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section7mfuWhat is love?
1962. Personal crisis, and an international crisis at Halloween, but it’s love that counts in the end.
His hands were cold and he fumbled with the keys and the tiresome security locks. At last, the door opened and he could go in and just let go of the day.
No date tonight. He sank onto the sofa, lay back and shut his eyes. A whisky would be good – maybe wine would be more sensible – and there was steak in the freezer. He dozed off briefly and woke himself when he started to snore.
He performed the rituals of cooking and eating, drinking, and even making coffee. He returned to the sofa, switched on the TV, watched a few minutes of “I love Lucy” and switched it off again. Not in the mood for idiot laughter. He wanted irony, sarcasm, a tart commentary on American life. He wondered what his partner was doing at this moment.
“Thank you, sir,” he said, and saluted.
“You are a born officer, and leader of men, Kuryakin. The navy needs men like you.”
“Thank you, sir,” he repeated, his heart sinking.
“Promotion cannot be far away. Good day to you.”
When the admiral had gone, the captain turned to him and said, “Come to my cabin.”
It was very little larger than his own cabin, but slightly better furnished.
“Have a seat, lieutenant.” The older man looked at his second in command. Expressionless as ever – you never knew what he was thinking. Always there, always in control, always loyal, but utterly opaque.
“Promotion, if it does indeed come – what would it mean to you?” he asked.
“Mean to me, sir?” Prevaricating to give himself more time, thought the captain, and waited.
He stumbled over the words. “It would be… would be… a great honour,” he uttered, at last.
“But not welcome?”
The man’s face remained shuttered, blank, the blue eyes veiled – perhaps fearful of betraying his real wishes.
“Not welcome, sir?”
“This curious status you have. Part of the year in the Soviet navy, the rest in, what is in fact, enemy territory, doing very different work. Where do your loyalties lie?”
The young man stiffened. “My loyalties are unchanged, sir. I am a loyal, patriotic officer of the Soviet navy, and I am also loyal to the international organisation I work for. It works for peace and friendship between us; it isn’t the enemy, sir.”
“Then, I repeat, what would promotion mean to you?”
“It would mean… giving up that other work.” His head dropped for a moment, then he sat up, looking a little defiantly at the captain.
“Let’s wait and see, shall we? All right lieutenant, you can go.”
He missed him. He really missed having him around to talk to, to be ignored by, to be showered in his spoken and unspoken criticism, to see his sudden smile. It was a bit worrying. He loved women, made love to women, had no desire to make love to a man – certainly not Illya, pretty as he was. He liked to touch people, men as well as women; it was part of how he was. But what was this intense feeling he had for the little Russian?
For the first time in months, Napoleon went to see his priest – not to confess, though there was plenty of reason to do so – but to ask a question. The celibate life of a priest might offer insights and an answer, and this priest was quite young and intelligent.
“How is your knowledge of ancient Greek? or Latin?” asked the priest.
“Ancient Greek? Latin?” Napoleon echoed. “Apart from prayers in church, zero, I should think.”
“Well, but that’s where the answer lies. The Greeks and Romans knew that there were many kinds of love, and named them. You probably knew that yourself, Napoleon.”
“I guess so – OK, remind me, Father.”
“In Greek, there is eros, which is physical love. Then there is agape which is love of God. …”
Napoleon sighed; the priest seemed to be channelling his Russian friend’s style of exposition. “…There’s a special word for the love between a parent and child, of course, but what you are asking about is philia, which is brotherly love. It is, incidentally, the meaning of the name Philadelphia – adelphos means brother.”
“Oh, really? …Brotherly love.”
“A completely virtuous and unconditional love between equals. And maybe between nations, too. Yes, brotherly love.”
Napoleon sat thinking about that. “Does touching count?” he asked.
The priest laughed. “No more than it does between a parent and a child, or rather, as much. Because it is your way of conveying affectionate love – not lust.”
“Well I do that too,” Napoleon remarked, “but – yes it’s affection, I guess.”
The priest smiled. “You ought to come to confession, sometime.”
“It would take too long, Father. I’ll have to make my peace with God in my own way, for the moment. But thank you – you’ve relieved my mind.”
The priest saw him out and watched him walk away. What a strange life they must lead. How desperately important their friendships were – like soldiers, they needed the affection of a brother fighter, a love they could depend on – and how devastating it was when they lost it.
*********************Sleep wasn’t going to come tonight. The bunk was hard, the pillow no better. Sex might have helped, but he hadn’t even seen a woman for some time, and (fortunately) his rank meant he was free of the offers that were the inevitable lot of pretty, blond, young ratings. There was another way, of course, but it would be ultimately unsatisfactory and not sleep-inducing.
He sighed, and sat up. It would have been nice to have someone to talk to; he quite missed the idiotic banter of his American partner, and wondered what he was doing. He actually quite missed the man himself. Even the constant touching – so irritating, sometimes – would be soothing now. A bit of affection would be really welcome. To be in New York, not hundreds of feet under the polar icecap. Eating a steak with … Napoleon. His friend. Who put up with his sarcasm. Who only laughed at his snide comments on American life. Who seemed to like him, whatever he did or said.
What the hell was he going to do if a promotion came through?
He lay listening to the constant low-level noise, breathing the stale air, and thinking. At some point he fell asleep, and awoke dismally to the same dull light, noise and smells. A submarine was a wretched place to be when summer was ending.
********************The crisis was growing. When Kennedy had seemed to be indecisive in the face of provocation – first with the Berlin Wall, then the Bay of Pigs disaster – the Soviets thought they had him cold and parked missiles on his doorstep. But Kennedy was standing firm this time. The world held its breath and waited to see who would blink first.
There were tense meetings everywhere, not least in the New York headquarters of the Command. All five Section 1 Heads were in emergency conference.
“Can’t we get our little Soviet recruit back? That’s what’s needed.” Beldon appeared to have regained some warm feelings about his former junior.
“I’ve tried, Harry. He’s currently on active service in a submarine, somewhere.”
“He’s a very acute interpreter. He was excellent in Berlin – and London said the same – surely the Soviets can see that an interpreter with his experience of delicate negotiations is necessary to them, too? Try again. I know someone in Moscow who might be able to pull strings.”
*****************
There was a cold wind as they stood waiting for the launch. Illya shivered, more with apprehension than the cold. The call and their return had been sudden and unexpected.
“When you arrive at the quayside, lieutenant, you will be taken to the airport for immediate transfer to Moscow, and on to Washington, through London. Make sure you’ve got everything.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t know what they think you will achieve, Ilya Nikolaevitch, but whatever it is – I wish you well.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll do my best.”
The captain frowned as the young officer climbed down into the launch. He doubted whether he’d ever come back. He had seen a yearning in Kuryakin’s eyes.
He returned his salute and climbed down into the sub. “Prepare to return to station.”
***************
***
******************
********************
=============================================
1962. Personal crisis, and an international crisis at Halloween, but it’s love that counts in the end.
His hands were cold and he fumbled with the keys and the tiresome security locks. At last, the door opened and he could go in and just let go of the day.
No date tonight. He sank onto the sofa, lay back and shut his eyes. A whisky would be good – maybe wine would be more sensible – and there was steak in the freezer. He dozed off briefly and woke himself when he started to snore.
He performed the rituals of cooking and eating, drinking, and even making coffee. He returned to the sofa, switched on the TV, watched a few minutes of “I love Lucy” and switched it off again. Not in the mood for idiot laughter. He wanted irony, sarcasm, a tart commentary on American life. He wondered what his partner was doing at this moment.
*************
“Lieutenant, I congratulate you. The exercise was impeccably carried out.” The commanding officer beamed and, seizing him by the shoulders, kissed him on both cheeks.“Thank you, sir,” he said, and saluted.
“You are a born officer, and leader of men, Kuryakin. The navy needs men like you.”
“Thank you, sir,” he repeated, his heart sinking.
“Promotion cannot be far away. Good day to you.”
When the admiral had gone, the captain turned to him and said, “Come to my cabin.”
It was very little larger than his own cabin, but slightly better furnished.
“Have a seat, lieutenant.” The older man looked at his second in command. Expressionless as ever – you never knew what he was thinking. Always there, always in control, always loyal, but utterly opaque.
“Promotion, if it does indeed come – what would it mean to you?” he asked.
“Mean to me, sir?” Prevaricating to give himself more time, thought the captain, and waited.
He stumbled over the words. “It would be… would be… a great honour,” he uttered, at last.
“But not welcome?”
The man’s face remained shuttered, blank, the blue eyes veiled – perhaps fearful of betraying his real wishes.
“Not welcome, sir?”
“This curious status you have. Part of the year in the Soviet navy, the rest in, what is in fact, enemy territory, doing very different work. Where do your loyalties lie?”
The young man stiffened. “My loyalties are unchanged, sir. I am a loyal, patriotic officer of the Soviet navy, and I am also loyal to the international organisation I work for. It works for peace and friendship between us; it isn’t the enemy, sir.”
“Then, I repeat, what would promotion mean to you?”
“It would mean… giving up that other work.” His head dropped for a moment, then he sat up, looking a little defiantly at the captain.
“Let’s wait and see, shall we? All right lieutenant, you can go.”
*********************
This on-off partnership was far from ideal. Napoleon was happy enough to work alone and even with other partners occasionally, but when Illya was back in his own country – training others to fight his semi-adopted country – he became anxious. How would Illya continue to manage what must be divided loyalties, even though it never seemed to bother him?He missed him. He really missed having him around to talk to, to be ignored by, to be showered in his spoken and unspoken criticism, to see his sudden smile. It was a bit worrying. He loved women, made love to women, had no desire to make love to a man – certainly not Illya, pretty as he was. He liked to touch people, men as well as women; it was part of how he was. But what was this intense feeling he had for the little Russian?
For the first time in months, Napoleon went to see his priest – not to confess, though there was plenty of reason to do so – but to ask a question. The celibate life of a priest might offer insights and an answer, and this priest was quite young and intelligent.
“How is your knowledge of ancient Greek? or Latin?” asked the priest.
“Ancient Greek? Latin?” Napoleon echoed. “Apart from prayers in church, zero, I should think.”
“Well, but that’s where the answer lies. The Greeks and Romans knew that there were many kinds of love, and named them. You probably knew that yourself, Napoleon.”
“I guess so – OK, remind me, Father.”
“In Greek, there is eros, which is physical love. Then there is agape which is love of God. …”
Napoleon sighed; the priest seemed to be channelling his Russian friend’s style of exposition. “…There’s a special word for the love between a parent and child, of course, but what you are asking about is philia, which is brotherly love. It is, incidentally, the meaning of the name Philadelphia – adelphos means brother.”
“Oh, really? …Brotherly love.”
“A completely virtuous and unconditional love between equals. And maybe between nations, too. Yes, brotherly love.”
Napoleon sat thinking about that. “Does touching count?” he asked.
The priest laughed. “No more than it does between a parent and a child, or rather, as much. Because it is your way of conveying affectionate love – not lust.”
“Well I do that too,” Napoleon remarked, “but – yes it’s affection, I guess.”
The priest smiled. “You ought to come to confession, sometime.”
“It would take too long, Father. I’ll have to make my peace with God in my own way, for the moment. But thank you – you’ve relieved my mind.”
The priest saw him out and watched him walk away. What a strange life they must lead. How desperately important their friendships were – like soldiers, they needed the affection of a brother fighter, a love they could depend on – and how devastating it was when they lost it.
*********************
He sighed, and sat up. It would have been nice to have someone to talk to; he quite missed the idiotic banter of his American partner, and wondered what he was doing. He actually quite missed the man himself. Even the constant touching – so irritating, sometimes – would be soothing now. A bit of affection would be really welcome. To be in New York, not hundreds of feet under the polar icecap. Eating a steak with … Napoleon. His friend. Who put up with his sarcasm. Who only laughed at his snide comments on American life. Who seemed to like him, whatever he did or said.
What the hell was he going to do if a promotion came through?
He lay listening to the constant low-level noise, breathing the stale air, and thinking. At some point he fell asleep, and awoke dismally to the same dull light, noise and smells. A submarine was a wretched place to be when summer was ending.
********************
There were tense meetings everywhere, not least in the New York headquarters of the Command. All five Section 1 Heads were in emergency conference.
“Can’t we get our little Soviet recruit back? That’s what’s needed.” Beldon appeared to have regained some warm feelings about his former junior.
“I’ve tried, Harry. He’s currently on active service in a submarine, somewhere.”
“He’s a very acute interpreter. He was excellent in Berlin – and London said the same – surely the Soviets can see that an interpreter with his experience of delicate negotiations is necessary to them, too? Try again. I know someone in Moscow who might be able to pull strings.”
*****************
There was a cold wind as they stood waiting for the launch. Illya shivered, more with apprehension than the cold. The call and their return had been sudden and unexpected.
“When you arrive at the quayside, lieutenant, you will be taken to the airport for immediate transfer to Moscow, and on to Washington, through London. Make sure you’ve got everything.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t know what they think you will achieve, Ilya Nikolaevitch, but whatever it is – I wish you well.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll do my best.”
The captain frowned as the young officer climbed down into the launch. He doubted whether he’d ever come back. He had seen a yearning in Kuryakin’s eyes.
He returned his salute and climbed down into the sub. “Prepare to return to station.”
***************
One of several translators during the negotiations, Illya was too fully engaged to think about its effect on him, but it was the most frightening period of his life. Translating the President of the United States to the Soviet Premier; interpreting the reply in diplomatic terms; and all the while aware of Mr Khrushchev’s impatient desire to lash out – which needed no interpretation and would start a nuclear war. He couldn’t tell whether Kennedy had the same desire. The President was more thoughtful and seemingly a lot more intelligent than his opponent. His, or his advisers’, communications were calm and controlled, firm but polite. Altogether more reassuring to a frightened world.
At the end of possibly the worst, most terrifying Halloween week of all time; after both leaders came to an agreement to dismantle their various missile systems; it seemed to be over. People started to breathe again, began to think of the future again, looked at their children with hope again. Trick or treat? Treat!
Kennedy asked to see the interpreters. Well aware of their skill, he was grateful and wanted to know more about them.
At the end of possibly the worst, most terrifying Halloween week of all time; after both leaders came to an agreement to dismantle their various missile systems; it seemed to be over. People started to breathe again, began to think of the future again, looked at their children with hope again. Trick or treat? Treat!
Kennedy asked to see the interpreters. Well aware of their skill, he was grateful and wanted to know more about them.
***
“The President wants to see me, too?”
“The day after tomorrow. Then you are to return to New York to resume your duties with UNCLE.”
“The day after tomorrow. Then you are to return to New York to resume your duties with UNCLE.”
******************
The President thanked them for their help, and spoke of friendship between nations. He talked of his hopes for international brotherly love, like that between himself and his own brothers.
He spoke to each of them briefly, and shook hands. When he came to Illya, he simply said, “Welcome back, Mr Kuryakin. Good to have you here.”
“Thank you, sir, it’s good to be back.”
That was all, but Illya found the episode curiously inspiring. He had little time for politicians and their easy half-truths and outright lies, but this president had risen to the challenge: not to take easy offence at insults and not to return them, but to save the world from nuclear disaster. For a time, he had occupied an exalted position – above gutter politics. Despite his natural scepticism, Illya had been impressed, though he wondered whether the any of it would last.
He spoke to each of them briefly, and shook hands. When he came to Illya, he simply said, “Welcome back, Mr Kuryakin. Good to have you here.”
“Thank you, sir, it’s good to be back.”
That was all, but Illya found the episode curiously inspiring. He had little time for politicians and their easy half-truths and outright lies, but this president had risen to the challenge: not to take easy offence at insults and not to return them, but to save the world from nuclear disaster. For a time, he had occupied an exalted position – above gutter politics. Despite his natural scepticism, Illya had been impressed, though he wondered whether the any of it would last.
********************
He was waiting at arrivals; Illya saw him immediately. He couldn’t help it, he was smiling as Napoleon came towards him and opened his arms to embrace him in a welcoming hug; and, like a brother, he accepted and returned it.
“Saved the world again, my friend?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Good to have you back, comrade.”
“Thanks… buddy. Good to see you, too. I’m hungry – where can we eat?”
“Saved the world again, my friend?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Good to have you back, comrade.”
“Thanks… buddy. Good to see you, too. I’m hungry – where can we eat?”
=============================================
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