by
gm
November 1965
From an early age, Illya Kuryakin
learned to be self-sufficient. Skills
honed in gypsy camps and on the run from Nazi patrols
taught him survival, distrust and independence.
An ideal training ground for his future profession as a covert
operative. It afforded him no help at
all, though, for his current dilemma.
Staring into the showroom of the
department store, he felt overwhelmed -- unusually taxed by his current plight
and completely inadequate for the assignment thrust upon him.
Before him was a glittering
display of cooking appliances, gadgets, formal dining settings and a dizzying
array of fake food that represented the perfect holiday meal. Embarrassed that he was daunted by such a capitolistic example of excess, he ambled away, muttering
under his breath, assuring this was all his partner’s
fault.
Napoleon Solo -- assigned to a
mission in
Napoleon made reservations for
them at a favorite restaurant. When
Illya -- as per Solo’s request -- called and confirmed this morning, he found
there had been an error and Solo’s reservation was lost. Engineering explosive destruction or saving the world on a regular basis was
hardly adequate preparation for verbally intimidating eatery employees and
managers. When he failed to secure a
dinner, he hung up the phone in a huff.
Confident he could make things right with ease at another establishment,
he wasted too much of the day in his futile attempts to gain reservations at
other eateries. He was ready to give up,
but his partner’s words rang in his ears at their last communication:
===
“Just confirm
the reservations, Illya, I want them to hold the
table. This is important.”
“I hope you
don’t expect me to pay-off the host --“
“No money
needs to change hands. And I promised this was my treat, remember? Something about your stark Russian soul being
averse to such decadent American examples of excess?”
Even Illya laughed at that. “It is worth it just to see you pay for something, Napoleon."
“Yeah, I
know you. You’ll
be laughing all the way to the pumpkin pie.
See you tomorrow.”
===
The quirky Solo could be
sentimental about the oddest things and holidays were one of them. He tried, every year, to do something
American and traditional for Kuryakin -- who did not really want to be part of
the bother but learned to valued the attention. After all, when it came down to the bottom
line, other people drifted in and out of their spheres, but in the end it was
always down to the two of them. Solo
wanted holidays covered in that philosophy and Illya could not sway his partner
from the fuss.
Secretly, Illya appreciated the
sentiment that he was part of a brotherhood that not only extended to saving
his life and having someone to rely on with absolute trust, but it also covered
the little things like birthdays, hospital visits (all too frequently) and such
American trappings as Thanksgiving.
At the deli next to the department
store, a woman inside was just turning the OPEN sign around to the CLOSED
side. Adroitly, with practiced ease of
slipping through tight spots, Illya dashed in barely in time, again muttering
dark and veiled threats about his partner as he came to an abrupt stop just
inside the store.
Barely avoiding a crash into a
bag-laden matron just in front of him, Kuryakin nimbly side-stepped. In amazement, he surveyed the long line of
women waiting to be helped. Cursing quietly, Illya weighed his
options. This was the fifth deli he had
tried after four restaurants. The
eateries that Solo liked were all booked.
Then he tried local shops for catering.
All booked. Then eateries Solo DIDN'T
like. No luck. This was his last
hope. He had exhausted all
avenues. Glancing at the daunting line
sank his hopes of a good resolution here, but turkeys behind the glass lifted
his spirits. They had plenty of food
here. Averaging the line of women with
the victuals behind the counter, he felt more optimistic -- yes -- there should be
plenty. And
while the side dishes were going fast, surely there were reserves in the back
that would fill his simple, small order.
Unlike what he overheard from the woman being helped now, he did not
need dinner for seven. Only two.
“Your wife sent you out all alone
for the shopping?” the woman ahead of him asked.
“Uh -- no. I am not married.”
“No wonder you’re so skinny,” she
assessed him with a bold eye.
“I am very busy.”
“Too busy to settle
down with a nice girl?”
Having no witty comeback to that
track and her aggressive nature, he simply replied in the affirmative. The line slowly crept along and he soon
learned of this woman’s entire family and all the courses she would be serving.
She had been coming to this deli for
fifteen years -- ever since they moved into the neighborhood . . . . Illya
tuned it out. There was no need for him
to reply -- she never stopped talking -- so he simply stopped listening.
Mrs. Stein, the lady in front of him, finally
made it to the counter. She had, with admirable foresight, already ordered her meal
contents. The owner brought out a box
and assured one of the helpers would take it to her apartment for her. She ordered some extra sweet potatoes and
moved along to pay.
Distracted by his own inner
thoughts about a current assignment, Illya arrived at the counter and placed
his order for a complete turkey dinner.
Would they be delivering tomorrow or did he have to come pick it up? The owner did not seem amused.
“Whaddaya
think this is, a restaurant? It’s a deli,
sonny. Did you pre-order?”
“No.”
“Then ya
get what I got left over.” He moved
along and pointed under the glass to a very large looking turkey. “Ten pounds. Last one.
I’ll sell it at a discount.”
Illya stared at the white
lump. “It is not cooked,” he stated the
obvious.
“No kidding,” the owner laughed.
Suddenly, the joke was not
funny. “I -- uh -- you do sell meals --“
“I package the meals, sure. YOU do the cooking, Mack.”
Mrs. Stein appeared next to
him. “You cook?”
“Of course,” he lied quickly, then instinctively knew he had made a tactical error in the
response when the gleam in her eye turned dangerous. “I was just -- uh -- fine -- I’ll take
it. And -- uh -- the sweet potatoes and
uh -- the stuffing and whatever else you have.”
“I got none of the trimmings left
already made.”
“What does that mean?” Illya
wondered uncertainly. This was new and perilous
territory this land of culinary art.
“It means I got sweet potatoes in
the back that have not been mashed
or cooked. You want ‘em?”
He had been
assigned, by his partner, to secure
dinner for tomorrow. In this simple
request, he did not intend to fail no matter the grievous obstacles. All other delis would be
closed by now. Restaurants were all
booked. Nothing would be open. Was there a local café somewhere
in the neighborhood? He could try Mama Petrovich’s old world-styled diner named the Blue
Danube. She would still be open tonight,
but she would be closed tomorrow like many small
businesses. Maybe she would have some
leftovers . . . .
He recoiled at fulfilling his
mission by offering his friend scraps!
Napoleon had offered to treat them to an elegant and formal Thanksgiving
meal. The rare largesse confirmed the
importance this tradition held with Solo.
For all the years of their partnership, Napoleon valiantly tried to make
these American occasions special for Illya. Outwardly, the Russian played
a little game in a show that he did not appreciate
them. Yet silently felt warmed and touched inside. After all, he couldn’t
let his partner think he was soft and decadent.
But at this time of year he couldn’t help but
think about the things he was thankful for:
a good life that he enjoyed, an important job he was good at, a lucky
life that was so far removed from the mean childhood of starvation and
danger. And he
could thank one person that he continued to enjoy this life. If not for Napoleon, he would have been dead
long ago. A friend who was utterly loyal
and deserved his wishes fulfilled.
Frantically trying to mentally regroup after this disaster, Illya ordered
whatever the owner had on hand. The mysterious
sacks and lumps were gathered. He ignored Mrs. Stein, who
was looking at him as if he was a little lost puppy.
“You need a place for the holiday?”
she asked in a predatory manner. “I live
just down the street. I have two
beautiful daughters about your age. No
one should be alone on Thanksgiving.”
“No -- I -- uh --“
“This is when we share our
happiness with others.”
“Yes --“
“We have our family and friends
together and show how truly thankful we are for them.”
“Yes. Exactly. I am eating with my -- uh -- cousin.”
“Can’t she cook? She should have had this
done days ago!”
“He,” Illya distractedly replied
as he watched the owner pack the pale, limp turkey and various items he could
not identify into the box.
“He! Is he single,
too? You can both come. I have two daughters, remember?”
“How much?” Illya asked the owner, trying to ignore the persistent lady.
He counted out bills and threw
them on the counter, not wanting to wait for specifics. As quickly as possible
he fled, hoping Mrs. Stein did not follow him home.
***
The supplies laid out in plain
view on his kitchen counter, Illya stared at them with the wariness he would
approach an armed THRUSH bomb. Sweet
potatoes -- he had eaten them before, of course, but mostly mashed and as a side
dish on his plate. How hard could they
be to cook? They were homely looking. Boil them, right? He didn’t have a pan
big enough. And
the sundry ingredients in another bag -- bread, and various vegetables. The stuffing? What was he supposed to do with a can of
pumpkin and cream and . . . ARGH!!!
With a great sigh of frustration he dragged a
chair over and sat and stared at the enemy
properties. All right, no war was won without a solid tactical plan. He checked his watch. It was far too late to expect any stores to
be open now. Resources. He needed reference material.
In a flash of inspiration, he
grabbed his keys and jogged up the stairs to Napoleon’s apartment. Never so grateful to have his partner living
in the same building, he rummaged through the bookshelves and pulled out the
three cookbooks. Some hinting-presents a woman had given the bachelor Solo in a mistaken
attempt to domesticate the playboy agent.
Dashing back upstairs, he cleared his fridge of it’s
meager contents, made a place for the turkey, and made some strong coffee. Settling down in a comfortable spot in the
living room, snacking on cheese and crackers, he started reading, planning his
attack.
***
For the first time in his life,
Illya spent Thanksgiving afternoon making dressing. Armed with knowledge, confident in his IQ
being equal to the task of holiday cuisine, he had taken the deli’s ingredients and embellished them, feeling a bit of bread
and vegetables were just not good enough.
He remembered Mama Petrovich had a nice rice
side dish recipe from the old country similar to stuffing and he added rice,
German sausage and
some spices he liberated from Napoleon’s kitchen. Carried away with his own improvisation, he
now had too much stuffing to fit inside the turkey! Regardless, he took hands-full of dressing
and stuffed it into the bird.
***
During the course of the last few
days, he had talked in errant, brief communiqués with his partner. Things were not going well in
When Illya caught sight of Solo at
the arrival gate, he could detect no obvious physical injuries, but clearly saw
the senior agent was exhausted. The
loosened tie, the unusually rumpled jacket were signposts, but the telling
factor was the wearied demeanor that conveyed abject fatigue.
Solo gave him a tired wave and a
subdued greeting. “Thanks for the ride.”
Illya fell into slow step with the
taller man. “Must you make a report tonight at HQ?”
“No. I talked with Waverly this afternoon.”
There was no embellishment of the
details and the Russian did not ask. In
the following days there would be reports to fill in
the specifics in black and white. Not
that it mattered. Just from Napoleon’s
somber brown eyes, he could read the hardship and disillusionment. An eloquent expose’ far more explanatory than
the stark official forms that would be filed tomorrow.
“How have things been here?”
“Complicated and busy,” Illya
admitted, restraining a smile as he thought of his adventures in holiday eatery
and his valiant conquest of a certain, challenging
bird.
Solo tenses slightly. “Anything I need to know about?”
“You will learn soon enough.”
Barely turning his head, Napoleon
cocked an eyebrow. “You are being
mysterious.”
“Thank you.”
After collecting the single piece
of luggage, they walked to Illya’s car.
Once away from the curb, Solo commented with some surprise at the lack
of traffic.
“I believe everyone must be at
their homes devouring their turkey dinners,” Illya smugly replied, feeling a
little bit of a secret triumph that HE was now part of that class. A part of the American
fabric in slaving over hot stove and oven to achieve a kitchen coup. At his partner’s silence, he wondered,
“What?”
Nonplussed, Solo stared at
him. “Happy Thanksgiving.” He breathed out a
chuckle. “After pestering you about
confirming the reservations and muttering about getting back here in time, I
completely forgot.” He glanced at his watch. “My apologies, Illya. We missed the reservations, didn’t we?”
“Not your fault,” Illya covered
smoothly. No need to
spoil the surprise. “Don’t
worry.”
“No, I promised you a real
American Thanksgiving dinner. My treat. And I
promise I’ll make it up to you.”
Tsking, Illya assured, “I have learned
much being your partner all these years, Napoleon. I DID have a back up plan.”
“One of your best qualities,” Solo
almost smiled. “I really WAS going to
treat --“
“Napoleon, I believe you. Don’t worry about
it. Trust me.”
Not convinced, Solo leaned his head
back against the seat. “Okay, but I’ll
make it up to you.”
“I know you will,” Illya smiled.
“Hmm. I suppose we can
open a few cans of -- something. It’s
the sentiment that counts.”
“Oh, I think we can do better than
canned sentiment,” Kuryakin nearly coughed, choking on his laughter.
Perhaps it was cruel to play out
the drama, but it was so seldom he could pull something over on his
friend. And
this time it was a pleasant surprise. Oddly, that was how he looked at the hours of laborious study and
work he had invested in one meal.
It seemed ridiculous to go to all that struggle for just food, but he was
beginning to understand the value of it.
Not the least of which would be the final product of
eating the goods. But already, just having the surprise was a treat.
The American opened one eye and
stared at him, managing eloquent skepticism in that single
orb. “You, worry me, Mr. K. Your tone is so cryptic.”
“Good.”
***
Reluctantly, Napoleon agreed to
stop first at Kuryakin’s apartment. When
the door opened, Solo paused at the threshold.
He nearly gasped.
Extremely pleased with his
triumph, Illya tugged Solo into the room and closed the door, dragging him all
the way to the kitchen. “Surprise. Happy Thanksgiving.”
He opened the oven door and the room seemed to burst with a myriad of
odors -- all delicious -- assaulting them.
“Welcome to dinner. Grab some
plates and I will extract a subdued bird.”
While muttering comments of
amazement and awe, Solo complied.
Several times he stopped in his chore to
compliment the cook on the divine scent, the golden beauty of the turkey and
the wonder of the little toasted marshmallows in a pan. He hovered over the pumpkin pie so long
Kuryakin finally removed it to the counter.
Only the senior agent’s dexterous reflexes narrowly saved him from being skewered by a fork for his preemptive piecing of the
turkey meat.
“What can we ever do to thank Mama
Petrovich for this?
She is the one who engineered this, yes? How did she manage on such short notice? You only knew about my flight delays a few
hours ago.”
Slightly miffed, Illya assured that
Mama did not descend to making traditional American meals. Hers was strictly an old world café. Adept at various and nefarious methods of
mayhem and heroics, did his partner not think him capable of cooking a simple (he
nearly laughed at that gross understatement) meal?
“You?” Solo assessed
him. “By yourself?”
“Entirely.”
“I don’t know what to say. Except let’s eat.”
Smiling, Illya agreed. He carved the turkey and heaped overloaded
helpings of food on their plates while Solo pieced and complimented around
bites. He continued picking at the food
as he walked to the couch. Kuryakin
followed with a plate so full it was dripping gravy. Then he went back in the kitchen, returning
with wine and two glasses.
Around a mouthful of dressing, Solo commented,
“Liberated from my cupboard?”
“Yes. Along with the cookbooks.
Your contribution in this effort.”
“The least I could do,” Napoleon
grinned with irony. “I am really amazed,
Illya. You are a continual surprise.”
“It was simple,” Kuryakin countered modestly.
But valuing the audience, couldn’t help
but elaborate. After all, no one would
understand his success as much as his partner. “I followed scientific methods. A formula -- the recipe -- and it was
simple. The challenge was making sure
all the dishes were done before I left for the
airport. Then I left them to warm in the
oven at a low . . . .” He scowled. “You are laughing at me.”
“Never at you, tovarich,” Solo
chuckled, saluting the chef with a fork-full of meat and sweet potatoes. “Your worth as a partner continues to
ascend.” He picked up his wine
glass. “To the
brilliant and talented cook.”
Truly content that he had scored
high in all his intentions -- tackling the various elements of the meal, making
everything taste good, finishing on time and surprising his partner -- Illya
felt the master of the game. He accepted
the compliment with a modest nod.
“Much better
than canned sentiment?”
Napoleon’s face became a little
more serious. “Much. But it’s still the
sentiment that’s important. Thanks. This is a surprise I am
never likely to forget. Why did
you go to all this trouble for a silly American tradition?”
“To have
leftovers all week of course.” At Solo’s frown, he corrected the flippant
remark. “Someone told me this was a time
for being thankful for family and friends.”
He raised his glass. “That is not
a silly tradition. It is one I might
learn to like.”
“Here, here,” Napoleon smiled and
touched his glass.
"Here, here," Kuryakin agreed. Perhaps, he pondered, the greatest surprise had been his own joy at providing this happy surprise to his partner. Accustomed to satisfaction over saving his friend's life, it felt just as good to provide emotional -- and edible -- sustenance. "To the opportunity for thankfulness."
"Very nice," Napoleon agreed. "And I am very thankful for an indispensable and multi-talented partner."
Modestly accepting the compliment
with a silent nod, Illya turned the conversation back to a lighter tone. “And there are other benefits to
this holiday,” Kuryakin speculated with a glint in his eye. “Food.”
“In this arena, partner, you are a
master.”
“And you are not completely
without talent either, Napoleon. Your
opportunity is coming.”
“What, finishing off that
delicious looking pie?”
“Yes. And one more
thing. Washing the dishes.”
THE END