The aroma of something cooking greeted Napoleon as he walked into the apartment of his friend. Illya's invitation to dinner was a last minute affair, and from the sound of his voice there had been no time to waste. The locks were replaced by the time the dinner guest removed his coat, the Russian's actions taking just seconds to accomplish their task. He was smiling like a child at a candy store; at least that was the first thing that came to Napoleon's mind.
"Illya, what smells so good? And why the rush to get here?" More smiling and a deep inhalation of the delicious aroma of… "Mrs. Paulsen's chicken soup." Ah, one of Illya's admirers had prepared yet another home cooked meal for the skinny immigrant.
"It smells wonderful.' Napoleon chuckled at the thought of the middle aged and even elderly women who lined up to feed his friend. "Any special occasion I need to be aware of, of are you just too irresistible?"
The blond was grinning again, glad to be the recipient of so many good intentions. It was one of the things he enjoyed about living here in this neighborhood. "Can I help it if they think I never eat well? No matter, the soup is ready and you, my friend, are in for a … how do they say it? A treat." And with that the two men sat down at the modest table and consumed the entire pot of Mrs. Paulsen's homemade chicken noodle soup. The only accompaniment was a loaf of freshly baked bread, also supplied by the attentive woman whose own son bore a striking resemblance to her young neighbor.
As the last drops of soup were sopped up with the last of the bread, each man inhaled deeply in hopes of finding more room for the banana pudding that still remained. It would be a few minutes more before that could be consumed, although Illya allowed no doubt that he would, indeed, have some of it. "I can't believe she prepared this entire meal for you, tovarisch. What kinds of charm to you bestow on these women to provoke such largesse?" Illya just smiled. His life in America had involved experiences unlike those in his previous life in Europe. Something about him, his hair or his eyes, perhaps his accent, seemed to bring out a type of …
"I am not sure, but whatever it is I hope it continues to have the same effect. I have never eaten so well in my entire life.' The truth of that statement struck him, and in the midst of his euphoria over the delicious meal, Illya suddenly felt a pang of sadness. Napoleon saw the change in his friend's expression and mirrored it with one of confusion.
"Now what's wrong? You look like someone just died." Melancholy was the word that came to mind as Solo looked at his Russian partner. Illya was hard pressed to explain. How does one compress a lifetime of extremes into a bowl of chicken soup?
"Nothing is wrong, I just … For a moment I was taken back to times when a single bowl of soup would have meant the difference between living and dying of hunger. A crust of bread might have provided my only meal.' In that moment Napoleon saw in Illya's eyes the child who had survived war and unspeakable losses in a country conflicted with internal upheavals and foreign invasions.
Even though he had good memories of his family, the loss of Illya's father to the ravages of a political witch hunt, and then his mother to the maneuverings of a power hungry relative all served to catapult his own life into chaos, albeit one that had provided an education and, to be honest, America. How this bowl of soup could take him into this labyrinth of personal history was baffling even to the PhD endowed Russian.
Napoleon didn't understand, but he had a surge of compassion at the thought of his partner, his friend, fighting to survive at such a young age. He imagined it was one of the reasons he was so good at it now.
"Look, there's still banana pudding for us to enjoy; I'm betting that won't bring back any memories as it is, to the best of my knowledge, uniquely American." Illya had to smile at that, although a comeback wasn't far from emerging.
"Really? Practically everything American has its origins in the immigrants who came here. I can probably find a source for banana pudding as well.' He was gathering the dish and two spoons as he spoke, and set it all down in front of his guest.
"Now, dig in. No more of my dark past, I promise." He said that with a smile, but Napoleon sensed the remnant of his friend's earlier remarks.
"Your past may have its dark moments, but the present is full of promise. The future, well that's something else, but at least we're in the business of making it better."
"Amen, brother." Where that came from was unknown, but it sent the two friends into a fit of laughter that ended with deep sighs of contentment.