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section7mfuFirst half of Chapter 2 of The little Diomede Affair
“Where you say you were from again?” Earl asked, giving Solo the stink eye.
“Nikolaevsk.”
“You don’t sound Rooshin.”
“Pover'te mne, chto ya.” (believe me, that I am)
“YA slyshal eto. Kto govoril po-russki? ( I heard that. Who spoke in Russian?)
A blonde woman wearing a green sweat shirt, pants and an apron and a pair of seal skin mukluks on her feet, called out from the kitchen. She was carrying the sandwiches the agents ordered.
“That would be me,” Napoleon raised his hand.
“Otkuda ty? (Where are you from?)
For the third time Napoleon answered that question.
“Your Russian isn’t bad but, you still sound like an American.”
“Well I am one,” he flashed the patented Solo grin at her.
“And so you are,” she laughed.” My name is Zoya Yazova, but people here call me Sally.”
“Eddie Vasilovich at your service, and this is my friend Peter Galey.
Peter followed Napoleon’s lead and smiled at the woman; greeting her in Russian.
“Ahhh, now you have a proper accent. Moskva from the sound of it.”
“Da. Moy otets byl iz Moskva.” (Yes. My father was from Moscow)
“Well here, eat your food before it gets cold. We can talk later, da?” She seemed delighted to have someone with whom she could speak the language.
“Of course,” Napoleon took the plate from her, slipping her hand into his and bending forward; he lightly kissed it.
Sally, blushed and hurried back to the kitchen.
The café finally cleared, but Napoleon and Peter remaining at the counter chatting in Russian and English with Sally.
“Will you look at the time?” She gazed at the white clock on the wall.”Got to close up. Do you two have a place to stay tonight?”
“No not exactly. We were going to go hunt down a hotel room once we left here.”
“Well you’ll be piss out of luck, as this place closes at night up tighter than a razor clam. Tell you what, I have a couple of spare cots upstairs, you’re welcome to use them boys, and I won’t even charge you.”
“Spasibo, Zoya. You’re an angel of mercy,”Napoleon said.
After they helped her lock up and do a little cleaning, Napoleon and Peter followed her up a dimly lit flight of stairs to the second floor.
The stairwell opened up to a spacious sitting room, the floor covered with a cozy but worn woolen rug, looking like Persian in design. The furniture was primitive, covered with blankets woven in geometric patterns typical of Alaska.
Scattered around the room were little Russian mementos, brightly painted Matryoshka dolls, enameled red and black Khokhloma bowls with matching spoons to name a few.
“Sit down, make yourselves comfortable.”
There was a cast iron potbellied stove to one side, and Sally quickly opened the door, placing kindling inside. In no time she had a toasty fire burning.
“It’s going to get pretty cold tonight, better to warm things up now. Vodka boys or perhaps tea?”
“Tea would be fine,” Peter said, as did Solo.
She proceeded to a polished brass samovar in another corner and went about heating the water for herself and her guests.
Sally poured the tea when it was ready into tea glasses with silver plated holders she’d taken from a cabinet.
“Sugar or jam?”
“Jam please? The men chimed in together. For Peter it was tradition, for Napoleon it was part of his cover, as he’d seen Illya take his tea that way many times.
Peter continued to survey the room; his eyes becoming fixated upon a particular picture she had on the wall.
“Ded Moroz?” He asked.
“Yes it’s quite beautiful isn’t it?”
Peter nodded his agreement. “It reminds me of something in a book of skazka (fairy tales) my mother used to read to me as a child. I remember a story called ‘Morozko and Grandfather Frost.”
“Yes, I think is was the story of an old woman who mistreats her step-daughter. Morozko and Ded Moroz come to her rescue.”
“I remember it,” Peter responded, excitement in his voice. Looking over to Napoleon who seemed a bit lost, he blurted out an explanation. “Morozko is like Jack Frost and Ded Moroz…” He stopped himself, realizing his faux pas.
Sally looked at Solo with an impish smile. “I didn’t think you were Russian; your accent was just awful. You are a cheechako aren’t you?”
He shrugged his reply. “That’s what my friend always tells me about my accent, but you can’t blame a guy for trying." Napoleon ignored her calling him a greenhorn.
“It’s none of my business why you are masquerading...though you Peter I think are not. I heard you need to go to Wales, but there is nothing there, no work.”
“No, not for work. We’re actually going to Little Diomede as my friend...his name is Illya, was working there and has gone missing. There’s some unsavory types who are up to no good on the island and we’ve been sent to stop them. Perhaps they’re behind these mysterious disappearances as well.”
“I understand, there have been rumors about odd goings on there. Enough said. In the morning I will radio Tommy Gunner. He’ll take you to Wales and from there you can go to Diomede by helicopter with Bobby Boucher. He’ll be making his run there with supplies tomorrow afternoon.”
“Thank you again...spasibo Zoya,” Napoleon finished his tea.
“Now off to bed you two. It will be an early day for you, and your trip to Wales may not be an easy one if the weather turns.”
She showed them to the back room and their cots, tossing them some extra blankets.
“Spokoynoy nochi vam oboim.” (Good night you two) Sally closed the door with a smile. It was nice to have company, even if they were up to something; yet she felt in her heart they were good men.
Chapter 3
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Date: 2015-06-23 07:14 pm (UTC)This is an engaging tale, mysterious. I wonder where Illya is...
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Date: 2015-06-23 07:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-06-23 10:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-06-23 10:22 pm (UTC)Thanks for the comment!
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Date: 2015-06-23 10:34 pm (UTC)(ps, on a completely arrogant note. I'm really pleased with myself for understanding the Russian without having to read the translation :-D )
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Date: 2015-06-23 10:51 pm (UTC)I've been trying to keep the language references at a minimum and more simplified...less likely to get something wrong.