"The Fat Tuesday Affair" Redux, in honor of 'Fat Tuesday." PART TWO

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

“Mardi Gras is steeped in tradition as well my friend and not just about the frolics. Its King Cakes, Krewes, Grand Balls, parades, costumes, throwing of  Doubloons, beads, lots of other trinkets and fabulous music are all just a part of the big picture.” Napoleon smiled, then laughed as one of those scantily clad women tossed a handful of beads and doubloons, hitting his partner right in the face with them.

He reached down, grabbing the Mardi Gras treats, draping the beads over his and Illya’s head, and stuffed a few the commemorative coins into his jacket pocket as keepsakes.

The procession was led by the Captain of the Rex Organization, known  only by the title "Bathurst." Completely masked riding his white mount, he acknowledged the crowd as he lead the parade down St. Charles Avenue.

Placed at intervals throughout the parade were His Majesty's lieutenants, riding in groups of three, wearing gold-trimmed velvet uniforms of the King’s colors,  purple, green, and gold, the official colors of Mardi Gras selected in the last century. The first Rex assigned a meaning to each, purple represents justice, green stood for faith and gold signified power and these were displayed throughout the parade on the floats, costumes and flags.

Then a grandiose float slowed in front of them, covered in rich carpets, tapestries and a large canopy in the shape of a velvet crown suspended over a solitary man.  Rex, the King of Mardi Gras, sat on his rich throne dressed in white and gold robes with a long fur-trimmed cape, wearing a bejeweled crown and  holding his scepter in his hand.

The King’s float stopped and from atop it, Rex greeted his subjects at Gallier Hall,  there he exchanged greetings with the city's leaders, and at the official reviewing stand at the newly built Hotel Intercontinental he paused to toast the Queen of Carnival and the Rex Court, offering a raised glass of champagne with a nod of his head. King Rex was the only one of the Krewe of Rex, whose identity was known. All the knights and other male members wore masks and their identities were always remained secret.

Not far behind the King's float was an enduring symbol of Mardi Gras, the Boeuf Gras, the figure of a giant white cow. Riders on this float were  dressed as masked cooks, another symbol of the feasting on "Fat Tuesday" before the austerity of Lent. Other permanent floats included the Royal Barge, His Majesty's Bandwagon, and the Royal Calliope.

Napoleon pointed to the King. “That’s my buddy Sam Thom. And we my friend are invited to the Krewe of Rex masquerade ball tonight. As you would expect from the most exclusive and elite Krewes in New Orleans, it will be an evening of gowns, glamour and gossip.”

“A costume party?” the Russian blurted out, “ You know I dislike such bourgeois and decadent displays. They are dangerous, you have no idea who is around you. And besides I do not have a costume, so I will pass.” Illya said with a wave of his hand, dismissing the idea.

“Not bourgeois at all tovarisch. Since its founding in back in 1872, a few years after the civil war, Krewe Rex has constantly held itself to a tradition of public service. The Rex motto, "Pro Bono Publico"...for the public good, was adopted that long ago and it continues to define the organization's commitment to service, so it’s not about decadence at all.

Illya gave him a look indicating he had been impressed by that fact but the idea of dressing in a costume for amusement did not please him at all. It was only when on a mission requiring a disguise did such a thing meet his approval.  He was not liking this Mardi Gras thing as it seemed to be unfolding. Unlike Maslenitsa, this holiday seemed to focus on extremes of over-indulgence, whereas back in Russia it was about clearing the pantry of forbidden foods so they did spoil and go to waste.

In spite of what Napoleon had told him, it still seemed all too decadent for him. He was a man of simple tastes and not prone to excess.

“No costume?” Napoleon laughed, “Never fear partner of mine, I’ve seen to it that you have a costume for this evening. And you will go and have fun. That’s an order.”

A moment of panic soured Illya’s stomach, suddenly feeling concerned as to what sort of contrivance had been selected for him. There was definite fear, knowing Solo’s propensity toward the extravagance.

Napoleon saw the pained look on the shaggy blond’s face.

“Don’t worry it’s mostly black, with a mask and you even get to carry a rapier.”

Knowing there would be no choice in the matter, Illya’s mind went to imagining who that black costume depicted, then his thoughts switched to his partner’s clothing.

“Please tell me you are not dressing as Napoleon Bonaparte, Julius Caesar, or some such person?”

“No I will be bedecked in a satin waistcoat, breeches and a gorgeous green silk jacket as Jean Lafitte, French pirate and privateer. You know his fortification was only 23 miles south of New Orleans in Barataria.”

“If I say yes, will you spare me the history lesson?” Illya teased.

“Smart aleck.”

.
Illya was furious when he emerged from his bedroom in their hotel located in the historic French Quarter, clothed in the costume his partner had arranged for him.

“You said it was black!” He seethed from behind his mask.

Napoleon stood in front of him grinning from ear to ear. “I said it was mostly black... the cape is black, and you have the mask and sword as promised, though I did forget to mention the feathered hat.”

Illya was dressed in a black and white striped leotard, with matching boots and a white pleated shirt with long billowing sleeves. There was a short black cape attached at each shoulder, and a double black satin cord draped across his chest.

The hat was in the French style with large white ostrich plumes, and the mask covered only the upper portion of his face, having an elongated nose not unlike Cyrano de Bergerac.

“I have to admit tovarisch with your body type you can really carry it off.” Napoleon said happily.

“And who exactly am I supposed to be?” The Russian huffed.

“Hey you’re the spitting image of Stewart Granger in the movie Scaramouche...well except his hair was black of course.”

“Scaramouche.” Illya repeated. “Ah yes the film was about a fictitious character André-Louis Moreau, a nobleman's bastard in the days of the French revolution. Noel, the Marquis de Mayne, kills his best friend. André declares himself the Marquis's enemy and vows to avenge his friend. He hides out, a wanted man, as an actor in a commedia troupe,  masquerading as the supposedly hideous thespian Scaramouche and spends his days learning how to handle a sword to exact his revenge.”

Illya made sure he put a distinct emphasis on the last word.

“This at least I am comfortable with.” The Russian half-smiled, drawing his rapier from the scabbard and swishing it in a figure eight in front of himself. “It has been a while since I have handled a sword. “Feels good, but the costume...”

Before Illya could complain any further his partner asked his opinion of his own attire.

The senior agent wore a hunter-green silk double breasted coat with ruffled shirt sleeve cuffs, sported a white cravat, black pantaloons and knee high black leather boots with a white trim on the top of each. He too had a sword hung from a belt at his waist, and had even combed his hair forward, giving it a more 10th century period look.

“Your costume would have suited me better, as my ancestors dressed...” Illya suddenly stopped himself, almost having slipped at revealing something from his guarded past.

“And your ancestors dressed...?” Napoleon tried to cajole him into finishing the sentence.

“Never mind, nothing important.” Illya cut him off. “ Yes your costume is quite nice, if you had a moustache you would look just like Yul Brynner in the movie, The Buccaneer, since we are tossing out movie references. I do have my disguise kit with me, perhaps a false moustache appliance...” He countered, then grinned.

“Did you know that Brynner is Russian, from Vladivostok and part Romani gypsy by the way?”

Napoleon gave his partner one of his sneers. “No thanks.” He tucked his Walther beneath his jacket, straightening his cuffs with a tug.

“And where am I supposed to put my weapon? This costume is skin tight and there is no jacket.“ Illya again complained.

“You’ll figure something out.” Solo smiled as he opened their door, exiting to the hallway.

Illya clicked his tongue, then quickly tucked his gun beneath his feathered hat, placing it on his head and following after his partner with a deep sigh.

They arrived via taxi to an enormous two story antebellum Southern mansion where the Rex Ball was being held. Crowds of costumed party goers surged past large fluted columns supporting the long eave, as they made their way to the front entrance.

Napoleon presented their ornate gold embossed invitations to the security guard dressed as a turn of the century butler, wearing black tails and a powdered wig, they were given entrance to the private celebration.

“Ah, y'all are special guests of the King,” He said, snapping his fingers for a similarly dressed man to step forward.  “Take these gentlemen to their seats on the dais please.”

“Hmm,” Napoleon winked, “It’s good to know the King.”

Illya rolled his eyes...

They were escorted through the immense ballroom with the people already there dancing to a waltz, clothed in every imaginable type costume. There were devils, angels, people dressed as Abe Lincoln, and Andrew Jackson and it  was no surprise that there were several Napoleon Bonaparte's as well.  Most of the women were dressed in elegant satin and silk hoop skirted gowns, looking like Southern belles that had just stepped out of Civil war era, with their hair pinned up in bouncy sausage curls.

As Illya and Napoleon passed, several of them lowered their ornate gilt masks, practically salivating at the two U.N.C.L.E. agents; Illya noticing that some of the ladies had rather low-cut bodices.

“My costume is not appropriate,” Illya whispered, “It is too tight and revealing, what if I...?”

“Get excited?” Napoleon laughed, “With this many gorgeous women around, I’d be worried about you if you didn’t. Illya just relax, have fun...indulge yourself for once. It was then he swore he heard this partner growl.

They were seated to the right of what looked like a throne.  A large high back gold framed chair, with a purple velvet seat and backing.  No doubt Sam’s seat as of the King of the Carnival.

Waiters also costumed as the other servants in black clothing with powdered wigs approached them, offering them fluted glasses filled with champagne and dishes with filled with canape_ thin slices of toasted bread spread with caviar, cheese and other savory toppings.

“So still sorry you came?” Napoleon asked.

Illya sniffed. ”I suppose not, but I reserve the right to withhold my full judgement just yet.” Then he popped a caviar canape into his mouth.

Suddenly the air was filled with the fanfare of trumpets. A man dressed as a herald called out loudly in French.

”Écoutez, Écoutez, Mesdames et Messieurs_ listen listen, ladies and gentlemen. I give you the King’s court.

First a group of masked men, wearing 17th century style French costumes entered and took their place along the red carpet. These were the King’s Dukes and were accompanied by their lovely debutante escorts dressed in white gowns.

Next the Queen and King of the Mardi Gras were announced as they stepped forward to the carpet.

“I give you Rex Samuel Thom, King of the Mardi Gras and his Queen consort Mrs. Marie Soulé.

Sam Thom entered through the door beside the dais to begin the Grand March around the ballroom as the trumpets blared again. The crowds cheered, but then the King staggered, reaching out towards Napoleon.  He fell forward onto the red carpet, with a knife protruding from the middle of his back. The Queen standing beside him, let out a shriek then fainted dramatically into the arms of one of the Dukes.

Guests gasped and screamed as Napoleon rushed to his friends side, kneeling, checking for a pulse and thankfully finding one.

He looked to Illya, watching as the Russian dashed through the door into the back corridor.  There seeing two figures dressed as swordsmen, one of them in the blue cape of a King's Musketeer running down the hall.

Kuryakin took off after them at full speed, not waiting for his partner.

The men suddenly turned to Illya. “Engarde!” One of them shouted, drawing his sword, the other following suit. Together they charged the U.N.C.L.E. agent, making him skid to a stop, bunching the carpet beneath his feet and nearly tripping himself.

Illya drew his sword, diving to the side as they both lunged at him,  but his quick reaction parried their blades out of the way. “C’est passé,” he snickered boastfully, then lunged out with his rapier, nicking one of them in the bicep.

“Et là!_and there!” The Russian shouted in French, a typical term used when scoring a hit during a fencing match. Except this was no fencing match.

Two more Musketeers appeared behind his opponents; Illya deciding that it was best to make a hasty retreat, thinking  of the old proverb... Beda nikogda ne prikhodit odna_trouble never comes alone.

He swept out again with his rapier, turning his wrist to envelop both his opponents blades, disarming one of them in the process before running, heading towards the ballroom door.

Illya charged through. “NAPOLEON!” He shouted, “Company is coming!”

The four men were hot on Kuryakin’s tail, coming through the door right after him with their sharp weapons in hand.

Napoleon jumped to his feet, drawing his own sword, engaging two of the men in a duel while Illya took on the others.

The costumed crowds remaining in the ballroom watched, gasping in fear yet fascinated as the the men dressed as Scaramouche and Jean Lafitte battled  four swordsmen.

Illya and followed by his opponents climbed across one of the buffet tables sending food and exploding champagne bottles flying in every direction.

Illya performed the coupé, an indirect attack of deception that passed around the tip of one of his opponent's blade. Following a feint, he pulled his rapier up and over the parrying blade, but his thrust was blocked as well.

Thy leapt from one table to another, finally Illya jumped down to the floor, startling one of the young debutantes as he landed beside her. “Pardon me, “ he said out of breath, when one of the swordsmen charged him.

Standing on the tips of his toes and arching his back, the Russian evaded him using displacement and slammed the pommel of his sword against the back of the man’s head as he moved past,  knocking him out cold. This delighted a crowd of onlookers who cheered and applauded.

Napoleon would leave the athletic antics to his partner, holding his ground, he parried, thrust  and feinted while standing in place. Evading every offensive move with the deft turns of his wrist. One of the men lunged at him and he used a parry that moved from a high line to a low line, making a semi-circular movement enveloping and trapping the attacking blade.

Finally, when he saw an opening, he lunged in the classic French style, turning his hand in pronation _the position of the hand with the palm facing down, stabbing one of the men in the shoulder, taking him down. He finished off his other opponent with a beat-parry, displacing the man’s blade, lunging quickly and stabbing him in the thigh, ending his efforts as well.

Illya in the meantime had just made a running charge at his remaining opponent, a move typical of the Russian style of fencing.  He leapt forward performing the classic ballestra, a leaping lunge that gained the ground he needed to reach the Musketeer, when suddenly the man went down, without Illya having even touched him.

He looked to Napoleon;  the Russian seeing his partner standing there with a smile on his face as he held his Walther in his hand, giving him a little wave and a nod.

“Why did you dart him?” Illya demanded.” I was having fun. You did order me to have fun and indulge myself, did you not?”

“Sorry, would you like me to revive him for you?”

“No thank you, I have lost the mood.” Illya huffed, wiping the blood from his blade on one of the white table napkins, then tossing it to a table without a second thought.

Local police arrived; the U.N.C.L.E. agents showed their identification and the four men were arrested for the attempted murder of Samuel Thom, who had been whisked off to the hospital and would recover.

The culprits  were apparently members of one of the Krewes that had fallen into disfavor and had a personal grudge against the current Rex in regards to some substantial gambling debts they owed him. Their logic was to eliminate Samuel Thom and the debts would go away...

As the agents left the mansion they found the night streets still filled with costumed revellers and plenty of Dixieland Jazz.

“Well that was interesting,” Napoleon said.” “So now what, back to the hotel room? Or we can hit one of the bars and you can listen to some jazz. Will that make you happy?”

Just then a pair of blonde belles dressed in pristine white gowns walked up to them, each taking them by the arm.

“You gentlemen were so très galant back there, we have never seen such skills with a blade.” They purred with delightful Louisiana drawls.

“Oh there’s quite a few other skills we could show you.” Napoleon smiled charmingly at them as they giggled behind their feathered fans. Now this was more the type of over-indulgence he had in mind.

“So still don’t like Mardi Gras tovarisch?”

“I think it is beginning to grow on me,” the Russian smiled as he and his partner strolled off into the night with their comely companions, heading toward their hotel in the French Quarter.”

C'est Fini.