section7mfu | Wrapped in a mystery (Short Affair challenge. 13 November 2017. Pretty. Blue) (Reply)

Wrapped in a mystery

Illya is missing, caught in a rock fall and presumed dead. Impossible to know, what was he like, who was he?

“He was always a mystery.”

“An enigma. You never knew anything about him, and he never gave anything away.”

“A riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma, in fact.”

“That sounds familiar. Who said that?”

“Winston Churchill, about Russia.”

“Ah. Of course. Oops. Quiet, guys. Look who’s come in.”

Napoleon stood in line with his tray, unusually isolated. The people either side of him left a little gap; no-one spoke to him – except the woman serving.

“How are you today, Napoleon? You look terrible,” she said, and the people behind him looked at each other uneasily.

He looked up and smiled a little. “I’m fine, Delia. I just need a coffee.”

“You need to eat, honey – not drink so much black coffee.”

“OK, maybe a pastry – choose one for me, would you?”

“Napoleon, it’s lunchtime. I’m going to give you some stew and rice, and salad. No black coffee, but a glass of milk.”

The smile grew warmer. “Not milk, Delia; but all right, you win – I’ll have the stew.”

She patted his hand as he reached for the plate. “Keep your strength up, boy. He’ll be back.”

Speechlessly, Napoleon shook his head and moved away to sit alone at a distant table, his back to the room.

***************************

Seated at his desk, alone in their – his – office, Napoleon opened the file again and read and reread it. It was quite short. There were photographs too, some official, and some taken during missions, that captured a mischievous smile, a furious glare, a mysterious pensive expression. There was nothing that captured the whole man. Who was he? Napoleon had never known, though he had known him better than perhaps anyone. He wondered whether, if he gathered enough shared memories from his friends, he could somehow bring him back to life.

It would be a mission of his own. He would wake up out of his grief and talk to people again. Get their memories. Recreate the man.

****************************

“Napoleon! Good to see you,” the men said, but when he told them what he wanted, they shifted their feet. Most had had so little to do with his partner that they couldn’t say anything very illuminating: he’d been agile, a judo expert, good with his fists, a crack shot, a linguist – but they said nothing that conveyed the inner man. Others had found him cold and standoffish, and didn’t want to say so; and there were quite a few who had mistrusted him, who merely said they knew no more than he’d heard already. Even the lab staff, nerds to a man (and sole woman), had seen him only as a brain, inventive, clever with his hands – who liked loud bangs.

The women in the organisation were warmer, but equally unhelpful, including those few who had got close to him physically.
Some qualities they merely alluded to, but mostly said, “He was very sweet… cute… pretty…” which wasn’t Napoleon’s experience at all, though he supposed it must have been part of the man. Then he went to the canteen staff – they must have seen a lot of him.

“Delia,” he said, having penetrated the behind-the-scenes mysteries of the kitchens, “what did you know about him?”

“Under that fierce bundle of energy there was a little lonely kid. Longing for …”

“Lonely? Longing for what?”

“A home, I guess. Somewhere to let go of all that uptight stiffness.”

“A home. Somewhere to let go,” Napoleon repeated.

“Someone to love him, maybe. He had a girl once.”

“More than one.”

“There was someone special once – must have been. He wears that ring.”

That ring. He would never say what it signified. It could have been his mother’s wedding ring; his own; or just a Keep Off sign. Sometimes he wore it on his other hand, sometimes not at all. Lately, he had stopped wearing it altogether.

“You said ‘wears’ – he’s dead, Delia.”

“You only think so, Napoleon.”

“The roof came down in the mine, Delia. He couldn’t have survived. Tons of it…” he stopped, unable to continue. Delia touched his arm.

“Honey, that one’s going to die in his bed.”

“How can you say that? You didn’t see…”

“Believe, Napoleon. Believe.”

Napoleon returned to the only evidence that his partner had existed, read it again, and mourned.

************************

At home, he slept for a while, but was wide awake at dawn. He walked blearily through to the kitchen in bare feet to make coffee; filled the kettle, looked for a clean mug - no clean mugs; found Illya’s favourite blue one, walked into the living room and this time switched on the light. And jumped, spilling the coffee.

A small figure was stretched out on the sofa, so dead to the world that he remained unaware of the light, and even Napoleon’s exclamation. There was a dressing on his head, bruises on his face, dark shadows under his eyes, scratches on his hands. He was breathing … alive.

Stunned, Napoleon sat and watched him; and fell asleep himself.

When he awoke, Illya’s clothes were all over the floor and he could hear the shower. The man himself emerged with a towel round his waist, wet hair (the dressing also wet), his body a mass of discoloured bruises.

“I thought I’d better come here, first,” he said diffidently, “in case you were wondering where I’d got to.”

“Mi casa es tu casa, as always,” said Napoleon, suppressing his bubbling joy. “Want a coffee?”

“In my mug, please, not on the floor,” Illya replied, delicately avoiding the spilt remains of Napoleon’s earlier attempt.

Napoleon stood up, “I guess you’ll want breakfast.”

“Yes, I’m hungry. You haven’t got much in, I looked.”

Napoleon choked, suddenly helpless between laughter and tears. “You’re hungry! … Illya, I thought you were dead!” And embraced him.
Surprised and embarrassed, Illya patted him on the back, and said, “Not yet.”

Sniffing a little, Napoleon released him and said, “How did you get out?”

“With difficulty... It’s a long story.”

“We’ve got time. You’re home.”