INCIDENT IN A COFFEE HOUSE

by

gm

Attendance at this little, smoky, hole-in-the-corner coffee house was infrequent for Illya Kuryakin. On the few occasions he had time to relax and the fewer times he felt liked mingling in a social setting with strangers, he usually chose another venue. Or Napoleon chose for him, he mentally corrected. Walking the quiet street only two blocks from his apartment, he hesitated in front of the big window of THE THIRD I. Like the neighborhood, the establishment -- he thought that description ironic -- was fraying around the edges and making the best of old buildings and being slightly-off the main-stream of Manhattan.

Did he really feel like going inside? Most of the sparse population here was comprised of young people typical of the area. They were wage earners; non-college young adults who were looking for a place to fit in among their generation. They did not live close enough to the “hip” spots, nor to the colleges. So they filled a niche here, after work, trying to make a statement against the middle class while living among those denizens of the establishment and trying to not sink too far into that middle-class stereotype.

On his third day of medical leave, he could not stand to stay another minute in his apartment. Not well enough to return to work, too well to sleep anymore, he had taken to the night streets to walk and escape the silent walls of his enforced confinement. To give his mind something to do besides worry about his partner.

Their last assignment in Illinois had been disastrous. Illya’s escape from a THRUSH lab had been slowed by the diabolical release of a deadly toxin in the ventilation system. Unable to reach safety alone, he had stumbled his way through the lab, lacerating his arms and hands from the broken glass he stumbled through to get to the door. Nearly passing out from the fumes, he had been aided, at the last minute, by Solo, who pushed him out of the deadly trap barely in time.

The delay-term effects of the toxin grew worse and peeked during a hospital stay. After three days, the toxins finally dissipated enough for him to return home, but he was weak, drained, his lungs still raw and sensitive from the affects. Medical leave for the rest of the week. Easily bored during recuperation anyway -- with Solo out of town -- extremely bored. Still not in top shape, he had done all the reading he could, the limited amount of walking and very little exercise. This night amble was a frustrated final recourse.

Strolling the neighborhood in the brisk air might keep his mind off Solo’s assignment. Napoleon had left four days ago for Jakarta. His sporadic contact ceased yesterday. Kuryakin could not raise him on any channel. He had pestered the communications section so much they refused to take his calls anymore. Solo’s communicator remained silent. This morning Illya showed up at HQ to make some personal inquiries/demands and was warned to not come back again until he was cleared for duty. It was absolutely ridiculous that a secret agent had to put up with insurance regulations!

Resisting the option to fly to Jakarta to personally find out what had happened, Kuryakin decided to wait it out one more day. As Waverly pointed out in his irate and impatient way this morning, Solo had a way of landing on his feet. Illya refrained from commenting that the landing was sometimes very rough.

Entering the smoky coffee house, Illya nodded to a few regulars who recognized him and waved. He ordered a black coffee and took a corner table in the back, listening to a girl try and put dramatic spin on the lyrics to a Simon and Garfunkle song. Renny, a self-styled “leader” of social reform came over to quietly talk philosophy comparisons between Lenin and Lennon. Illya discouraged the discussion, pleading the desire to hear the dramatic recitation.

In truth, he was trying to think of a good way to slip out unnoticed. This was a bad idea. The petty chit-chat and superficial attempts at expression here seemed ludicrous when his thoughts were constantly filled with dread for his partner’s safety. These young people, and even a few his age and beyond, knew nothing outside their neighborhood. Did not have a clue about the life and death he saw on an almost daily basis. Feeling old and cynical, he knew he should not be here trying to find a peace of mind that eluded him. Politics, music, art -- what did it all matter if Napoleon did not return form Jakarta? He should be booking a flight to the Pacific right now!

Finally, Renny left and during the next “act” -- a girl singing her original-lyrics protest song sung without accompaniment to the tune of (and liberally borrowing words from) Revolution. That tipped the scale and he stood, deciding staring at his four walls would be infinitely better than this.

Near the door, Renny intercepted him with a guitar in hand. “Brother K, you can’t leave without a song. It’s been so long since we’ve heard from you.”

“Not tonight,” Illya flatly refused.

“Kari needs a guitarist. Please.”

Kari, a pretty girl with long blond hair waved at him from the front where she sat on a barstool. His hands were not too damaged that he would have a problem with playing, but he was certainly not in the mood. Every eye in the place, though, was on him. Already he had the reputation of being mysterious, aloof and unapproachable. All good impressions he vied to encourage. But, already a few of the girls -- to Napoleon’s amusement -- had tried to follow him to pry information out of him. As he knew too well from colleagues at work, too much mystery breeds suspicion and investigation.

Acknowledging it would be the lesser of two evils to give in and then go away after the brief participation, he ungraciously acquiesced. Taking the guitar, he sat on a second bar stool in the front and tuned the strings. “What are you singing?”

“You Were on my Mind. By the We Five. You know it, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

A nice, mellow, folk-song. Not the Beatles, but good music. He strummed the first few bars to give her the key and to make sure they were on the right track. Then he gave her a nod and they started.

“When I woke up this morning

you were on my mind . . . .

I got troubles

I got worries

I got wounds to bind . . . .”

Too true!! The words suddenly hit home in an unexpected and disturbing way. Illya had heard the song often on the radio and the lyrics never penetrated to have any personal meaning for him -- not like Beatle songs.

“But I went to the corner

just to ease my mind . . . . “

She faltered and Illya automatically picked it up.

“Just to ease my mind. Just to ease my mind . . . .”

Uncanny!

“I got trouble,” he sang with more fervency than intended. “I got worries

I came home to mend.

When I woke up this morning

You were on my mind . . . .”

He finished the song automatically, his mind twisted by the amazing appropriateness of the lyrics. Not what the writers had in mind, but it fit so amazingly. While this was an interesting diversion, it served to underscore his anxieties about Napoleon. Concern had not dissipated, indeed, the song added urgency to his worry. He had to get to his partner!

Handing the guitar back to Renny, he quickly left THE THIRD I, mentally making plans for flights and connections across the country and Pacific as he briskly walked toward his apartment. A few stores away he stopped, turned, and stared back at the sign above the coffee house.

THE THIRD I. In mystic philosophy, the third eye was the entery charka point in the forehead. Where deep psychic energy centered. The focus of the sixth sense. Was this some kind of clairvoyant sinkhole? An incredible coincidence that he would be asked to sing a song that paralleled his recent experiences so well? They were just lyrics, of course, he shook off. Tapping into his life with unerring accuracy. Yes. Reflecting the danger, frequent injury, and the unknown element of his partner’s current fate? Maybe. THE THIRD I. With a chill, he turned around and walked as fast as he could to his apartment.

In the elevator, he punched the button for the third floor instead of for his own second floor. It was a common habit. He had done this countless times -- traveled up to Napoleon’s apartment just on the floor above his. Convenient to live in the same building with his partner.

Tonight he had to go here and be at the center of his friend’s world. Picking up psychic vibrations? He closed the door and stood in the mddle of the room, taking in the ambiance, the familiar trappings and scents and feel. It was an empty apartment. Without his friend here, it was nothing. No psychic connections formed and he decided to stop the foolishness brought on by the song. He would book a place on the next plane west.

His communicator beeped and he jumped with surprise. He snapped it out of his pocket.

“Napoleon?”

“Hey, nice to know I’ve been expected.”

Kuryakin laughed with giddy relief. “Where have you been?” He tried to sound stern and gruff, but it didn’t work. His joy was obvious.

“It’s a long story. The good news is I’m waiting at the airport for the next plane to Honolulu. Then on home.”

“You’re -- uh -- how did the mission go?” No, that was not what he cared about. “How are you?”

“In one piece.” The smile in the tone, typically, was obvious and warm. “Thanks. How are you?”

“Much better.” More than he would ever admit.

“I was hoping so. Any souvenirs you want from the South Pacific?”

“Nothing.” The only wish he would have asked for was already fulfilled.

“So what have you been doing while I’ve been slaving away in the jungles?”

“I was just at a coffee house tonight.” The chat was so mundane he almost laughed. As if nothing had ever happened. As if he had never worried about his friend’s life.

“Nice.” He cleared his throat. “Are you sure you’re okay? You were on my mind.”

The quote chilled him to the marrow.

“Illya?”

“Yes?”

“You okay?”

“Yes, fine. I just -- yes -- you were on my mind, too” he whispered.

“Uh -- well, everything’s fine. Listen, they’re calling my plane. See you soon.”

“Right.”

Illya clicked the communicator off and stood in the room, chills coursing his spine. He wasn’t sure what had happened tonight. Some deep spiritual connection? A series of remarkable coincidences. He knew, though, he was deeply linked to his friend. And the most important thing was that his friend was coming home safe and sound. He also knew he would not be going back to THE THIRD I for a long time.

The End