A Walk In the Park
by Avery
"Best roses in Manhattan," Napoleon declared as he and Illya exited Floral Designs by Olivier on Central Park West. Each man carried an elegant bouquet of flowers, wrapped in pink cellophane and tied with a silk ribbon. "Olivier always carries the best."
"They are certainly the most expensive," Illya replied, gazing mournfully at his empty wallet. "Ah well, nothing is too good for Aunt Amy, I suppose."
"That's the spirit. I'll make a capitalist out of you yet."
"You can try." Illya stuffed his billfold into his back pocket. "Perhaps we should hail a cab. It is rather warm today, and we don't want the flowers to wilt."
The senior agent glanced up at the bright blue sky, enjoying the feeling of the warm sun on his skin. It was a welcome change from their recent near-entombment in the ice caves of northern Finland. "On second thought, let's walk. Amy's penthouse is only a couple of blocks away. We can cut through Central Park."
Illya studied his partner, noting the lines of tension around the jawline, fatigue rimming bloodshot eyes. He nodded. "The fresh air will do us both good."
They took the 72nd Street walkway into the Park, and listened as the sounds of traffic faded. The dogwoods were in bloom, their petals drifting down like flakes of snow onto the fresh green grass. Birds flitted among the treetops, captivating passers-by with the joy of their song. Napoleon drank in the beauty like a starving man.
"It's good to be home," he said.
They followed the lakeshore path past bumpy-barked hackleberry trees, tupelos and a small stand of Eastern hemlocks. A few rowboats dotted the water, couples and families enjoying the warm Spring sunshine. The sounds of laughter drifted toward them on the breeze.
"Mom used to take us kids rowing out on the Lake," Napoleon recalled as they watched a mother and her two giggling children row by. "We'd go every Sunday after church if the weather was nice. On the way home, we'd stop for ice cream at Schrafft's." He smiled at the memory.
"Perhaps this is where your fascination with sailing began."
"Maybe. I loved being out on the water. Out there, away from all the noise of the city, I could pretend I was on all sorts of grand adventures – sailing off to French Polynesia in search of pirate treasure, or floating up the Nile, surrounded by man-eating crocodiles."
"Captain Solo, the swashbuckling pirate. Very sexy."
"You think so? Remind me to show you my broadsword later tonight."
"Certainly." Illya's smile held a hint of the predatory. "You show me yours, and I will show you mine."
They passed the Cherry Hill Fountain, the surrounding trees redolent with fragrant pink blossoms. "It was good of Aunt Amy to include me in her Mother's Day celebration," Illya said as they dodged around a group of college students playing Frisbee on the wide green lawn. "Are your sisters coming, too?"
"Hippolyta can't make it – she's got that conference in Brussels – but Artemesia and the kids will be there. Aunt Amy was over the moon with excitement when she found out they were coming."
"She does love a good party. I still remember the one she threw at Halloween last year - I have never seen so many people crammed into one apartment."
"Amy needs people around her the way other people need air. She's had more than her share of loss in her life. Her husband was killed in '44, at the Battle of Anzio. They'd only been married a couple of months, which made it especially tragic. Mom had passed away from cancer the year before –" Napoleon looked away for a moment, composing himself. "When you lose someone precious like that, I think it makes you treasure the family you have left even more."
Illya nodded his understanding. "Your mother died when you were – what, ten?"
"Eight."
"So young – I did not realize." His hand reached over to clasp Napoleon's. "What do you remember most about her?"
"Don't laugh, but I remember the smell of her shampoo – fresh, like gardenias. And how soft her hands were. And the way she laughed – like music, like was the sort of woman who could make heads turn just by walking into a room. She loved people, and they loved her."
"She sounds wonderful."
"There was one summer where it seemed like we were always off gallivanting. A trip to the beach, a museum, a Broadway show, a concert in the Park. There was something new every day. Mom taught us kids how to swim that summer, and how to ride a two wheeler. I think she must have known she was sick, even then - it was like she was trying to cram a whole lifetime into those three short months."
"Making memories for you. What else do you remember?"
A sudden smile lit Napoleon's face. "Oh, gosh, her bedtime stories! I'd forgotten all about them! Mom was a fabulous storyteller. At night, she'd read to us, complete with all the voices – Greek myths mostly, Theseus slaying the Minotaur and such. You should have heard her doing the voice of the Minotaur." He laughed. "Other times it would be a chapter from Sherlock Holmes or The Wind In the Willows. My favorite was The Lone Ranger series of books. I'd dream of riding my very own white stallion, galloping across the western plains with faithful Tonto by my side, crying out a hearty 'Hi-yo, Silver, away!'"
"After saving the innocent townspeople from the bad guys, I presume?"
"Yeah." Napoleon laughed softly. "I guess I'm still doing that, aren't I?"
"'The seed grows the tree,' as we say in Russia."
"'The seed grows the tree.'" Napoleon turned the phrase over on his tongue. "I like that."
They crossed the graceful stone arch of the Bow Bridge, pausing to admire the play of sunlight on the water. "Is there a special day for mothers in the Soviet Union?" Napoleon asked.
"The closest comparison would be International Women's Day. It is a time to show respect and honor to all women. Mothers, yes, but also grandmothers, wives, daughters, friends. We bring gifts of flowers – roses or yellow mimosas are most popular – and there is a festive meal with champagne. Afterward, the men do the dishes and other chores so that their wives may enjoy rest from their labors." Illya tossed a blossom into the water, and watched it float away. "Mamotchka loved roses."
"Mamotchka? Your mother?" Napoleon leaned forward, arms resting on the stone railing. "You don't talk about her much. What was she like?"
"Kind, and very beautiful. She had a sweet smile that could light up a room. She was like Snegurotchka, our Snow Maiden, a magical creature, pale and graceful. I thought I had the prettiest mother in the whole world."
"She was a dancer, wasn't she? A ballerina?"
"Prima ballerina," Illya corrected with a touch of pride. "She started out in the corps de ballet, and worked her way up."
"Wow, impressive."
"You have no idea. I used to sit in the wings, watching her perform night after night. Coppelia, Giselle, Odette – she danced them all. The audience would be in a frenzy when the curtain came down – applauding, stomping their feet, crying 'ypa, ypa,' and'ochen' khorosho.'"
"Amazing."
"Yes, she was." Illya stared down into the dark water. "What the audience did not know, what they could not see, was what those performances cost her."
"Cost her?" Napoleon thought he must have misheard.
"Afterward, after everyone had gone home, I would help her take off her pointe shoes. Her feet were swollen, red, covered in blisters. Sometimes they bled. Her toes were bruised, the nails black from the compressions."
"Oh, Illya."
"She could not afford proper pointe shoes, you see. I massaged her feet, washed the glue off, bathed them in ice to dull the pain. Sometimes it was after midnight before she was able to stand. The buses did not run at that hour, so we had to walk the two miles back home to our apartment."
Napoleon didn't know what to say. "It must have been hard on you," he finally managed, feeling the inadequacy of the words, "seeing her in such pain."
"It was hard to watch her suffer." He shrugged. "Sometimes, I wished we could move out of the city, board a train and go someplace warm – a littledacha by the Black Sea, where we could go barefoot and grow vegetables – but I knew Mama would never give up her dancing. She loved it too much. And so she went on dancing, night after night, year after year. Accepting the applause, and the roses, and the cost. And I loved her for it because, sometimes, love is the only choice possible."
'Because love is the only choice possible.'
Such a simple statement, Napoleon thought to himself as they completed their traverse of the Park. And yet, it explained so much about the quiet, intensely private man who was his partner. The man who, from among all the available candidates, had chosen Napoleon Solo to love.
The seed grows the tree.
So lost in thought was he, that he never noticed when they reached the glass entrance to Aunt Amy's apartment building.
"We should probably go in," Illya said, looking at him oddly. "They will be waiting for us."
Napoleon nodded absently. As they crossed the marbled lobby to the elevator, he managed a reflexive wave to Suleman, the Senegalese doorman.
"You be sure and wish a Happy Mother's Day to that Aunt of yours, Mr. Solo!" Suleman called out.
"I will." The doors closed, and the elevator began its ascent to the penthouse.
"Napoleon?"
He raised his eyes, saw Illya watching him with concern. "The seed grows the tree," he said.
"Ah." Illya smiled. "So now you know me better."
"No," he corrected. "Now I know why you love me."
The door opened. Music blared from a phonograph in an adjacent room, mingling with the distant sounds of conversation. Artemesia's tinkling laugh, so like their mother's, bubbled out from the general direction of the kitchen, accompanied by the delighted squeals of a pair of unruly children.
"Sounds like the party's already in high gear," Napoleon said.
"Isn't it always?"
Aunt Amy barreled down the long hallway at something close to light speed. She wrapped her arms around the two men, and enveloping them in a sweet cloud of Bal a Versailles. Her eyes were suspiciously bright. "My boys are here!" she exclaimed. "And you've brought roses! How wonderful!"
Napoleon took Illya's hand, and followed his beloved Aunt Amy toward the kitchen, where his family waited.
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