SNAPSHOTS "Welcome to America"

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

When Illya Kuryakin first arrived in New York for his new assignment he was taken to headquarters directly from the airport to the little tailor shop that would lead him to another world, a clandestine one, hidden from the everyday person out on the street.

The drive there was an eyeopening one, as he tried not to gawk at the multitude of tall buildings, the hustle and bustle as well as the neon lights. He’d not seen anything like it, except perhaps Piccadilly Circus back in London’s West End.  It wasn’t quite the same, but it was the only thing he could compare to it.

As he stepped from the U.N.C.L.E. car in front of Del Floria’s Tailor Shop, he looked around, and was surprised at the simplicity of the street compared to what he’d seen on the drive from the airport.

Illya walked down the short flight of stairs, and hesitated just for a second before turning the knob and opening the door. This was a major step for him, coming to New York, yet a relief to get away from the presence of Harry Beldon... They'd had a bit of a falling out when Illya refused to act as his protegé, and once Harry found out after the fact that he'd be transferring to New York...well that was the final straw that broke the camel's back. To say Beldon was a sore loser was an understatement, but Harry was still smart enough not to go against a man the likes of Alexander Waverly.

A small brass bell tinkled his arrival to an older man standing behind a steam press, who looked up at him with a welcoming smile.

“Just go the dressing room,” the man, whom Illya was to learn was called Del, pointed.

The Russian knew the entry procedure, having been briefed on the way over, just go into the dressing room and turn the hook. It was as simple as that, yet complex as another world would was about to be revealed to him.

Illya followed the instructions and as the entryway slowly opened, he was greeted by a pleasant and pretty receptionist who handed him his required ID badge.

“Mr. Waverly is expecting you Mr. Kuryakin, just go through the next door and....”

“Thank you, I know the way,” he said, showing no emotion.  He stepped through the secondary entrance after it silently opened, looking about before he proceeded to be sure he had his bearings.

Making his way to the Conference room, he was admitted by another receptionist, he assumed, and there Illya Kuryakin met with Alexander Waverly again for the first time in three years. He decided he still liked the man. Once their meeting had concluded, an agent from Section III was summoned and Illya was given a tour of headquarters, assigned a desk of his own among the other field agents, after which he was taken outside to a waiting taxi and another drive to his permanent living quarters.

It was a one bedroom apartment in the East 40’s, and after being deposited there by his Section III agent tour guide, he closed the door and revelled in the space that was to be all his own.

Compared to the small flat he had in the East End of London, it was spacious. Best of all, he did not have to share it with anyone...thinking back on his time as an agent in the Soviet Union where he shared living space with no less than six people. Not to mention the neighborhood looked much better as well.  He was told his employer owned the building and rented apartments to ordinary people there as well.

His mail and bills would be forwarded to headquarters, the only ones he would be responsible for paying was the utilities.  That had been a relief; though the money he was earning from U.N.C.L.E. was far more than he’d been paid as an agent in the Soviet Union; he wasn’t quite sure about affording rent here in New York City. However, that worry had been eliminated when Waverly told him the Command didn’t charge their agents rent.

As far as other mail, he knew no one here and had no family so there would be none of that. He had no friends worth keeping in contact with back in England.

In his new apartment there was a dark green sofa, a coffee table, several bookshelves, lamps, a small dining table and chairs..more furnishings than he’d had in his entire life.

In London, his living space was a cold water walk up, with a kitchenette and toilet. There had only been a small bed, a table with a single chair, not that he needed much. There he paid rent, but it had been nominal he supposed since it was in a bad section of the city.  He lived out of cardboard boxes basically….the same boxes that stood here now in his new digs in New York.

Those boxes with his books and other meager belongings had arrived earlier, and were stacked to one corner along with his duffle bag containing all his clothing.

He would deal with unpacking later, and wandered into the bedroom where he spotted a nice sized bed. He sat down on it and bounced a few times not hearing or feeling any springs. It was firm but quite comfortable.   He stood with a smile, spying a dresser, two night stands and a dressing mirror.  All his to use...he was in awe.

Illya wandered back out, exploring the kitchen. Lots of cabinet space, a refrigerator with a freezer, sink and a gas stove. The bathroom was surprisingly spacious, and looked quite nice with clean white tiles on the floor and walls. The toilet, sink and bathtub with a shower fixture all looked near new.  It would be glorious to take a shower...but would there be warm water?

Turning on the faucet in the sink, seconds later the water ran gloriously hot...

He sighed, feeling quite contented and heading out to the living room again where the Russian lowered himself to the floor and there he laid,  spread eagle, smiling to himself.  The serenity of the moment was only disturbed by the rumbling of his stomach.

He rose, opening his duffle bag and withdrew a shoebox, containing stacks of cash.

He cursed...they were all English pounds. He would have to go a bank to convert his savings to American currency. No going out and buying food just yet, he let go a sigh. No matter, he’d gone hungry more times than he could remember, and would survive a day or so without something to eat.

Illya walked back into the kitchen, hoping there would be a glass. He could at least fill his belly with water for the moment.

He looked at the refrigerator and what possessed him to open it, he did not know. Much to his surprise there was a platter of food awaiting his attention. It contained assorted cheeses, mushrooms, pickles, hard boiled eggs, sliced roast beef, brown bread, and lastly a pot of borscht; beside it sat a container labelled ‘sour cream’.

Illya smiled as he read a card from an envelope in front of his feast.

“Welcome to America, and U.N.C.L.E. Northwest”  It was signed Alexander Waverly.  “Be back at headquarters promptly at  7 a.m. tomorrow...and by the way, look inside the freezer.”

Illya did as the note instructed, finding a familiar black bottle there;  Moskovskaya, the brand vodka the same he drank back home, but to his surprise, beside it was a clear bottle of Stolichnaya...that was the brand the party members and his superiors got to drink. It wasn’t exactly available to the masses, though Illya being devious was able to procure a bottle of it from time to time.

“Was there anything this Waverly did not know?” Illya opened the Stoli and grinned before taking a swig from it.

“Dobro pozhalovat' v Ameriku deystvitel'no_welcome to America indeed,” he said aloud.

The bosses in GRU never treated him like this...

Comments

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Thank you! It made sense to me that there would be a bit of awe and perhaps culture shock when coming to America. Even though he was stationed in England for 3 years, it was still a different life for him, as well as circumstances. Glad you enjoyed it.