggesting that he make them both a pot of tea. It made him nervous to take their things, even when directed to do so. But it made him more nervous to disobey, especially after Waverly had made his responsibilities in that regard clear.
Illya carefully sliced a banana into a bowl of cereal, as Tony did every morning, and made himself a glass of tea. It seemed safe enough. There were many bananas on the counter and there seemed to be no shortage of cereal. Even if he had taken the wrong thing in error, it was unlikely it would be discovered.
Rarely had he been in a position where he had to fix his own food. In Zadkine's home, there had been a housekeeper that did such things. At the Vaganova School or at the colleges, food was always prepared in a cafeteria setting. In his brief assignments with the Soviet army or navy, or the ballet or science tours, food had always been provided at more or less regular intervals. It was something he had thought often about when he was younger, but it had been taken for granted the last twelve years. His brother Grisha would often tease him about his appetite --
Homesickness for Russia suddenly overwhelmed him. He forced the feelings back and concentrated on his task, eating his breakfast in solitude, staring out at the activity on the lawns. The silence felt odd in this house; he had become accustomed to eating with the others. Listening, if not participating, in their conversations and shamelessly eavesdropping on the emotions as well as the words. Almost feeling that he was a part of what was going on.
He had grown up learning solitude. His adopted father and brother had rarely spoken to each other unless it was in argument, and usually their apartment was empty, Mikhail Zadkine at his job at the Military Academy and Grigory with his friends or at the ballet school, and the echoing walls had been his refuge from questions and stares, and a place where he could read uninterrupted. He had become well familiar with that state, long ago deciding he preferred it to the bustle of crowds that infringed on his consciousness. After the rare assignments that required he constantly interact with others, he had had to learn solitude all over again.
That luxury had ended, in time, but he had learned a new kind of solitude. He had learned how to live like a normal Russian. How to be alone in a room with other people. How to close out the voices and the smells and the conversations. After a few days, he would soon become accustomed to it again, as if it were an ill fitting suit of clothes that needed to be worn to be made comfortable.
But the solitude of this morning was momentary, and the echoes of that discomfort reminded him of what he would have to learn when this period of his life was over. He would be alone. The distant tug of family that lured him closer would end. The basement room that had been his would become someone else's. Dreams, half-remembered and half-imagined, would fade again, and his life would go back to being nothing more than a book of empty lifeless photographs. I did this and this and this.
Homesickness warred with loneliness, robbing him of any appetite. He finally abandoned his breakfast and went out to join the others on the lawn.
He had been hearing, since early morning, the party preparations. Constant deliveries. Bangs and clangs. Loud male voices. Laughter and shouts. The activities had begun at dawn. They had started without him, leaving him alone in the house.
He wandered out on the lawns. No one paid him the slightest attention. At a level portion in the lawn at the side of the property, several men were spray-painting a series of lines in a diamond pattern on the grass. Near them, some more men were setting up a stand of portable bleachers. A tent had been pitched in another area and was rapidly filling with tables and chairs. Near the tent, grills were being set up and charcoal spread out over them. Boxes of supplies were stacked everywhere, foodstuffs, paper products, dry ice, cases of drinks in individual bottles.
The guards who usually watched the gates were directing the workers. Curious, Illya walked to the front grounds and saw new guards were at the gate. Illya took one glance at their hard eyes and dangerous air, and edged away. These were not guards, but agents, helping out for the day. They looked him over briefly, dissecting his appearance. Illya felt momentarily awkward in his jeans, sneakers, and T-shirt, the naked feeling of being unarmed among dangerous men. They finished their brief survey and turned their backs on him, dismissing him from their attention.
He returned to the backyard, where Graham had come out from the Safe House and was talking to a group of men, smiling and laughing. The woman waved at him from where she stood explaining to some workers where she wanted tables set up, but she did not motion for him to come over. Tanya and Misha were watching others filling balloons with helium and tying them by strings to the tents. A few minutes later, Misha was running and laughing, blond curls scattered in the morning breeze, several balloons tied to his belt loops, bobbing around his head as he ran.
Feeling superfluous, Illya turned around in a circle. A full truck backed onto the lawn, and a guard jumped down from the back and began to unload more cases. Illya took a case as it was handed down and walked it over to the stack that was rapidly being built. The two guards accepted his help without comment, working rapidly, sweating in the warming air.
He lost himself in the rhythm of the work, relaxing as his muscles warmed, shaking off some of the stiffness of his illness. The sun warmed his back, the light wind from the river stirred his T-shirt. People were talking and laughing. Illya stopped translating the comments around him and just worked, enjoying the accomplishment of a simple task.
The popping sound behind him tore him from his reverie like the rude awakening from a nightmare. Gunshots. Several. Danger.
Something in his mind clicked and he pivoted smoothly toward the sound, crouching even as he moved. The startled guard next to him froze, turning his head in bewilderment. Illya didn't hesitate for an instant; as he spun, he reached out and pulled the gun from the motionless guard's holster and shoulder-rolled to the ground, taking cover behind the cases, the comforting weapon in his grip aimed toward the source of the gunfire, the safety off. He found his target, centered the sight.
And blinked.
Misha scrambled to his feet, staring at the remains of the balloons he had tripped on, his startlement turning quickly from tears to a grin, waving the torn fragments of red and white and blue rubber in the air.
Half the people were staring at Misha. They began to turn away, back to their tasks, and then realized the other half were staring across the lawn.
At him.
Then everyone was staring at him, very carefully not moving, boxes and bags in their hands, sacks of charcoal half raised, helium gas hissing unchecked into the air. Like the frozen characters from the Sleeping Beauty ballet, they stared at the Russian, and the gun, and they waited.
*****
Norm Graham glanced over at Trish, made sure his family was okay, then gingerly approached the white-faced Russian. The young man was transfixed on where Misha was skipping away toward the tent. Kuryakin's body remained immobile, both arms outstretched before him, hands paralyzed on the
gun. The wide blue eyes shifted and fastened on Graham, the only other person moving in the once peaceful scene. As he approached, Norm saw trembling fingers flip the safety back on the weapon. A moment later, the arms dropped and Kuryakin slowly rose to his feet swaying, as the U.N.C.L.E. chief came up to him.
"Give me the gun, Illya," Graham said it gently, but the order was unmistakable.
Kuryakin put the weapon in his hands, butt first, his hands shaking as he transferred it. As he did so, a half dozen guards came around the corner, diving for cover and training their weapons on the slight Russian. Illya froze, staring at the deadly muzzles pointed at him, not breathing.
Without taking his eyes off Kuryakin, Graham returned the Mauser U.N.C.L.E. Special to the scarlet-faced guard. "We have the situation under control, gentlemen," he said. "You can go back to your duties.'
The guards hesitated, then one by one rose, looked over the blond young man, gave Graham an uncertain shrug of compliance, and left. Finally, only the scarlet-faced guard remained, then he, too, at a glance from Graham, reholstered his gun and went back to unloading cases.
Other people, delivery men and helpers, were still standing around, staring astounded at the scene. Graham raised his head and addressed the group. "All right, everyone. The excitement's over. Back to work. We still have a hundred guests arriving in an hour." People stirred, murmured, and slowly went back to their tasks.
Graham waited for the activity to resume and then took a step toward the young Russian. "Illya?"
Kuryakin gave a strangled moan and stepped away, first stumbling, then running, back to the house. One of the guards unloading cases paused as he passed them, his hand moving toward his weapon.
"No!" Graham put a restraining hand on the guard's shoulder as he passed. "He's my responsibility."
Norm slipped in through the patio door and down the hallway, knocking on the bedroom door. "Illya?" There was no answer, but Graham knew the boy was in there. With a mental nod to Alexander's trust in Kuryakin, he took a chance and opened the door.
The boy was on his bed, his face still as white as the sheets. His back went against the headboard as Graham entered, the blue eyes huge in the thin face. He held something out in front of him, his arm trembling, the rucksack clenched in the other.
"Easy." Graham hesitated in the doorway. "Relax, Ilyusha. Calm down."
The young man studied him as a snake did a mongoose, barely breathing, the hand still offering something. "Please. It is all I have. Please take it."
Trish appeared in the doorway behind him and Norm glanced at her. "How's Misha?" he asked quietly.
"He's fine. He doesn't even realize what happened," Trish said, subdued.
"Tanya?"
"She is a little startled --"
"Aren't we all?" Norm asked wryly, feeling his own racing heart start to slow down a little.
"But she's all right." Trish turned her attention to the downcast figure on the bed. "How are you, Ilyusha?"
"Trish, give me a few minutes with him," Norm interrupted, waiting until she nodded and left before shutting the door. He instantly regretted his last move as he heard an almost voiceless gasp behind him. He turned around and moved another few steps into the room, close enough to reach out and take the chain from the boy's hand. He tried not to react as Illya's empty hand snatched back against his chest. "What is this?" If it had been in the rucksack, it must have been important to him.
"Nico's – My -- my father's icon. it is all I have. Please take it. I have nothing else to give you." The anguish pushing through his fear was audible.
Norm closed his eyes for a moment and sat on the edge of the bed. "That's not necessary, Ilyusha." He handed the chain and tiny medallion back and waited almost a minute before Illya reluctantly took it from his hand.
It seemed to signal some sort of defeat. Illya's shoulders slackened from their rigid tension and slumped as if they pained him. "I would never hurt Misha," he said dully. "Never."
Norm spoke softly, trying to look into his eyes and truly mean what he said. "I know that."
"I will stay here," Illya asserted suddenly, looking up. "You can lock me in." He stared at the door in horror, remembering it only locked from the inside. "I will not leave the room. Or you can send me somewhere else. There is somewhere you can put me, please? A room? A closet? I will not try to leave. I will not --" He was twisting his hands, trying to contain emotions he didn't know how to deal with. Trying to bargain with nothing at his disposal. "I did not mean to do it. I would not have hurt the child." He bent forward, doubling over, his forehead touching the quilt.
"Illya," Graham's voice stepped in as the flow of words died. "Calm down." He took a deep breath, releasing the oxygen slowly. I'm counting on you, Alexander. You said this kid was trustworthy and I'm going to act accordingly. Damn you if you're wrong. Okay, Norm. Think. Be specific.
"Ilyusha, we will talk about this later. Right now, I want you to go and wash your face and then, eat something. Trish said you barely touched your breakfast and you can't afford to become ill again. When you've finished breakfast, come outside and help us. We have a lot of guests arriving today and we need every pair of hands we have." Graham smiled, trying to reassure the ashen face staring up at him. "Just leave the guard work to the people paid for that, Ilyusha," he said with a weak laugh.
Illya shook his head. "I do not belong there. I don't know what to do in such a place. Please do not make me. The guards --"
"You have to learn to belong here, Illya. This is your country now. This is where you're staying." Graham looked him over, his voice sterner. "You have half an hour to clean up and finish your breakfast. See me when you come back out and I'll give you something to do. I expect you to be out there for the baseball game and barbecue and celebrations."
"Yes, sir," Illya whispered.
"Norm," he corrected wearily, for what seemed like the dozenth time. "It's Norm, Illya." He left the room, taking great care to leave the door wide open.
Up in the kitchen, Norm dropped into a chair and looked up at his wife. "Well, Trish? This is what you wanted. Did I handle it right? I told him not to worry about it and to come upstairs, eat his breakfast like a good little boy, and then go outside and help."
"Is that a question?"
"He had a gun trained on Misha, Trish! On our son!" Norm felt the adrenaline leave his system, leaving him shaking as he reached for a cup of coffee. "He could have killed him."
"He did not fire it," Trish said, her voice composed although Norm could hear the waver in it. "And where did he get the gun? From your own guard."
Norm said nothing at first, scowling and sipping at his coffee. Then he shrugged and said calmly, "We're going to have to be more careful with him. We certainly can't risk him getting a weapon in his hands again. And I had plans to take him to the range on Friday so he wouldn't get rusty -- What a joke. I'll send the guards out for retraining and replace them with more experienced agents. From Section Two." Graham rose, stretching the tension from his muscles. "Alexander will choke at the expense of putting fully trained field agents on Safe House duty, but, it serves him right; I don't know of anything else that could stop that kid on a roll. Having a Safe House guard on him is like matching up a school crossing guard with a cop. Someone trained him awfully well."
"They trained him to be an agent, Norm. We have to train him to be a person."
"Lucky us," Graham growled, and walked out the door to his party. "Hopefully, the teachers will manage to survive the student."
*****
By noon, cars began to arrive at the U.N.C.L.E. property. Agents and their families, and also guests from many countries. It was an important day for Americans, and while not all the agents stationed at the Washington, D.C., office were American, the majority were.
Walking among them, Illya heard accents from around the world, small groups chatting in French or Italian or Mandarin. Two very black men spoke English with the others, but to the tall slim woman in her nat
ive floor-length costume, they spoke another language that Illya had never heard before. He watched her move, fascinated how she could walk so smoothly in such a tight narrow skirt. In Moscow, at the university, there were many black students, foreign exchange students, but they did not mix in with the Muscovites.
Here, there were black people from Africa, who were foreigners like himself, and black people like two of the guards and several agents and workers at the D.C. office who were Americans. Lee Okada was of Chinese/Japanese background, but he was American and said he didn't understand Illya's Japanese when Kuryakin had asked how his leg was. Okada said he only spoke English and Spanish.
It was hard to tell at a glance who was an American and who wasn't. One lady, who said hello to him and asked him where he was from, had such a strong accent that he had taken a chance and asked her how long she had lived in America. She thought this was quite amusing, since she was from Georgia -- not to be mistaken with the Georgia in the Soviet Union, she said -- but the one just south of the capital city somewhere. She said he was precious.
He didn't talk to anyone after that.
But he stood near the groups and listened as the people talked of many things among themselves. Sporting events such as football and baseball. Kennedy and Khrushchev and the situation in Berlin. Which prep school had the most Harvard grads. Whether Castro would keep on pushing to trade tractors for the American Bay of Pigs prisoners. How hot the weather had been. The rumors of the Walther replacing the Mauser as the U.N.C.L.E. Special.