Chapter Text
1. February, 1965
Sarah Johnson was a damn fine agent. Although she was technically Section III, she’d run missions with Napoleon on-and-off for most of ’63 and half of ’64 –before he’d begun partnering with Kuryakin more often than not. He wasn’t, officially, her supervisor, and he didn’t do her performance reviews, but if he had, he thought privately, he would have ranked her above certain of the guys in Section II, no question. He was sure she was going places in the business. And so, he was surprised when she came into his office and told him she was quitting to get married.
He’d have been a poor spy if he couldn’t fake a smile or two. “Congratulations! Who’s the lucky fellow?”
It wasn’t anyone he knew – some school friend from back in Indiana.
“I’d like to have both, you know, the job and Fred,” she told him, “but…”
“Policy is policy,” he finished the sentence for her, feeling strangely disappointed.
They’d dated a bit too, of course, when she’d first joined the New York office. Strictly casual. Not that that had anything to do with anything.
He’d told Sarah not to count on his making it to the wedding, but he and Illya happened to be wrapping up a mission in Bloomington, and Napoleon found himself with no good reason not to go, so long as he was in the neighborhood.
Illya wasn’t, technically, invited, and Napoleon wasn’t sure what the Johnson family, fifth generation Hoosiers, would make of him if he came. In the end, he suggested he wait in their hotel and Illya acquiesced easily, wishing Napoleon luck as he set out to find a tuxedo for rent at less than a day’s notice in Terre Haute.
His mission accomplished, Napoleon returned to the hotel only briefly to change.
“It fits.” Illya raised his eyebrows in what Napoleon was only just beginning to recognize as mock disbelief, “Only you would have such luck.”
“What can I say? I’m a perfect 39.” He turned in a circle on the worn carpet, their accommodations having been less of a smash success than his suit rental.
“Very nice.” Illya raised the book he’d been interrupted in reading back over his face and Napoleon accepted the loss of his partner’s attention.
“Don’t wait up for me, I’ll see you in the morning, most likely.”
The wedding, in a Methodist church in town, was sweet and rather traditional. Sarah was unquestionably beautiful and looked, Napoleon had to admit, happy. She embraced him when it was his turn in the receiving line. “It’s just like you to show up by surprise at the last possible moment,” she laughed, “And wherever did you find that tuxedo, or do you always keep one folded in your back pocket, just in case?” She scanned the crowd and turned back to him with a questioning glance, “You didn’t bring Illya along? I thought the two of you were joined at the hip, these days.”
“Oh, you know Illya, he’d be a menace to the buffet.”
Sarah smiled and moved on to her next well-wisher, leaving Napoleon feeling like a bit of a rat for poking fun at the partner who’d been kind enough to delay their return to New York for his sake, and who would certainly have rather been back in Brooklyn by now than waiting around in Middle America.
The reception, held in a nearby banquet hall, turned out to be dry, but the lack of social lubricant was no impediment to Napoleon’s blossoming flirtation with the maid of honor, a girl-friend of the bride’s from Barnard who had certainly benefited from a modern women’s education. Still, he found his mind wandering from the party. Feeling mildly guilty for leaving his partner alone in a cheap hotel room in an unfamiliar city, he wondered what Kuryakin was doing. Reading, no doubt. Although, maybe he wasn’t even alone. Illya was a big boy, more than capable of finding his own company if he wanted.
Still, Napoleon took his leave at around eleven pm, kissing the maid of honor an almost chaste goodnight. He found Illya lying wrong way across the double bed in their hotel room, knees bent and feet dangling off of one side. It was an emphatically unselfconscious posture, but Illya didn’t shift out of it when Napoleon came in, only lifted his head and caught Napoleon’s eye with a wry smile, “Am I to assume that you ‘struck-out’ with the bridesmaids?”
“Assume all you want. It was a dull party, that’s all. Dry. I need a drink. Join me?”
“You came back here alone for a drink?” Illya sounded incredulous, but he stood anyway, pulling on his shoes.
The hotel bar was nearly empty, and the lights were dimmed to a level that was more depressing than sultry. Napoleon ordered a scotch he didn’t really want and raised it towards his partner, “To Sarah, a damn good field agent.”
“To Sarah,” Illya echoed, then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, setting his own glass down. Napoleon’s eyes followed the fluid gesture. The clink of glass on the bar top set off something chiming in him, an almost-drunk feeling long before his own shot had a chance to hit his bloodstream, as though he’d had a good two or three glasses of champagne back at the reception and was only just beginning to feel them.
2. May, 1965
Napoleon had practiced the speech a few times, striving for the right balance of self-effacing, magnanimous, and, above all, casual. “Look, I was thinking, since it’s my fault that Rome last year turned into a such a mess, I wondered if you’d like to try again for a trip somewhere this summer?”
He’d expected to have to talk Illya into it. After all, Rome had been something of a fiasco, but he wasn’t expecting the immediate decline, nor the note of regret in his partner’s voice.
“I’m sorry, Napoleon, I’d like to, but I just put in this quarter’s vacation request to personnel.”
“You’re taking a vacation? Where?”
“My cousin is getting married.” He paused for a long moment, as though lost in thought, “I couldn’t possibly, unless…”
“Unless what?”
“How would you care to visit Odesa in July?”
They had arranged to meet up with Illya’s parents in Kyiv and then take the train down to the coast together. A neatly dressed woman in her mid-sixties was waiting for them as arranged at the Kyiv-Pasazhyrskyi railway station.
“Napoleon, this is my mother,” Illya presented her, unnecessarily, once she’d finished looking her son over and given him a hug and a kiss. Napoleon was sure he could have picked her out of a line-up by her eyes alone.
“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Kuryakina,” he shook her hand and mustered his best schoolbook Russian.
“Oh,” she smiled, “I have’t heard that name in a long time. It’s Mrs. Dybenko, now, but there’s no need to be so formal. This,” she waved a hand towards a man who was only just catching up, lugging a heavy suitcase, “is my husband, Boris Ivanovitch, Illya’s stepfather.”
“I’m sorry, Borya, darling,” she said, turning to the man, “I didn’t mean to leave you behind; I was so excited to see our llyusha and his friend.”
The man, Boris Ivanovitch, laughed and set the suitcase down, shaking Napoleon’s hand and pulling Illya into a firm hug.
The train was crowded, and it was difficult to keep up a conversation, especially with Napoleon’s conversational Russian and Ukrainian being what they were. He contented himself with sitting quietly and people-watching. He caught Illya’s mother and stepfather gazing at Illya and periodically whispering to one another and wondered if his partner noticed. He suspected he did from the faint pink tinge that crept up Illya’s ears, as though he was embarrassed to be the object of such obvious affection.
They emerged from the train station into late afternoon sunlight and warm sea air. Illya’s mother checked her watch and worked out their itinerary while Boris Ivanovitch went to find a taxi. She took care to speak slowly, though Illya translated the odd word for Napoleon’s sake. “If Masha told me correctly, Yefim and Yelena should be taking their pictures at the Potemkin Stairs by now. But we’ll meet them at the restaurant; it would be silly and expensive, following them around in a cab as though we don’t know where they’ll end up.”
“When is the wedding?” Napoleon asked.
She looked momentarily confused. “Oh, that’s all done with, they registered at the ZAGS[1] this morning. Fedya Tregubov was your cousin’s witness, Ilyusha. You remember him, don’t you? The little boy with the stammer.”
Illya answered in the negative.
“Ah well, I doubt you’ll recognize him. He doesn’t stammer anymore, and he’s married himself, last year. And they have a baby on the way, now. Just think, he’s six years younger than you are,” she added. Napoleon smirked as Illya rolled his eyes. Mothers, it seemed, were the same the world around.
When they arrived at the restaurant, Illya was instantly enveloped in a small crowd of people. Napoleon was so used to thinking of Illya as an outsider, it was odd to see him at the center of attention, smiling and talking, embracing relatives and friends, and, perhaps oddest of all, kissing and being kissed on his cheeks. Although the dining tables were empty, a buffet was already set up along one side of the room and had been laden with dishes of pickles, baskets of bread, and platters of cold cuts and smoked fish.
After about an hour of chatting and snacking, during which Napoleon was cornered by a cluster of young cousins who were eager to practice their English by asking impressively detailed questions about American cars, a susurration ran through the crowd. “They’re here!” someone cried out, and the guests rushed to the entrance, spilling from the doors of the restaurant. Napoleon caught sight of a taxi pulling up, decorated with crepe-paper flowers. The happy couple emerged and fought their way through the guests to the restaurant, followed by a man and a woman wearing blue sashes – the witnesses, Illya explained. When they passed Napoleon he made note of the groom, a slim young man with chestnut curls and Illya’s jawline.
Dinner began with the arrival of tureens of cold, summer borscht, and proceeded apace. Illya’s mother found seats for the family, plus Napoleon, with a pair of distant relations, retired schoolteachers from Yuzhne. They seemed delighted to meet Napoleon and spoke to him very loudly and clearly, as, he imagined, they had once addressed their young pupils – the particularly slow ones, anyhow.
“Vodka, or Brandy?” Illya turned back to Napoleon after a moment watching the long table where the bride and groom were seated with their parents and the witnesses.
“Hmm?”
“The toasts are about to start, and it’s best if you pick one and stick with it – it’s likely to be a long night.”
“Oh, ah, whatever you recommend.” Napoleon replied, hoping he wasn’t extending too much trust to his partner. He was rewarded with clear spirit with which to toast the young couple. The toasting, as predicted, went on for a long time, drinking to the pair’s health, their happiness, their devotion, their longevity, that they should have many children and dance in turn at all of their weddings. The father of the bride raised a glass in honor those lost in the War, including two of the bride’s uncles and the groom’s grandparents, then expressed his wish for peace and prosperity in all the rest of the days of the couple’s lives.
The groom cleared his throat, “Lenka and I would like to thank you all, our beloved guests, for coming. Mama and Papa, Maxim Volodyavitch and Paulina Fedorovna,” he glanced towards his in-laws, “thank you for hosting this beautiful party. I would also like to honor my cousin, Illya Nikolayevich, who is serving our country as a lieutenant in the Navy, and who has come all the way from an overseas posting to celebrate with us today.”
Illya blushed scarlet and tried to sink into his seat.
“Of all the indiscreet…” he grumbled to Napoleon, but his words were cut off when his stepfather clapped him on the back and tugged him by the shoulder of his jacket. “Drink boy, to the newlyweds, if not to yourself,” he laughed.
Following dinner and dessert some of the tables were pushed aside to make room for dancing and the accordionist, who had been playing throughout the evening, was joined by an old man with a balalaika, a middle-aged giant of a man gripping a clarinet, and a teenager carrying a guitar. Napoleon gathered from the cheers and catcalls in the room that these were not professional musicians, but friends and family who’d been volunteered for the festivities.
The music kicked off with a waltz and Napoleon found himself paired with Illya’s Tetya Masha, the mother of the groom, a beautiful woman with laughing blue eyes and still jet-black hair whose husband had pleaded an old war injury and begged out of the dancing. Napoleon’s Russian wasn’t nearly up to conversation in such a raucous atmosphere, but Masha kept up a stream of light commentary in lilting French for his benefit.
When the waltzing ended the music picked up and Illya was pulled into a circle of young men for a kazatzka. Napoleon opted to sit with Tetya Masha, his knees aching from just watching his partner. The youths grew competitive, showing off for the girls, Napoleon figured, and he felt a warm glow of pride, burning through the already warm glow of alcohol, as Illya managed to pull off steps of increasingly acrobatic complexity with each of his turns in the circle.
After a few hours, the giant on the clarinet made his way onto the dance floor and towards Illya. Napoleon tensed for trouble, especially when the musician grabbed his partner by the arm, but relaxed when the man merely passed over his instrument to Illya and then went to get a drink. Napoleon watched as Illya blew a few experimental notes, and then joined the rest of the band to the cheers and whoops of the crowd. He played exuberantly, with an open joy that Napoleon hardly recognized in his partner; it looked as though he was fighting to keep from grinning, holding his lips pursed over the mouthpiece of the instrument.
A call went out from one of the young people in the party and was taken up and repeated by the others. Napoleon recognized the phrase, ‘New York.' Illya looked out over the guests and began playing something jazzy, music in the style of New York, Napoleon supposed, with a Ukrainian twist. The old man stilled his fingers, but the boy on the guitar improvised a decent accompaniment, and the accordionist played on implacably. The dancers applauded. A shadow, however, passed over Masha’s face and she shot a scanning glace across the room. She answered Napoleon’s questioning look with a shrug that, at once deeply expressive and impenetrably opaque, reminded him powerfully of his partner. “Some people,” she said, “they wouldn’t like to hear this music.” She shrugged again, tipping her chin in the direction of the players, “They’re young.”
The musician reclaimed his clarinet and Illya disappeared into a knot of people shaking his hand and slapping him on the back. He reappeared at Napoleon’s side, slinging an arm over his shoulder. “It’s a good party, no?” He leaned in to be heard over the music, “You’re glad you came?” Up close Illya smelled of sweat, with hints of spiced honey cake and vodka on his breath, and Napoleon could feel the warmth of him through his shirt.
“It’s a good party, yes.” Napoleon answered, “I’m very glad I came with you.”
“Good, good,” Illya smiled, a rare warmth in his eyes, “I am very happy you’re here. Even if you are a wall-violet who sits with the babushki and cannot dance or hold his liquor.”
“Hey, I’ll show you dancing.” He stood and took his partner’s hand, plunged them back into the tumult of the crowd.
Napoleon didn’t remember going to bed that night, or even exactly how they had made it to the students’ dormitory where Illya’s youngest cousin, the groom’s kid brother, put them up in his room. All he knew was that he woke up around midday, fully dressed and entangled with his partner under a blanket on the floor, burdened with a throbbing head and, awkwardly, a throbbing erection as well, the latter of which he managed to tame under cold water in the communal bathroom, praying the entire time that none of the university students felt like taking a noontime shower.
3. October, 1967
Illya looked up at Napoleon from the piece of cardstock in his hand.
“A wedding? Are you sure you don’t want to bring one of your woman friends?”
“Nah, she might start getting ideas. Besides, I owe you one, and Amy likes you, I think.”
“She scarcely knows me.”
“So what? You’re my plus-one, not the maid of honor.”
“Napoleon.”
“Please? Just consider it. It shouldn’t be too much of a to-do, it is her fourth marriage after all, and his third, if my sources are to be trusted.”
“I suppose hope does spring eternal.” Illya slid his glasses off and handed the invitation back to Napoleon, “I’ll mark it in my appointment diary.”
Following a brief ceremony conducted by a judge friend of Amy’s (the Church not being overfond of serial divorcées), hired waiters appeared with trays of canapés and surprisingly strong Manhattans. The band started up and the newlyweds glided sedately onto the dance floor, Amy grace and elegance in a grey silk skirt-suit.
Napoleon sipped and mingled. He went graciously when he was recruited to dance with one of his aunt’s widowed friends, a woman who had, she told him between measures, last seen him at his christening. Once released from service, he returned to Illya and found his partner deep in conversation with one of the groom’s sons over the finer points of jazz guitar tuning. The son’s wife stood at her husband’s elbow, gamely smiling and nodding along. Having nothing to add to the discourse, Napoleon was preparing to follow her lead when he was interrupted by a gentle, yet firm, grip on his elbow. Napoleon turned toward the beaming smile of his Aunt Amy.
“Napoleon, darling, I’m so glad you made it. I simply must have a word.”
She dragged him into a corner near the band.
“Isn’t that the nice young man you brought to Christmas?” she asked once she’d got him alone. “I’m so glad you’re finally settling down.”
“Yes, that’s Illya; I told him you would remember him.” The rest of Amy’s words worked their way into his consciousness, “Settling down?”
“I haven’t seen you bring the same date to a family party twice in a row since, well since Dahlia.”
“Illya and I aren’t, we’re not, he’s not my date.”
Amy laughed, “Dear child, I’m old, but I’m not blind.”
“But…”
“Nor do I shock easily. Young people, they think they’ve invented sex. Didn’t you know your Great Uncle Bertrand and his gardener…”
He tried again to interrupt, indignant, “Amy, I…”
She pressed a finger to his lips. “You needn’t worry, love. Yours wouldn’t be the first secret I’ve kept, Lord knows. I’m happy for you both.”
With that, she disappeared into the crowd, leaving Napoleon to track down his partner.
As was often the case, Illya found him first. “There you are. What did Amy want to talk to you about?”
“Oh, nothing, just some family business.”
“On her wedding day?”
“You know, no time like the present. Would you like another drink?” He held Illya’s arm to steer him towards the nearest waiter, then abruptly dropped it.
“Lead on,” Illya smiled, either not noticing or politely ignoring Napoleon’s lapse. Napoleon kept his hands carefully folded behind his back for the rest of the evening.