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section7mfuThis was originally posted for a Song Story challenge a year ago. It’s one of my favorite stories and I hope you enjoy it. We’re dedicating this Vive la France not only to the people of Paris and France but to our dear Svetlanacat….Sylvaine Grivel. She was a Renaissance woman and one of a kind.
“Come on Illya? What is wrong with you?” Napoleon Solo moaned. “This place is so sizzling hot, I’d swear it was Summer! Paris Je t-aime."
His partner was letting his Russian stoicism show as usual, putting a damper on the American’s enthusiasm.
“You forget I lived in Paris for several years and it does not exactly hold fond memories for me.”
“Well since you refuse to share those memories with me, how can I empathize with you? Illya, Paris in the Spring time, how can that not call to you?”
Kuryakin sighed as he and his partner walked along in a small park on the side of Notre Dame facing the Left Bank; the cherry and almond trees were in full bloom, filling the air with their sweet scent. It really was a lovely day, and that at least wasn't lost on the Russian.
Napoleon’s head was swiveling back and forth as one gorgeous Parisian woman after another caught his attention, with their long legs and swaying hips; everyone of them clothed in the latest haute couture. It was all he could do from changing direction to follow them, one after another, after another.
He moaned as there were just too many to choose from in his quest for le beau sexe." Solo's senses were almost on overload.
“If you do not slow down my friend, you are going to give yourself a case of whiplash, if not then heart failure,”Illya warned.
“Moi? Never my friend. Women are what makes the world go round and I find their very presence, especially here in Paris, completely intoxicating.”
“I would prefer a good vodka to bring me to that state,” Illya said with a smugness in his voice. “I swear Napoleon you are in rut.”
“I take umbrage at that crude remark. Just because I love being with women does not make...does not bring out the animal in me or any healthy red-blooded gentleman for that matter.”
“Are you insinuating because I am now, as you say, getting hot and bothered that I am not a red-blooded gentleman?” Illya stopped and stared at his partner. He scratched his head for a second, not quite sure if that question came out the way he wanted it to. Sometimes the English language could be so perplexing.
“Of course not," Napoleon reassured him. "I know you like women. I just don’t understand how you can ignore so many of them at the moment. We’re surrounded by them in the midst of the city of l’amour. How can you not want to make love to just one of them?”
Illya groused, “No, I will not give into you. I will not not strike up a conversation with a woman just to get her into bed with me. I prefer…”
“Yes, I know you want to have a relationship with a woman, and how has that panned out for you by the way? As I recall you’ve been dumped more often that yesterday’s trash.”
“That was completely unnecessary and inconsiderate of you,” Illya’s lower lip protruded like a pouting child, a hint to Napoleon that he’d hit a nerve.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean it to come out that way chum. I apologize.
“Apology accepted.” So even Solo being a native speaker of English had problems with his own language. That, Illya found a bit reassuring.
“Tell you what, why don’t we head over to the Moulin Rouge. Surely you can appreciate the wonderful shows they put on there?” He held up a brochure, extolling the spectacle.
“A dazzling revue, comprising of a troupe of one-hundred artists, a thousand costumes of feathers and glitter. Enjoy magnificent stage settings of rich colors and unique drawings created by Italian artists. Raise a glass of sparkling champagne to the exceptional acts all set to original music from eighty musicians and sixty chorus singers.”
“And let’s not forget les girls and the can-can. Scads of scantily clad women, can you imagine that? Those legs high kicking in the air, the shaking fannies and bouncing breasts,” Napoleon sighed, staring at the handbill and the painted lip print on it.
“Formidable, indeed.”
“My friend that is, how you put it, ‘your thing’ and not mine. Let us part ways for now and I will visit Paris my way Napoleon, and you, yours. May I remind you we have but twenty-four hours in which to do so.”
“Suit yourself,” the American shrugged. ”I’ll see you back at the hotel tonight, unless I’m otherwise occupied.”
“Which I am sure you will be, “Illya finally broke into a half-smile as he sauntered off, heading in the direction of the river Seine.
He wandered aimlessly for a while until he boarded a Bateaux Mouche at the Quai de la Bourdonnais on the Left Bank. There he settled himself in, leaning comfortably on the railing as the boat gently moved along the river; the city’s monuments coming into view one by one, bringing back his memories at last.
He was young, only eighteen when he was first sent here to Paris by his employer, the Soviet Military Intelligence service...GRU. Illya stopped himself for a second, trying to recall when he was ever that young and naive.
There were orders issued for him to spy on the Soviet scientists and teachers conducting research there at the Sorbonne, his first major assignment, while he himself worked on his masters in quantum physics and thereby furthering his Western education.
It was a Spring very much like this when he foolishly let his guard down with a woman. He’d fallen in love with his handler, Katiya Revchenkov and was blissfully happy for the first time since he was a child.
Katiya was older that he, and wiser in the ways of the world, teaching him not only to be a good spy but guiding him the ways of love. The sex was incredible. The days were long, full of romance wine and food, not only for the body but for his Russian soul. He craved love and she gave it to him, or so he thought.*
Until she betrayed him.
Illya was sent by her on what he thought to be an assignment at the German Ambassador's residence. He was tasked to break in and steal information, but it was all a set up. He was arrested, and deported. His sponsor at military intelligence, Colonel Viktor Karkoff, lost face and that did not bode well for the young Kuryakin, as Viktor was known for his long memory as well as for holding a grudge.
Illya never saw Katiya again, nor did he ever get an answer as to why she’d betrayed him. It was then he swore off women, though admittedly he’d had lapses over the years; letting himself have relationships with a few ladies, but as his partner had been so callous to point out, they never lasted.
Illya wondered if it was his fault; his upbringing in the Soviet system that gave him nothing but an attitude of impermanence, transience as it were. Or was it the job with the Command? Could it be the secrecy that drove away the few women he’d let in to be a small part of his life?
He pursued Marion Raven once and thought he’d won her. She most certainly had his heart, yet still in the end, she sent him away, telling him he couldn’t give her what she needed.**
All these feelings of rejection;. why did being here in Paris suddenly bring them to the surface? Perhaps in truth he was lonely, not for a woman or sex, but for love. Feeling unloved in the city of love, now there was an oxymoron.
Napoleon dealt in his own way regarding the loss of his Clara, but Illya had yet to find a way to cope with such things, other than trying to avoid women.** He tried to remain aloof, pushing those feelings aside and burying them as he always did.
A few hours later Illya disembarked the Bateaux Mouche like any other tourist, deciding to take a taxi to the Moulin Rouge at the foot of Montmartre. Who was he to step on Napoleon’s fun? It was rude of him not to have joined his partner when invited.
Illya made up his mind not to not be a complete stick in the mud, and besides, it had been a long time since he’d seen the legendary can-can... it was, after all, Paris in the Springtime and a beautiful place to be. The leisurely trip on the Bateaux Mouche made him realize that fact.
There were no long dark shadows lurking around every corner, nor anyone following him at the moment. Though the area where the Moulin Rouge was located in the district of Pigalle on boulevard de Clichy, in the 18th arrondissement. It was knows to be a bit seedy however, that he could handle.
He made a decision, seeing a need to move on and get over the memories of his lost loves, but like so many things in life, it would take time.
As he approached the cabaret, Illya took note of how little it had changed since he's last seen it. Marked by a distinctive red windmill on the roof, both the exterior and interior still had that fin de siècle appearance.
Upon entering and scanning for his partner; Illya found him sitting at a table in a discreet location, if there was such a thing there.
Napoleon’s eyes widened, just a little surprised the Russian had shown up after he had been so adamant about not coming.
“Changed your mind chum?” Solo pulled out a chair for him.
“I decided that since it was something important to you, I should at least keep you company until you found your female companion of choice for the evening.”
Solo could see his partner glancing at the topless women that were prancing past as part of the stage show. Though he knew Illya wasn’t a prude, he could see the man wasn’t exactly comfortable.
“You okay with this? I know it’s not your style.”
“Sometimes it is good to extend yourself out of one’s comfort zone. I am an admirer of the female form but having it thrust in your face with little to nothing left to the imagination is, well...a let down. There is no mystery in that as there is with say, a belly dancer, or a geisha.”
“You have a point there tovarisch.” Solo nodded, as he downed his glass of wine. A little mystery between a man and a woman important; discovery was much more exciting than having something just …
His final words were interrupted when dozens of whooping dancers with their layers of red and black crinoline underthings flying, dashed onto the dance floor; lining up and getting ready to perform the once banned can-can.
“Illya, let’s go. I think there’s much nicer places we could enjoy than this. If I want to meet girl who isn’t a lady of the evening, I’ll have a better chance of finding one at a museum or a cafe in a better part of Paris...n’est ce pas?”
Not even contemplating a pithy remark regarding Napoleon’s accent; Illya responded.
“Mais bien sûr,” the Russian smiled to himself as he rose from his seat, following his partner out the door.
.
Translations (thanks to Svetlanacat) and definitions:
"Paris Je t-aime": Paris I love you.
"l'amour": love
“haute couture:” high fashion
“le beau sexe”: the fairer sex.
“arrondissement” : district
“Quai de la Bourdonnais” : Port Bourdonnais on the Seine river
“Bateaux Mouche”: are open excursion boats that provide visitors to Paris with a view of the city from along the river Seine
"Fin de siècle:" end of the century.
“n’est ce pas?”: is it not?
“Mais bien sûr” : but of course
The 'can-can': is a high-energy and physically demanding music hall dance, traditionally performed by a chorus line of female dancers who wear costumes with long skirts, petticoats, and black stockings. The main features of the dance are the lifting and manipulation of the skirts, with high kicking and suggestive, provocative body movements. The main moves are the high kick or battement, the rond de jambe (quick rotary movement of lower leg with knee raised and skirt held up), the port d'armes (turning on one leg, while grasping the other leg by the ankle and holding it almost vertical), the cartwheel and the grand écart (the flying or jump splits).
It became common practice for dancers to scream and yelp while performing the dance. It was viewed as much more erotic because the dancers made use of the extravagant underwear of the period or lack thereof, along with contrasting black stockings. They lifted and manipulated their skirts much more, and incorporated a move sometimes considered the most cheeky and provocative—bending over and throwing their skirts over their backs, presenting their bottoms to the audience.
* ref “First Kill” https://www.fanfiction.net/s/6758034/1/First-Kill
** ref “For no one but for the sake of the command” https://www.fanfiction.net/s/9176054/1/For-No-one-but-for-the-sake-of-the-Command
A/N Much later in life Illya receives a cryptic answer as to why Katiya betrayed him in my AU story “The Thirty-Seven Bridges Affair,” along with a hint that a child is involved...hinted but not confirmed. https://www.fanfiction.net/s/6858927/1/The-Thirty-Seven-Bridges-Affair
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