"It was the best of times, it was the worst
of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the....eepa..."
"Epoch"
What
does that mean?"
"In
this case, it means the beginning of a new and important period of time."
"Epoch
of be...li...ef... belief," Alex paused and sighed.
"But what does it mean, Poppy?"
"What
do you think it means?"
"How
can something be good and bad at the same time?" He and his maternal grandfather sat in a
large armchair, ATale of Two Cities propped up on their laps.
"How
about you're having dinner and the main entrée is liver?"
"Yuck."
"And
dessert is double layer chocolate cake."
"Cool."
"Then,
you could say that dinner was both good and bad, one incident incorporating
both good and bad situations. "
"And
smart and dumb... like cheating on a test and then getting caught."
"No,
that's just laziness and retribution.
Keep reading."
In
slow careful tones, Alex continued, but Illya found his attention
wandering. He hadn't minded being at
home with the children at first, working with them on their schooling, but he
was getting restless, ready to be back at work, back in the thick of
things. He was not a man who could stay
idle for long, both a blessing and a curse.
Illya
envied Napoleon's and Leon's nearly daily dash from the house to work, the
calls in the middle of the night, the pressure, the sense of actually
contributing to the household. He felt a
small hand on his leg and he glanced over.
"Пожалуйста?"
Peter muttered.
"Please
what, Peter?"
"Печенье?"
"I
think it's too close to dinner for a cookie."
Alex had fallen silent, his finger tracing the words as he read
silently. "What time is it, Alex?"
The
boy grinned and consulted his brand new watch, a gift from Santa. "It's almost four thirty... four twenty
six." He slid forward and showed his
baby brother. "See Peter, the big hand
is just past the five."
"'Kay...Печенье?"
"Нет
печенье." Illya grimaced and shifted. "Alex, I need you to move for me."
"Can
I take this to my room and read?"
"Of
course, but be careful with it. Your
Grampy gave that book to me a long time ago."
Illya leveraged himself to his feet and reached out a hand. Instantly Peter grabbed two fingers and
started to tug him towards the kitchen, the main hub of this house. "Not too fast, Peter."
Lisle
looked over at them as they entered, then at her grandmother, Yuliya. "I told you if we started cooking, they'd be
here. Dad, I don't know who's worse, you
or Peter."
"I'm
a victim here. He dragged me here
against my will."
"Poppy,
how come it's dragged and not drug?"
Irina looked up from her math, a frown creasing her forehead. "It's dig and dug; how come it's not drag and
drug?'
"No
idea, Irina. This isn't my crazy
language to begin with." Illya lifted
Peter up so that he could peer into the pot that his great grandmother
stirred.
"What
dat?"
"Taste." Lisle dipped a spoon into the broth and blew
on it for a moment before offering it to him.
"Mmmm."
Peter closed his eyes happily.
"He's
Russian," Yuliya proclaimed in thick English.
Irina
giggled. "Great gramma, he's just Peter..."
Illya
tickled Peter's stomach and he dissolved into laughter. "No, he's a Kuryakin."
There
was an odd look in his mother's eyes when he said that, but he dismissed it. "Where's Larysa?"
"She
and Genève went shopping this afternoon.
She wanted to buy some real American blue jeans before she went
home." Lisle took Peter from Illya and
hugged him. "I can't believe it's nearly
time for you to leave. It's like you
just got here."
Illya
translated quickly for her and Yuliya laughed and said something in response.
"She
said she's like the old fish that everyone wants to see the end of, but can't
bear to throw out."
"But
fish is yummy..." Irina said, drawing small interlocking circles on the
paper. "Poppy, why are circles called
circles and not something else?"
"Says
the child that hasn't eaten anything since she turned five." Lisle set Peter down on his feet. "Where is Alex?"
"Learning
about the glories of the French Revolution."
"Meaning?"
"He's
reading Tale of Two Cities "
"He's
eight!"
"I
read it to Papa when I was seven... well, it was a case of him reading to me, but
the intent was pure." That look flashed
again on his mother's face, but it was gone almost before it was there.
He
looked up from the book he'd been staring at for the last half hour, anxious
for the sound of Napoleon's arrival.
For a moment, he was afraid he'd imagined it, but then he heard the door
to their apartment open and close.
He
flipped the covers into place, just in case it was one of the children instead
of his partner, but a moment later the door opened and Napoleon walked in,
weariness making his shoulders sag. One
handed, he began to work his tie loose as he sank to the bed.
"If
I ever, ever agree to arbitrate something between Croatia and Russia again,
remind me of this moment and hand me your Special."
"They
are being difficult?"
"They
are being impossible. What is it in the
water in that part of the world that makes everyone so stubborn?" Napoleon shrugged off his jacket and rolled
his shoulders. He looked hopefully over
at Illya, who smirked and jerked his head.
"Turn
around." He was careful not to dig his
fingers in too sharply at first, but rather worked the muscles to loosen them
up. "So what else happened today that
you can tell me about?"
"Illya,
there's nothing closed to you. You'll be
reinstated the moment Medical releases you.
Next week, the one after max, and you'll be begging me for a day off."
"I
think not..." For several minutes there was nothing except
Napoleon's appreciative sounds of pain/pleasure as Illya worked the day's
tension from his shoulders and neck.
"What's
wrong, Illya?" Napoleon asked when it became apparent Illya wasn't going to say
anything.
"Nothing's
wrong... well, except for a case of boredom."
"Is
it true you started Alex on the French Revolution today?"
"In
a manner of speaking, I gave him Two
Cities to read."
"Are
we going to go through another historic reenactment? Lisle is barely talking to us after that
Boston Tea Party fiasco in the tub that one night. I honestly didn't know tea would stain
porcelain."
"Tea
will stain anything. Look inside my tea
cup some time."
Napoleon
caught one of Illya's hands. "But that's
not what I'm talking about. Something is
troubling you."
"Can
I hide nothing from you?" Illya stopped
and blew out a breath.
"Very
little, partner, even if you wanted to. And I would hope that at this stage in our
lives you wouldn't want to. So?"
"There
is something bothering Mama. She's
looking so sad lately."
"Does
she regret coming now that she's faced with going back?"
"No,
she is Russian; it's where she belongs."
"Homesick?"
"I
don't... know. Twice today, when I was talking about Papa, she just looked so
sad."
"She
and your father were married for a great number of years; it makes sense that
she would miss him now that he's dead."
"It
seems something else to me."
"Did
you ask her?"
Illya
rolled his eyes upward and sighed. "You
must think me a fool, old friend."
"There
are a number of things I think of when I do think of you, but a fool is not one
of them." Napoleon rolled his
shoulders. "Thanks, that feels better."
"Did
you eat dinner?"
"I
ate something that resembled food at one point today." Napoleon started to unbutton his shirt. "I'm too tired to eat, Illya."
"Until
you wake up at three a.m. with a stomach ache..."
Illya got out of bed and pulled on his robe. "You get ready for bed and I'll bring you
something."
"I
shall dance at your wedding."
"That
will be the day."
Illya
walked out into the living room and into the kitchen, just a matter of a few
steps. He turned on the light over the
stove and opened the refrigerator. There
was some cold chicken that he had stewed the day before and intended to use for
soup. It would work for a sandwich
now. He shut the refrigerator door and
jumped slightly at the sight of his mother standing there. It was unnerving that she could move so
quietly, even at her age.
"Mama,
I didn't mean to wake you. I was just
getting something for Napoleon." He
slipped into Russian easily. It had been
nice to have someone here to talk with in his native tongue.
"You
didn't, Illyusha. I was having trouble
sleeping."
"Mama."
He took a deep breath and continued.
"Are you anxious about returning home?"
"You
still think of Russia as home, little one?"
"Of
course, why would you even ask that?" He
put two slices of bread into the toaster.
"It's
just you've been here so long..."
"But
in my heart, I will always be a Soviet.
No matter where I live, it's what I am."
He returned to cutting up the chicken.
"But you are avoiding my question.
What is troubling you?"
"We
need to talk, Illyusha. We've needed to
for a long time. Too much has been
unsaid."
"Mama,
I don't understand." Illya stopped now and studied his mother closely as she
walked to the couch and sat down, staring at the far wall.
He
wiped his hands off and followed her, sitting and taking one of her hands in
his. "Mama, there's nothing you can say
that would make any difference to me."
"I
think that there is... Illya." She took a
deep breath. "Did you ever wonder why
you were so much different than your brothers and sisters?"
"Not
really, it's merely a form of genetics and heredity. Besides, Larysa and I..."
"Larysa
was a sign from God to me that I had redeemed myself in His eyes."
"Mama,
I seriously don't understand." The toast
popped up. "Excuse me." He stood and returned to the kitchen to
finish fixing the sandwich. He limped to
the bedroom door and stuck his head inside.
The shower was running and he set the plate down on the bedside table. Illya then returned to the couch and reseated
himself. "Napoleon is in the shower;
he'll not bother us. Talk to me, please.
What is wrong?"
"Is
it very hard for you to think of me once as young and foolish?"
"Yes."
"But
I was and very much in love."
"With
Papa, we've all heard the stories."
"He had blue eyes and he was so handsome in his uniform."
Illya
smiled and patted her hand. "Mama,
Papa's eyes were brown, deep brown, almost black. I have your eyes."
"No,
you have your father's eyes and they weren't brown... they were blue."
The
room grew very quiet and Illya replayed the sentence again in his head. "You are telling me that I am, what?"
"I
was so scared. He was married, you see,
and I knew it could never be. He... he
wasn't one of us."
"One
of us?"
"A
foreigner, not a Soviet."
Illya's
fingers curled into the arm of the couch until tendons popped out. "Who am I?"
"I
went to him and he was heartbroken. He
was leaving and I didn't know what to do.
Your papa... he believed it was his fault as we'd been together as
well. And he was an honorable man, he
married me the next day."
"Then
I could be his."
"When
they finally let me hold you in the hospital... you were so small at first, they
wouldn't let me see you because they feared you wouldn't survive the
night. No, I looked into your face and
knew you were not Nicholai's. I saw your
father, your real father, in you. Your
papa didn't care. He had a son and you
were his world. Then along came your
brothers and sisters, so dark, so like their father that he began to
suspect. He began to ask, "Why is
Illyusha so smart when Mykita doesn't know to come out of the rain? Then Larysa was born and you two, you could
have been twins, and your papa thought he was wrong."
"Then
why do you think...?" Illya hated that his
voice sounded so reedy.
"A
mother knows these things, Illyusha, she just knows, but with Larysa, I knew I
could rest. God was telling me I'd
repented."
"What
happened? Why this sudden change of
heart? You could have gone your whole
life without telling me this. I wouldn't
have cared."
"But
I did!"
"Then
what changed?"
"Your
real father passed away and I could no longer keep the truth to myself. At first, it was easy to forget, I had your
brothers and sisters to deal with and you, you were so smart, so gifted, that
your place in our world was secure. You
would have so much more opportunity than the others."
"Papa
did not take it well." Illya's voice had
gone flat. He'd shut himself down, a
useful ability in his line of work. He'd
never expected to use it in this capacity, however.
"No."
"Is
that why he demanded I return my ring and not for the 'other' reason."
"Yes,
he wanted it to go to someone of pure Kuryakin blood, someone who would
continue his line."
"Like
Vyetka and Mykyta... stupid, but all Kuryakin."
"Yes." Tears started to trickle down her cheeks.
"And
all this time, I thought it was me... and it was you..." Illya remembered the humiliation he had felt
, the beating he'd endured at the hands of his brothers, all because...
"I
have caused you great shame and pain. I
will not ask that you forgive me..."
Several
moments passed and Illya struggled, really struggled with his temper. He wanted to rage, to break things, hurt
something... someone... but this was his
mother, he would never raise a hand to her.
"My real father... who is... was he?
Did I ever meet him?"
"You
did much more than that, Illyusha, without even realizing it. When your father found out about you, he was
so proud and very scared. He wanted to
take you from the government, but knew he could not. At least not at the time, so he kept in
contact with me, sending money, helping out as he could, making sure you
received the education you deserved.
Until you reached a juncture in your life when it was safe and you were
ready. Didn't you ever wonder why you
were brought to America? Why your
superior fought so hard to bring a Soviet into his ranks?"
"Waverly
just wanted to have a more balanced base, to make sure that everyone was
represented, even when the Soviets didn't care."
"No,
he did it to give his son a measure of freedom that he never would have known
under his Soviet masters --"
"No...NO!" This time Illya didn't stop. He grabbed a lamp and threw it, hard enough
to make it shatter against the wall.
A
moment later, Napoleon, his hair tousled from being toweled dry, appeared in
the bedroom door, his face concerned.
Larysa, still half asleep, stumbled through the other bedroom door,
looking scared.
Napoleon
looked from son to mother and then walked to Illya.
"Illya,
what's wrong, tovarish?"
"Don't
call me that, don't ever call me that again!"
And he was gone, moving faster than he should have been able to. He went down the stairs quickly, well,
relatively quickly for him and quietly, past the second floor to the
first. He didn't know where he was
going, especially dressed only in a robe, pajama bottoms, and a tee shirt. Standing there quietly, he heard a muted
whimper.
Frowning,
he moved softly in that direction and saw a shadow huddled in an armchair. Experience told him it was one of the
grandchildren, but it wasn't until he drew closer that he saw it was Inessa
with Chewy in her arms. He turned on a
light and spoke quietly to keep from startling the child or waking her parents.
"Inessa?" She looked over at him and huddled down in
the chair even further. "Inessa, what's
wrong? Are you sick?"
He
sat down in a nearby chair and waited. He
didn't have long; within a minute, Inessa apparently decided he was much more
comforting than the chair or the puppy and crawled up into his lap. She nestled her head against his chest and
one hand clutched his robe, as if she was afraid he'd suddenly disappear. Chewy woofed softly and headed for the
kitchen.
"Dream..."
she murmured. "Petey gone." She rubbed an eye with the knuckles of one
hand.
It
took Illya a minute to connect the dots.
They were finally separating the two of them at night and she'd had a
nightmare. "You had a nightmare that
Peter was gone?"
"Uh,
huh."
"Wasn't
he in his bed when you woke up?"
"Gone
here." She patted his chest and then
leaned back against it.
Illya
winced. She had apparently been paying a
little too much attention to a discussion they'd had with her father about a
fallen UNCLE agent, a friend of his from Survival School. Leon had gotten a little tipsy and loudly
grieved the loss. It had, obviously, not
been lost on the children.
"Inessa,
Peter will be with you for a long time."
"Gammy
gone..."
"Yes,
soon, but she has to go back home."
"Why?"
Illya
kissed her forehead. "You're too young
to understand politics and regulations, it's just something she needs to do."
"Larysa
too?"
"Her
as well."
"Not
Chewy?"
Illya
look over to where the puppy was, carrying a well gnawed upon plastic
dustpan. "Alas, no. I fear he is here
for the duration."
"Poppy
stay too?"
"Of
course, always." He hugged her
tighter. "Why would I want to leave you
or Peter? This is my home."
He
wasn't sure how much time had passed, but he suddenly felt a weight being
lifted from his lap and he raised his head.
Napoleon held the sleeping child in his arms.
"Your
mother told me."
"I
suspected she would."
"She's
wrong, you know." Napoleon started to
walk from the living room, pausing midstride.
"No matter what she says, she's wrong.
I can prove it."
"How? Waverly's gone."
Napoleon
hefted the child up and walked to a built-in bookcase. He studied the spines and finally pulled out
a photo album. He brought it closer to
the lamp, set it down on the table and opened it. Flipping through it, he finally stopped.
"This
is a photo that my Aunt Amy snapped just after I joined UNCLE. You look at that and tell me what you see?"
"A
rather dashing young man, you, I take it, and Waverly."
"And
give him a good look, partner, do you really see yourself in him?"
"No."
"Here." Napoleon handed the sleeping child back to
Illya. He walked quickly back to the
bookcase and returned a few minutes later with another album and thumbed
through it rapidly. He drew out a photo
and set it beside the first.
"Now
who do you see?"
"Papa. Who should I see?"
"I
see you. I see the same look of
compassion that I see in your face right now.
I see the same sense of determination and stubbornness in the jaw, same
ears, same hands, same... lips. Your
mother is wrong, Illya. You are very
much Nicholai's son. I see none of that
in Waverly. He was a great man, but he
was not your father."
"Then
why would she tell me otherwise?"
"When
she was young, she made what she thought was a mistake. She's carried that burden alone for many
years, Illya. She's tired now, she's
needs help to bear the load."
"But
why?" Inessa stirred in his arms and he
whispered into her ear and she settled back down.
"Perhaps
she did it to ensure you a better life.
It provided you with an exceptional education, freedom to travel, to
come here. Without that, you never would
have been brought into UNCLE." He
gestured expansively. "None of this
would exist. I, for one, am grateful for
the way things turned out."
"Is
there any situation you can't sweet talk your way through?"
Illya
surrendered the child back to him and clicked off the light, then followed
Napoleon up to the second floor. "Hey,
if I can get Croatia and Russia to actually sit down at the same table,
anything is possible."
They
tucked Inessa into bed and Illya paused at the bottom of the stairs leading to
their apartment, hesitant.
"She's
your mother, Illya. She loves you."
Napoleon looked back over his shoulder as Illya remained stationary.
"I
know."
"Then
what are you afraid of?"
"Kuryakins
fear nothing."
"That's
all I'm saying. That conversation can
wait until tomorrow. Let's go to bed, tovarish."
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