It felt like snow. Illya Kuryakin was always good at predicting that and for a moment he shivered from the chill in the air as he hopped up the stairs to the door of the darkened brownstone; identical to the other such buildings that lined this quiet city street. A paper sack was tucked under his arm as he inserted a key into the lock, and stepping inside; he cautiously drew his gun from its holster.
Minutes later he emerged, having ensured all was secure, and holding a small penlight, he flashed twice as a signal before returning it to his pocket.
Two figures emerged the black sedan parked across the street; a man and a woman, and quickly they crossed to the house and entered it.
The curtains drawn, Kuryakin turned on a lamp, finally shedding light on their surroundings. "This is better than the last safe house we stayed in," he said, making a beeline for the kitchen.
"You can say that again, there's actually heat," his partner replied, guiding the woman beside him as he carried her small valise."
"There are two bedrooms upstairs, as is the bathroom,"Illya called. They could hear the sound of kitchen cabinets being opened and shut."Sadly the pantry is not well stocked….cans of chicken soup, one can of tomato, some tea bags, crackers...the usual."
"Miss Kurasov," Napoleon said," If you'd care to freshen up?"
"Yes Mr. Solo, thank you," the petite brunette demurely said, taking her suitcase from him.
"Please, call me Napoleon," he smiled at her. "We're going to be here for a few days so we might as well keep it a little more friendly, given it's the holiday season and such."
"Sorry, I have not celebrated Christmas in a long time. I had to grow up quickly, so I did not have time for that bourgeois nonsense. We moved around a lot...and by the way, you may call me Yelena, if that pleases you."
"Sorry to hear that,Yelena" he responded. "You and my Bolshevik partner are going to make peachy company for the holiday."
"You may recall Russian Christmas is not celebrated on December 25th, so even if I did partake in such festivities, it would not be Christmas for me and Mr. Kuryakin until January 7th."
"That is Communist, my friend." Illya corrected, walking out of the kitchen now carrying the paper sack in his hand. "Please get your terminology right."
"Illya didn't you bring a suitcase?"
"I did... this," he held up the bag.
"Seriously?"
"I do not need a valise to carry a bit of underwear, socks, sweatpants and my shaving kit...oh yes and two turtlenecks. You know I like to travel light, and since we will be here only a few days, why bother to lug a suitcase."
Solo shook his head not even having a snappy comeback to that one. Illya could just be a head-scratcher at times. Napoleon walked over to the thermostat, adjusting the heat to a more comfortable temperature, and looked to the small fireplace in the sitting room, noting there was plenty of firewood.
"At least we'll be cozy, and have a yule log for Christmas Eve…"
Illya shrugged, not giving a tinker's damn about that. "Shall I prepare our supper?"
"As much as I like chicken noodle soup tovarisch, I think I want something more akin to a holiday meal and I'm sure our charge would appreciate that as well, inspite of her not celebrating Christmas."
"Napoleon, have you forgotten...the cupboards are barely stocked?"
"And that's why I'm going to head out for supplies. If I have to spend Christmas here, then I damn well am going to eat a good meal or two...any problem with that plan?"
Illya flashed a toothy grin. "You have to ask such a question? Though as you pointed out, it is Christmas Eve, where exactly do you think you can find this feast?"
"I saw a small grocer that was still open when we passed, just a block away. Most places do stay open until five, so maybe I might just get lucky. It's worth a shot."
"Shot? Do not say that word my friend, you do not wish to bring any problems down on us." Illya was being his usual fatalistic self.
Solo headed for the door, and as he opened it he reminded his partner to be careful.
"That goes without saying. I have a feeling, however, that even T.H.R.U.S.H. is taking off the holiday, and given the weather I think most people will be staying close to home." Illya locked the door behind the American, shaking his head at Napoleon's determination to have Christmas. He himself had not celebrated the holiday in the true sense, since the war.
In the Soviet Union, the secular holiday was still observed and the only Christmas tree permitted had to have a red star at its top. People still gave trinkets and believed in the legend of Grandfather Frost and his granddaughter Snegurochka, also known as the Snow Maiden.
Ded Moroz was said to bring presents to children, however, unlike the secretive Santa Claus, the gifts were often delivered "in person", at New Year's Eve parties and other New Year celebrations, or they occured at organized celebrations at schools around New Year time where the gifts could be standardized.
Still, Illya recalled Ded Moroz rarely paid a visit to the Orphanage where he was raised….if he did come, it was with little for the childen...a single piece of candy, never toys. One year a young Kuryakin was lucky enough to have gotten a pair of woolen socks. He knew Grandfather Frost wasn't real, and was simply a local man who had taken pity on the orphaned children. What he brought was paid for out of his own pocket, as those running the facility couldn't be trusted to buy anything; instead they would pocket the money that was meant for gifts for the children.
Yelena came downstairs, looking around the room for Napoleon. "Where is he?"
"Gone to find supplies, apparently he is determined to make this a 'nice' Christmas for us all.
"Illya, why does he insist upon this. I do not I celebrate, I told him that. He seems to know you do not either...Christmas, it is really for children."
"It his his way. Americans seem to be single-minded when it comes to this particular holiday," he shrugged his answer.
.
Wisps of white were beginning to drift down and swirl on the sidewalk as the American decided to walk. It was better to leave the car parked where it was as the spaces on the block were full, and it was better to keep the vehicle close by, just in case a fast getaway was needed.
Pulling up his collar and bracing himself against the cold, Napoleon kept a steady pace walking along the sidewalk, peering into the windows as he passed by, seeing the brightly lit Christmas trees and wreaths within. There were twinkling strands of lights strung from one side of the street to the other and in the distance a deep, resonant church bell rang out.
Napoleon stopped, standing there and savored the moment. This actually felt like Christmas. He let go a long sigh and watched his breath in the night air, surrounded by falling snowflakes….
He should have felt down, being away from his bestest girl, as he called his Aunt Amy….though at the moment she was somewhere in the Bahamas enjoying herself. The rest of his family was spread out around the world, as usual. His parents were in Rome, his brother Hannibal in London and his three sisters Theresa, Stella and Milicent were skiing in the Swiss alps.
Christmases at the Solo household were sporadic to say the least, though Napoleon always tried to make the best of it...no matter where he was. That's exactly what he planned to do with Illya and Yelena, inspite of their bah humbug attitudes.
The lights were still on in the little grocery story, and Napoleon snapped his fingers, pleased at his luck. He opened the door, and a little brass bell, not unlike the one at Del Florias tinkled its welcome.
Nodding his greeting to the older man behind the counter, he spoke to the man.
"You aren't closing yet are you? " Solo asked just to be polite, hoping the answer wouldn't be yes.
"Not for another half hour Signor." His accent was obviously Italian.
"Grazi," Napoleon thanked him.
"Take your time there is no rush." The grocer smiled at him.
"You have Christmas dinner waiting for you, I hope? I don't want to keep you."
"Of a sort, I go to a neighbors house since my Maria, she passed away. They Polish, so no antipasto or lasagna…not even a bowl of minestrone." There was an audible sigh coming from the man. " I used to bring some Italian fooda, but they never seema to go over too good. They like their kielbasa and pierogie…"
"Sorry to hear that, but at least you have somewhere to go, that's important."
"And you Signor, out on Christmas Eve to buy food, you have no one you cana spenda the holiday with?"
"Oh I have… there's a couple of people with whom I'll be spending the next few days, though they don't celebrate. I will however do my best to convince them otherwise."
"Bene… now what can I getta for you Signor?"
Napoleon looked at the counter filled will all sorts of delights. "I'll take enough agnolotti for four, chicken breasts...for cacciatore, and some of those meatballs too. Umm, yes and some brushchetta as well."
"Ah, sounds like the makings of a fine feast!"
"That is the plan. Now if you'll excuse me, I don't want to keep you any longer than I need to. I just need a few other things." Napoleon grabbed a shopping basket, picking up some boxed spaghetti, cans of plum tomatoes and puree, oregano, garlic, several loaves of Italian bread. Salami, olives…something else? What was he forgetting?
He brought his treasures up to the counter, and snapped his fingers, suddenly remembering he needed butter, mozzarella and parmesan...and most importantly, coffee, oh and a quart of milk. Napoleon realized they'd need breakfast so he grabbed a loaf of Wonder bread, a dozen eggs and a package of sausage links. "Perfect," he thought with a smile.
"I'll be right back," he said the the shopkeep.
Napoleon disappeared to the back of the small store…
The brass bell rang it's greeting and a blond man walked inside, looking about nervously as if searching.
He turned to the shopkeeper, drawing a snubnose revolver from his pocket and pointing it at the man.
"Give me all your money pops," he growled.
"Please Signor, it's Christmas...do not not do this on the eve of the Holy Bambino's birth. That will make it an even greater sin. Are you hungry, I will gladly feed you, but please do nota hurt me...please putta the gun away."
"Don't push me old man! Now give me the cash or else!" He was a young boy really, perhaps only seventeen. His hair was unkempt and his old leather jacket was ill-fitting and not good for keeping him warm.
Napoleon loaded up the supplies, and turned to head back to the front of the store and as soon as he heard the words being bellowed he knew there was trouble. He put down his shopping basket, undid his coat, quickly drawing his gun from it's holster. At the same time he ducked down, creeping along the aisle until the would-be robber was in sight.
The old man saw him coming, and though he tried to hide his surprise, his eyes widened at the sight of the dark-haired man with a gun in his hand.
Solo moved carefully but as bad luck would have it, he took one more step and the floorboard just had to creak.
Between the look in the shopkeep's eyes and the noise, the robber turned, ready to fire his pistol. Napoleon dove forward, hitting the man with his shoulder, right in his midsection. The two men went flying against a display of boxed pasta, sending it flying helter skelter.
Solo had no time to use his Special, and knew he needed to disarm his opponent before anything deadly they wrestled, grappling for control of the gun as they rolled across the floor.
Finally Napoleon was on top of him and wrenched the gun free, turning it on the man.
"I'd hate to use this, it being Christmas Eve, but give me an excuse and I will."
"No worries Mista...I'm sorry. I needed the money for my mother. She's sick and we didn't have any dough for the medicine, you undastand, don'tcha?"
Napoleon pulled the fellow up by his jacket, shaking his head. "Is that the truth?"
"God's honest truth...there ain't even no bullets in the gun, so I couldn't have hurt the old man. Please you gotta believe me?"
Suddenly feeling sentimental, Napoleon pulled out his wallet. "How much does your mother's medication cost?"
"Fifteen dollars…"
"Here's, twenty five. Get her her prescription and a nice Christmas present too."
The young man stood wide-eyed, not believing what was happening."
Napoleon tucked the pistol in his pocket,"I'll keep this if you don't mind...better to remove temptation."
"Yeah, sure Mista. I promise I won't do nothin' stupid like this again." He turned to the shopkeep," I'd like to apologize to you, I'm so sorry, but I didn't know what else to do."
"Hey, nobody gotta hurt, that's what counts. Waita here justa minute." The shopkeep quickly gathered a bag of groceries, handing it to the boy. "Here, you make a nice Christmas dinner for your mama, okay?"
"Thanks Mr. Valenti...wow this is like a Christmas miracle." The young man picked up the bag, after stuffing the cash in his pocket, and recalcitrently backed his way out the door, disappearinginto the night.
"Signor, how can I thank you? You save my life and his too?"
"No thanks necessary, I'm just glad I was here to stop something bad from happening.
Mr. Valenti packed up the groceries for Napoleon. "Please, take a these...ona the house Signor."
"No sir. I pay my debts," Napoleon smiled, waving him off. He reached into his wallet, and suddenly realized he'd given away all his cash. Looking up in embarrassment, he knew he had to take the man up on his offer.
"See, Goda makes things happen for a reason Signor." Mr. Valenti handed the two paper sacks of groceries to Napoleon. "God bless you Signor. I have witnessed it tonight. The boy was right...a Christmas miracle."
"Well I don't know about that sir. I was just at the right place at the right time."
"Hey, who'sa to say God did not guide you here to me?" The old man winked.
Mr. Valenti saw Napoleon to the door, locking it behind him and turning a little sign that hung there to say 'closed.' He waved goodbye and disappeared behind his counter, shutting off some of the lights.
The snow was falling steadily now as Napoleon Solo put a good leg under it, heading back to the brownstone, now feeling quite light-hearted. All was right with the world, if just for this brief moment. Some good had been done tonight, there was a momentary peace that people were sharing. A holy and blessed peace, and one he hoped he could get two stubborn Russians to feel.
That would be his last endeavor of the evening, making dinner and having Illya and Yelena see the light…. of a star showing the way for everyone and giving the message that we're all part of a bigger picture, one where we have to look out for our fellow man. They probably couldn't see it in the sky, but it's meaning shown clear….peace on earth and good will to all men, and women, of course.
Napoleon wondered if he had been indeed guided to that shop by a greater power…but a gust of cold wind distracted him from that fleeting thought
He reached the door of the brownstone, rang the doorbell and gave his coded knock. Hearing Illya's voice call out to verify who it was; he answered. "Yeah, it's me buddy, now open up...it's cold and I have a dinner to make."
The Russian helped him with the grocery bags, taking them to the kitchen and unpacking them on the table.
"You have the makings of several feasts here my friend." Illya cocked his brows when he removed two bottles of chianti from one of the bags."
Napoleon shook his head, smiling, as he hadn't seen Mr. Valenti pack those.
"Go ahead and open one tovarisch," we might as well enjoy some holiday cheer while I prepare dinner. Just need to cook up the chicken and the pasta...warm the meatballs. It'll be ready in no time.
Solo took some mismatched mugs from the cabinet. "Sorry no wine glasses, but these'll do."
Illya's countrywoman wandered into the kitchen just as the wine was being poured.
"Chianti? I just adore that...though it has been a long time since I had some. The last time was five years ago when I was in Rome with Papa…it was Christmas then too."
Napoleon handed her the drink and watched the woman's eyes close as she held it in two hands, sipping it; she smiled, recalling a distant and seemingly happy memory.
In no time the kitchen was warm and toasty from the heat of the oven and the burners on the stove. Napoleon chased Illya and Yelena to the sitting room handing them a plate of bruschett, salami and olives. "Don't stuff yourselves," he laughed, knowing with Illya that wasn't possible.
"Go...shoo! Leave the master chef to his work. Sit and stare into the fire...it'll do you some good."
The Russian compatriots did just that, sitting on the sofa, sipping their wine and looking at the crackling fire. It was mesmerizing, to say the least.
"I remember the hearth in my grandmothers dacha,"Illya whispered in Russian." We would sit in front of it at Christmas...Papa would play his squeeze box after we said our devotions in front of the icon of the Madonna set on the mantle…." his voice trailed off and his eyes glazed over just a little bit as he sipped his drink.
"Do you still believe Illya?"
"Nyet." That simple answer was enough for Yelena not to ask more...
Napoleon called them into the kitchen, having the table set as best he could; he didn't have much to work with. Though it was filled with scrumtious food...plates of garlic bread, the palmeni, chicken and meatballs. He had a heaping bowl of spaghetti in the center of it all, garnised with delicious smelling gravy.
They seated themselves, and Illya raised his mug, "To the founder of the feast."
"Ah, quoting a 'Christmas Carol' I see," Napoleon smiled."See there is a bit of the holiday in you wanting to come out tovarisch."
His parter put on a haughty air, acting as if he'd been insulted, but could only maintain that demeanor for a second or two before he started to laugh.
"Perhaps tonight, and just for tonight mind you, I will admit to you being right."
"My heart be still," Solo grabbed his chest."And you Yelena, how do you feel?"
"I must say, Napoleon the setting, the wine, the food, and the company have made me think of things that have long remained hidden in my heart. I feel as though I have seen a bright light tonight.
"A Christmas star perhaps," the American nodded with a ray of hope in his heart.
"Perhaps…" Illya and Yelena replied together.
"Then may I raise my...umm, glass again?" Solo asked." Merry Christmas."
"S Rozhdestvom!" The two Russians chimed in, returning his toast, the light of a star and the joy in an American's heart calling their spirit awake, if just for one night.
.