Russian bear
Sep. 18th, 2017 11:07 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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section7mfuShort Affair challenge. 18 September (Owl. Dark blue)
Russian bear
Illya’s arrival.
“Gentlemen, I have an announcement to make.” The Old Man looked round at the gathered agents, all men. “We are about to welcome a new agent, who has been sent as a goodwill gesture, by the Soviet authorities.”
There was a murmur of surprise and some dismay. “It behoves us to welcome him,” he continued, “not least as a way of showing gratitude for the gesture. He represents a huge development in international relations.”
“But a Russian – here?”
“Ukrainian, actually.”
“A distinction without a difference, surely … sir.”
“He might not agree,” said the Old Man, tapping the file on his desk with his pipe. “He’s a very bright man; speaks several languages; he broke most records at Survival School. He has degrees from not only his own country, but also the Sorbonne and Cambridge.”
“Must be a giant with a big head.”
Mr Waverly smiled. “You’ll see for yourselves, later in the week when he has been inducted into our procedures. All right, gentlemen, dismiss. Ah, Mr Solo, a word."
**********************
*******************
He was like the Cat that Walked by Itself of Kipling’s story, indifferent to all blandishments. But Napoleon found him oddly engaging, even likeable, despite his reserved and self-effacing manner. He managed to extract a few biographical details from him by asking carefully open questions. It seemed he was just a year short of Napoleon’s own age, so not such a boy. Almost rude in his unwillingness to discuss his family or his early life, let alone the ring he wore, he was less reticent about his experiences in Paris and Cambridge. He had also just arrived from Survival School.
“How did you find the great Jules Cutter?” Napoleon asked.
The blue eyes rolled, in what he was beginning to recognise as a characteristic response to anything Illya found irritating. “His methods leave a lot to be desired."
“Yes, I thought so, too.”
“He’s a great admirer of yours. He held you up for comparison, constantly.”
“Very annoying, I’m sure. Did you…” he stopped short of tactlessness, but not quite soon enough.
“Actually, I beat your records…” and Illya stopped, too, embarrassed.
“You did? We’ll have to have a try out, sometime.”
Illya looked relieved at this response, and ducked his head in a nod.
“You were there a bit longer than most, I heard. Trying to beat all the records?”
Illya almost smiled. “No. Cutter asked me to teach a class.”
“He did? Which one?”
“Explosives.”
Napoleon sat back and stared. “Tell me more.”
“Well, if you really want to know,” he began, and stopped.
“What?”
“It was because I defused a bomb that one of the others left as some sort of joke.”
This sounded wrong. Survival School students just didn’t do that kind of thing. It was a sure route to being thrown out. Napoleon looked at his partner, who was now a little pink. “Just as a matter of interest,” he said, “where was the bomb left?”
“In my locker.” Illya looked coolly at Napoleon’s appalled expression, raised a quizzical eyebrow, but refused to say more.
****************
When they went for lunch, the canteen was crowded, and buzzing with conversation. Trays in hand they looked around for a space. Napoleon spotted an agreeable opportunity and led his partner to a table of young women.
“Ladies, may we join you?” he asked, setting his tray down and not waiting for an answer. Illya hung back, expecting a refusal, but no – this was evidently acceptable behaviour.
“Napoleon, we heard there’s a big Russian bear coming to join the Command – they say he beat all your records at Survival School.”
“Illya, let me introduce you.”
The women stared in surprise at the awkward, angular, solemn youth that Napoleon, the sophisticate, had installed among them, and watched him blush. They were amused or touched according to disposition, and very intrigued – this little shrimp, better than their own tried and tested Napoleon? It seemed very unlikely, especially as he didn’t appear to offer much in the way of Napoleon’s kind of fun either.
Illya put his head down and ate his lunch, while his companions talked over him. Their hilarity seemed to be largely about ensuring a place in Napoleon’s little black book.
“Have you got a little black book, Illya?”
He looked up, owl-like. “No,” he said. “What is it for?”
Napoleon intervened to save his partner embarrassment at the hands of these mischievous women. “It’s a kind of diary, that’s all.”
“I have a diary for work.”
“Ah, no, a different kind of diary.”
“Oh, I see,” he said, brightening, “a diary of intimate relations,” and kept a straight face as theirs all reddened with real embarrassment. Not the innocent he appeared, with his wide-eyed look and seeming naïvety, he had naturally guessed what kind of diary. Napoleon, however, had observed his lip quiver.
“I’ll get you one,” he said. “looks like you’ll be needing one before long.”
“You think so? Well, that would be very kind of you. One with a big red heart, on dark blue – to represent night-time, of course – would be nice.” He smiled broadly for the first time, and unwittingly gained a possible first entry for that diary.
On their return to their office, Napoleon stopped chuckling to himself and said, “Now, about that bomb…”
Russian bear
Illya’s arrival.
“Gentlemen, I have an announcement to make.” The Old Man looked round at the gathered agents, all men. “We are about to welcome a new agent, who has been sent as a goodwill gesture, by the Soviet authorities.”
There was a murmur of surprise and some dismay. “It behoves us to welcome him,” he continued, “not least as a way of showing gratitude for the gesture. He represents a huge development in international relations.”
“But a Russian – here?”
“Ukrainian, actually.”
“A distinction without a difference, surely … sir.”
“He might not agree,” said the Old Man, tapping the file on his desk with his pipe. “He’s a very bright man; speaks several languages; he broke most records at Survival School. He has degrees from not only his own country, but also the Sorbonne and Cambridge.”
“Must be a giant with a big head.”
Mr Waverly smiled. “You’ll see for yourselves, later in the week when he has been inducted into our procedures. All right, gentlemen, dismiss. Ah, Mr Solo, a word."
**********************
Napoleon met Wanda on his way in, and parted from her at his office door. “See you later – I hope?” he called over his shoulder as he walked in.
He turned then and found a foreign body in the room: a slightly-built, frowning youth, with fair hair, worn rather long, who looked as if a puff of wind would blow him over.
“How do you do,” he said, eyeing the young man, “Napoleon Solo.”
“How do you do,” came the response, in an unexpectedly deep voice. “I’m –" he paused, "I’m known to your immigration authorities and therefore to this organisation, as Illya Nikovetch Kuryakin. It’s near enough, I suppose.” The young man spoke flawless, rather formal, English.
They stared assessingly at each other after this baffling remark.
“Mr Waverly has assigned me to partner you and to share your office.”
“So I’ve been told… well, you’ll need a desk and a chair.”
“I believe they are on their way.”
He looked such a boy. He had remarkable blue eyes and a very firm chin, and, endearingly, one ear stuck out – only noticeable when his hair flopped forward, like now. He also had slightly protruding front teeth, but Napoleon only discovered that later when he surprised a smile out of him.
When the desk and chair arrived, the skinny youth tucked himself into a corner near the window, occupying as little space as possible. Napoleon watched as he sat in the chair, pulling the desk closer and closer.
“You’ll need to get out, occasionally,” he said mildly. “There’s plenty of room – give yourself space to breathe.”
The young man looked surprised. “But it’s your office, Mr Solo.”
“Our office. And it’s Napoleon – if I can call you Illya.”
He winced a little at the mangling of such a simple name, but nodded, and pushed the desk an inch or two further out.
He turned then and found a foreign body in the room: a slightly-built, frowning youth, with fair hair, worn rather long, who looked as if a puff of wind would blow him over.
“How do you do,” he said, eyeing the young man, “Napoleon Solo.”
“How do you do,” came the response, in an unexpectedly deep voice. “I’m –" he paused, "I’m known to your immigration authorities and therefore to this organisation, as Illya Nikovetch Kuryakin. It’s near enough, I suppose.” The young man spoke flawless, rather formal, English.
They stared assessingly at each other after this baffling remark.
“Mr Waverly has assigned me to partner you and to share your office.”
“So I’ve been told… well, you’ll need a desk and a chair.”
“I believe they are on their way.”
He looked such a boy. He had remarkable blue eyes and a very firm chin, and, endearingly, one ear stuck out – only noticeable when his hair flopped forward, like now. He also had slightly protruding front teeth, but Napoleon only discovered that later when he surprised a smile out of him.
When the desk and chair arrived, the skinny youth tucked himself into a corner near the window, occupying as little space as possible. Napoleon watched as he sat in the chair, pulling the desk closer and closer.
“You’ll need to get out, occasionally,” he said mildly. “There’s plenty of room – give yourself space to breathe.”
The young man looked surprised. “But it’s your office, Mr Solo.”
“Our office. And it’s Napoleon – if I can call you Illya.”
He winced a little at the mangling of such a simple name, but nodded, and pushed the desk an inch or two further out.
*******************
He was like the Cat that Walked by Itself of Kipling’s story, indifferent to all blandishments. But Napoleon found him oddly engaging, even likeable, despite his reserved and self-effacing manner. He managed to extract a few biographical details from him by asking carefully open questions. It seemed he was just a year short of Napoleon’s own age, so not such a boy. Almost rude in his unwillingness to discuss his family or his early life, let alone the ring he wore, he was less reticent about his experiences in Paris and Cambridge. He had also just arrived from Survival School.
“How did you find the great Jules Cutter?” Napoleon asked.
The blue eyes rolled, in what he was beginning to recognise as a characteristic response to anything Illya found irritating. “His methods leave a lot to be desired."
“Yes, I thought so, too.”
“He’s a great admirer of yours. He held you up for comparison, constantly.”
“Very annoying, I’m sure. Did you…” he stopped short of tactlessness, but not quite soon enough.
“Actually, I beat your records…” and Illya stopped, too, embarrassed.
“You did? We’ll have to have a try out, sometime.”
Illya looked relieved at this response, and ducked his head in a nod.
“You were there a bit longer than most, I heard. Trying to beat all the records?”
Illya almost smiled. “No. Cutter asked me to teach a class.”
“He did? Which one?”
“Explosives.”
Napoleon sat back and stared. “Tell me more.”
“Well, if you really want to know,” he began, and stopped.
“What?”
“It was because I defused a bomb that one of the others left as some sort of joke.”
This sounded wrong. Survival School students just didn’t do that kind of thing. It was a sure route to being thrown out. Napoleon looked at his partner, who was now a little pink. “Just as a matter of interest,” he said, “where was the bomb left?”
“In my locker.” Illya looked coolly at Napoleon’s appalled expression, raised a quizzical eyebrow, but refused to say more.
****************
When they went for lunch, the canteen was crowded, and buzzing with conversation. Trays in hand they looked around for a space. Napoleon spotted an agreeable opportunity and led his partner to a table of young women.
“Ladies, may we join you?” he asked, setting his tray down and not waiting for an answer. Illya hung back, expecting a refusal, but no – this was evidently acceptable behaviour.
“Napoleon, we heard there’s a big Russian bear coming to join the Command – they say he beat all your records at Survival School.”
“Illya, let me introduce you.”
The women stared in surprise at the awkward, angular, solemn youth that Napoleon, the sophisticate, had installed among them, and watched him blush. They were amused or touched according to disposition, and very intrigued – this little shrimp, better than their own tried and tested Napoleon? It seemed very unlikely, especially as he didn’t appear to offer much in the way of Napoleon’s kind of fun either.
Illya put his head down and ate his lunch, while his companions talked over him. Their hilarity seemed to be largely about ensuring a place in Napoleon’s little black book.
“Have you got a little black book, Illya?”
He looked up, owl-like. “No,” he said. “What is it for?”
Napoleon intervened to save his partner embarrassment at the hands of these mischievous women. “It’s a kind of diary, that’s all.”
“I have a diary for work.”
“Ah, no, a different kind of diary.”
“Oh, I see,” he said, brightening, “a diary of intimate relations,” and kept a straight face as theirs all reddened with real embarrassment. Not the innocent he appeared, with his wide-eyed look and seeming naïvety, he had naturally guessed what kind of diary. Napoleon, however, had observed his lip quiver.
“I’ll get you one,” he said. “looks like you’ll be needing one before long.”
“You think so? Well, that would be very kind of you. One with a big red heart, on dark blue – to represent night-time, of course – would be nice.” He smiled broadly for the first time, and unwittingly gained a possible first entry for that diary.
****************
On their return to their office, Napoleon stopped chuckling to himself and said, “Now, about that bomb…”
==================================================
Tbc?
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no subject
Date: 2017-09-18 10:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-09-18 11:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-09-18 11:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-09-18 11:36 am (UTC)I think Illya's name should be something like Ilya Nikolaivitch Kuragin, which is Russian. Ukrainian names are a bit different: e.g. Ilarion Nikolovitch Kurylenko.
The name Kuryakin sounds more like the Greek word for Sunday, Κυριακή - Kyriaki. (and as in Kyrie eleison - Lord have mercy, etc). It's still a nice name though, and it belongs to him now, so I'm not pressing the point.
no subject
Date: 2017-09-18 06:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-09-19 12:08 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-09-19 06:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-09-22 05:50 pm (UTC)The narrative pulls at the reader so that I felt present as it unfolded. I could easily visualize Illya's expression as he commented on the diary.
no subject
Date: 2017-09-22 08:44 pm (UTC)