Picfic Tuesday: Christmas, Russian Style
Jan. 8th, 2013 12:04 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
alynwa.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
section7mfu
“What did you just say, Illya? I think I had a moment of auditory hallucination!”
Illya’s face took on a furious countenance that would have struck fear into anyone else, but Napoleon knew it was all just bluster. “How dare you! I have gone days without food or water!”
“True, very true, Partner Mine, but not voluntarily. You want me to believe that it’s now five o’clock in the afternoon and you’ve eaten nothing all day. By choice! This is a miracle! A Russian Orthodox Christmas miracle!”
Choosing to ignore Napoleon’s sarcasm, Illya expertly parallel parked his car on his babushka Svetlana’s* block in Brighton Beach. It was January 6th; Christmas Eve for the Russian Church. The two agents had been invited to share Holy Supper with her family after Illya had mentioned the last time he was in her restaurant that he had not celebrated Christmas since he was a very small boy. “When I accepted Svetlana’s kind invitation, she reminded me that it is customary to fast all day prior to supper. I decided that I would please her and follow custom. Besides, knowing her, there will be enough food there to feed half of Brooklyn.” The two men exited the car and began walking toward Svetlana’s building. “I am glad that her invitation extended to you as well, but I warn you: Her family is quite large and gregarious, so be prepared.”
As Illya reached for the doorbell, the door was snatched open from the inside and he was enveloped in a smothering hug by Svetlana Volkov. “Моя красивая Илья! И Наполеон! Входите, входите, мы будем есть вскоре. Выпейте! Представить себя. Я так счастлива, что ты здесь! (My beautiful Illya! And Napoleon! Come in, come in, we will eat shortly. Have a drink! Introduce yourselves. I am so happy you are here!)”
Napoleon felt like he was being swept along by a sea of laughing, chattering Russians at various levels of drunkenness. Everyone greeted them like long lost relatives. There was much hugging and kissing and, of course, vodka. He was astonished by his partner’s transformation into a bear hugging, backslapping, joke telling life of the party. Illya seemed completely in his element and any awkwardness Napoleon might have felt at being the only non – native Russian speaker was dispelled by seeing Illya’s happiness.
After about an hour, Svetlana announced that dinner was ready. Somehow, all the people in the house had places to sit, whether it was the dining room table, kitchen table or card and snack tables in the living room. Napoleon and Illya were escorted to the dining room table and seated next to each other. Svetlana and three of her nieces emerged from the kitchen with huge bowls of what looked to Napoleon to be a kind of oatmeal. They passed the bowls around so that everyone was able to spoon some into his or her cereal bowl.
“This is kutya,” Illya leaned in to explain, “She had made hers with wheatberries, honey and poppy seeds. This represents hope, immortality, sweetness in the New Year and untroubled rest.” He looked at his adoptive babushka and asked loudly, “Мы позволили, чтобы бросить ложку на потолок? (Are we allowed to throw a spoonful at the ceiling?)”
Svetlana’s look of horror made everyone except Napoleon burst into laughter. “Nyet, nyet, nyet! Я только что он нарисовал! (No, no, no! I just had it painted!)”
“Napoleon, some people follow the tradition of throwing a spoonful of kutya at the ceiling believing that if it sticks, there will be a plentiful honey harvest. Svetlana is obviously not one of those people.”
Her ceiling safe, Svetlana and her nieces brought out the rest of the meal. Illya smiled approvingly at the platters and bowls placed down the middle of the table. He explained to Napoleon, “Traditionally, the "Holy Supper" is a meatless meal consisting of 12 different foods which are symbolic of the 12 Apostles. Everything she is serving is what I would expect to see if we were in Kyiv.”
Napoleon nodded and they began to eat. Svetlana had cooked all day and the flavorful food was filling and delicious. Everyone worked their way through multiple helpings of mushroom soup, Lenten bread known as pagach, bowls of grated garlic and honey for dipping, baked cod, kidney beans seasoned with shredded potatoes and more garlic, boiled potatoes with parsley and butter, peas, bobal’ki (small biscuits combined with sauerkraut), apricots, oranges, figs, dates and nuts, all washed down with copious amounts of red wine.
When everyone had eaten their fill, more vodka appeared though sipping was more the order of the day than the shots that were consumed before dinner. After an hour or so, people began drifting away saying, “Увидимся позже! Увидимся в течение нескольких часов! (See you later! See you in a few hours!)”
Napoleon felt like he could barely keep his eyes open; he was so full and more than a little inebriated. “Why is everyone saying ‘See you later?’ Are they coming back here tomorrow?”
“Perhaps, but they are all talking about going to church for midnight service. I have allowed myself to be coerced into going by Svetlana. She said I must come as the entire family is expected and she has told her pastor about her new grandson. You do not have to come, Napoleon. I will use my communicator to call an UNCLE cab when I go to the bathroom.”
“And miss the chance to see you in church? I’m going, too.” Napoleon’s declaration earned him more kisses from Svetlana after Illya told her what he had said.
Three hours later found Napoleon, Illya and his “extended family” sitting mid – church in the Russian Orthodox Cathedral of the Transfiguration of Our Lord on North 12th Street in Brooklyn. The service, as he expected, was completely in Russian, but he was able to get the gist of the service. He was struck by a stained glass window off to the left side of the church. He imagined it might be some type of saint. I have to remember to ask Illya about it later. I’m sure he could probably tell me who it is.
When the service ended, Illya and Napoleon were introduced to the pastor by a very proud Svetlana as they went through a receiving line. Once outside, they were hugged and kissed goodbye for fifteen minutes by Svetlana and her family as they were walked to their car. After promising to swing by the restaurant sometime soon, they got in and Illya started the car and proceeded toward Havemeyer Street on his way to the Williamsburg Bridge. Napoleon marveled once again at the Russian’s ability to drive sober after having consumed a large amount of alcohol.
“Tovarisch, stay at my place tonight. You don’t have to go home.”
“I was going to ask to stay. After such camaraderie, my apartment would seem very lonely.”
Napoleon glanced over at his partner whose profile revealed nothing, but he knew his partner well. “Tonight made you miss your family,” he said quietly, making it a statement of fact.
“Tonight made me imagine what it would be like to be part of a big family. Svetlana has welcomed both of us into hers and that is a wonderful thing. However, you are my family, Napasha, and for that, I am grateful.”
They rode back to Napoleon’s apartment and Illya parked the car in the underground garage. When they arrived in the penthouse, Illya headed off to his bedroom to get ready for bed. Technically, it was Napoleon’s guest room, but since the only guest he ever had sleep there was Illya, it was his bedroom by default. He turned around when he heard a soft knock on the door’s molding. Napoleon stood there holding a medium size box gift wrapped with a bow on top.
“Merry Christmas, moy brat.”
Illya smiled, took the box and opened it to reveal a copy of a book of the poetry of Anna Akhmatova in Cyrillic. “This is incredible, Napoleon. Thank you so much. I am sorry; I did not buy you anything.”
“I didn’t expect you to, but if you’re feeling guilty, buy me dinner tomorrow. Today, I think I’ll still be digesting all the food I ate at Svetlana’s.”
Illya shook Napoleon’s hand. “It is a deal. Goodnight, Napoleon.”
“Goodnight.”
*Svetlana was introduced in my tale “Making Changes.”
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Date: 2013-01-08 06:15 pm (UTC)A nice fic, pleasant and well written. As a vegetarian, I particularly perked an ear at the Holy Supper. Thanks for telling me about that, too.
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