Title: Mir Image
Summary: Before the fall of the Union, Russia attempted some covert curtain-talk of his own. Decades later, he starts it up again for completely mysterious reasons. Unfortunately, neither of Canada's two official languages are batshit insane.
Pairing: Russia/Canada
Rating: M in select future chapters. T for language in general.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes: Been working on this one for awhile. Shelved it for about a year but I finally know how to finish it, which means I can post it. I hope the first-person POV doesn't put you off too much!
.:.
0. (mid-summer; an undetermined year, but somewhere between 1971 and 1991)
.:.
July 1st has always held, and likely always will hold, a very special place in my heart. I'm almost always in Ottawa for it, except for the times I was overseas (for reasons I'd like not to dwell on). With the increasing lack of wars in which Canada is finding itself mired, I'm able to enjoy the festivities more often.
America's pretty busy with the 4th coming up, so as usual, he doesn't call. Neither does France - France is usually busy with Bastille Day preparations; nor England, who actually doesn't have an excuse besides absent-mindedness. In fact, nobody calls me.
But that's okay, because for this one day, Ottawa magically changes from a sleepy government city - who's stuffy, snobby and self-important without having any real right to be, and who usually rolls up the patios at 9 PM (except for student bars) - into an enthusiastic, high-spirited reveller, drunk and mad with joy. The city itself comforts me with buskers, live music, ice cream, a joyous act of day-long party that floods, literally floods, the streets of downtown. With Ottawa's help, I forget that my family's forgotten me.
Despite Quebec and la francophonie being steps away, even Hull celebrates the Dominion of Canada - okay, probably the statutory holiday part has something to do with it. And if the St-Jean Baptiste celebrations still out-pace the Canada Day celebrations, well... I can ignore that part. My typically somewhat-divided self feels a little more structured, a little more like unity. It's great!
So that was mostly why I was so pissed off that year when America insisted that the meeting - that would ordinarily have been held July 7th - be moved back a week, just because it suited his schedule better. I mean, what the hell? That is my day! I'd never expected cake, I'd never even expected acknowledgement, but can't a nation get the day off work on his birthday like everybody else?
And of course, no amount of protesting on my part was able to sway anybody. It helped that I couldn't be heard. Every time there was a silent moment (I couldn't interrupt people like America does, that's so rude) I had tried to pipe up, but someone talked over me (just! so! rude!). That still happens. Sometimes it's Germany; other times it's Spain.
That time, it was Russia. (Technically his name then was the Soviet Union, but none of the other countries which comprise the Soviet Union - Ukraine, Georgia, Armenia, and all the rest - had been to a single meeting in awhile. Let's call a spade a spade.) "If there could be silence, please," Russia's voice said, delicate and calm, and he didn't even have to use a lot of his 'do not disobey me, fools' undertone for everybody to shut up, including my jerk brother.
God, what I'd give to have that ability instead.
The Soviet Union slowly turned my way, with a curious sort of look that I couldn't completely identify. For a scant moment ... it almost looked like he'd done this for a reason. Did he hear me? Was he doing this for my benefit, so that I could finally speak?
But then Rus- the Soviet Union continued talking about something completely unrelated. Nope. He just wanted to make sure I'd shut up too. Evidently, the Union hadn't forgotten how long it took Canada to formally recognise him. Not like I was ever a real threat. Actually, he probably didn't even notice me. Heard nothing more than a whisper, saw only a vague shadow, thought he was seeing things.
Hosers, all of them. Well, whatever, the less fuss I raised the sooner I'd get out of there.
.:.
And that's how I got stuck working July 1st that year. They did not even give me time and a half. (In Canada, I'm pretty sure that's illegal, but I wasn't hosting.)
It was even a bright, sunny, still day when I left on the 30th - the kind of day that tells you the weather will stay perfect and cloudless for a good half week - and that made me even more upset because the year before that, the fireworks on the Hill were cancelled due to high winds and overcast weather. That meant the budget got shifted a year. I bet they really went nuts that night.
Dammit, America. (It was even worse because when I asked about it before the meeting, he had had a perfectly legitimate reason for having moved the meeting, so I was angry over nothing. That did not stop me from spending most of the meeting sulking away and glaring at America anyway. It made me feel slightly better, but ultimately didn't do anything useful.)
We all got seated in Shanghai and Russia - sorry, Soviet Union - started it off saying something about nielsbohrium, which got America (and Germany) really pissed off, and all three of them wound up arguing for two hours with Denmark jumping in, while France and England bickered amongst each other about the usual stuff. Both of them had had issues lately - France in particular had had some kind of student revolt - and I think what they both wanted was someone to pick on.
The nielsbohrium naming convention issue sounds ridiculous in hindsight, but it was really important then, if only because it meant the Russians - Soviets - oh screw it, Russians - were finally starting to be a little more open about things like their nuclear research. Which I very, very much wanted to know about, if the usual offenders would have done me the courtesy of shutting up so someone else could get a word in edgewise.
We'd planned on breaking for lunch at noon but that ended up being more like one. A late lunch, sure, but you can't stop America once he's started. At which point China informed us he'd ordered in for all of us. America, who didn't like anything that didn't look like a hamburger (and who still doesn't), instantly put an order in for more, 'proper' (American) food, to which China took offence, and quicker than America could say 'MSG is a communist drug' the two of them went at it. Gosh, I kept thinking, I just want to go home...
That was when something strange happened. Russia, who was sitting across from me, gave me - me, as in he looked directly at me - this funny look, and then bent down sideways, like he'd dropped his pencil and was fumbling for it. Maybe half a minute later he retrieved the pencil.
Nothing wrong with dropping your pencil. So what was with the look?
Some time later, about an hour or two, he did it again. When not sulking like a brat, I had been preoccupied with trying to follow the discourse between China and England (and I won't deny having taken a quick nap as well - Italy always made that look like such a good idea) when I got the curious skin-prickling tense feeling of being watched closely.
That doesn't happen too often to me. When it does, it usually makes me fade away and the other party stops watching pretty quickly. This was the first time I'd recalled it in - oh, easily a decade. But whenever someone's doing some creepy staring, there was generally just the one culprit, and he was seated right across from me. Not hard to put together.
Russia's glance immediately dropped to his lap when our eyes met. Then he looked at the ground beside the chair, where he had bent down to collect his pencil earlier.
He'd probably dropped it again, and it had rolled underneath the table, and his legs, though long, weren't long enough to fish it back out his end. He must want me to play fetch, I thought, this must be some kind of stupid game to pass the time.
I was tempted to say something about it. I mean, I'm not a dog who does tricks! But on the other hand, it didn't look like Russia had anything else to write with.
So game or not, I gave him a heavy, suffering sigh, and bent down myself. The pencil was next to my foot. I still don't know how the hell it got over there without him kicking it.
The second I grabbed it, his left foot kicked out in a sharp jab. He didn't hit me but I reacted quickly and backed up. Whacked my head on the under-side of the table. It hurt like hell, and was one of the reasons I avoided Cuba for like a week afterwards.
Under Russia's left boot there was a small white envelope, wedged in the seam between the sole and the leather upper. Almost like he'd seen that I had seen it, he nudged his foot in my direction.
I thought, what the hell does he think he's doing? What part of Western bloc member doesn't he get?
But... I'll admit, I was curious. So I grabbed it, too, and pushed it up inside the sleeve of my blazer.
That was when I noticed something else. Russia had been using a pencil. The pencil I held in my hand was half gone, and the eraser was a black stump - completely useless. The rest of us used fountain pens.
And his boot had this giant hole on the bottom, where it looked like the sole had been run down, and I could see the roughened, dirty skin of his toes. He wasn't wearing socks. He looked like he hadn't worn socks for ages. Did nobody take care of him? Didn't he take care of himself?
I straightened to sit back up (carefully this time). Nobody seemed to have seen me - that wasn't surprising - though some were looking funny at Russia. Austria was giving him a weird look, but he shrugged it off - I remember clearly his massive shoulders rolling inside that ridiculous thick coat. He looked like one of America's beloved football players, and it was July. How was he not overheating? "Noise was Canada," Russia explained, and held his hand out for the pencil.
And he gave me an eerie smile. I remember that clearly too. He smiled with his lips, not his eyes. It was his eyes that creeped me out more than anything else. The sclera was pinkish and the skin underneath them was puffier and darker than usual. He was either really exhausted or really hungry. Or both.
Suddenly the letter I carried in my inside sleeve felt a little more like an accusation. Though I'd done nothing wrong, except complain like a spoilt child about having to work, I felt guilty. And why? Because I had a decent night's sleep and a full breakfast that morning. Had Russia?
He noticed me staring at him and instantly became a lot more hostile. Let it be said, hostility for Russia isn't just some creepy smile. It's the creepy smile, plus him boring into your eyes with a belligerent intensity that shocks you. Plus a look like it would give him pleasure smile to render your flesh from its bone. Plus an eerie chill in the air that you didn't notice before, or wasn't there before. It pulls the breath from my lungs and roots me where I'm standing ...You know what, it's really difficult to describe it to the point that you actually get what I'm driving at. Suffice it to say, Angry Russia is usually sufficient to give any of us - despite being nations - the deer-in-headlights syndrome. I hate it, because it takes all my effort not to vanish instantly.
"Spasiba," he said, and for something that was supposed to be thank you it was hissed a little too strong and he curled his lips nastily. He held out a hand, prompting me to give him the pencil. Awkwardly, I handed it over. Austria tutted derisively and muttered something about classic Russian manners.
Clearly, I was just being silly. And this was getting ridiculous - Russia could take care of himself. And if he couldn't, he knew what to do - reach out for foreign aid. Like any other country. Go through the proper protocols! I wouldn't send my peacekeepers anywhere unless he asked for them.
That was one thing Russia had been negligent on then, asking for help. Between him and America, I think they were mining 95% of the world's pride.
.:.
By the time I got home, it was well over 3 AM my time. Naturally. The fireworks had been over for awhile.
I had tried to open the letter during the meeting but only managed to rip a bit of the envelope before Russia's entire demeanour had turned murderous. He didn't even have to look at me to get that point across, so okay, I thought, okay, later. Later it will be.
It was the first thing I did once I did get home, though, was crack open a beer, sit down at the table and figure out what the hell Russia was up to.
It was ...
A card.
On the front was a picture of a strange little cartooney monkey with gigantic ears, holding a bouquet of sunflowers, and inside was some messy writing that I couldn't decipher. I slowly realised half of it wasn't even in English, but thankfully the other half was the English translation. I didn't know English cursive and Russian cursive were similar enough to be mistaken for each other. (But maybe Russia just had really crappy handwriting.)
It appeared to say, Pity that one's birthday happens only once a year. Congratulations and fond regards today, and then an even messier scrawl that I couldn't make out even if I were fluent in Russian. I figured it must have been his signature, because beneath it was, a bit more clearly, Poccuuckar COCP - Russia SFSR.
Well.
It took me the rest of my beer to get rid of the sharp ache I felt in my chest, and a lot of willpower not to cry. America forgets, France forgets, England forgets. All of my other friends forget. And I don't mind. The one time someone remembers my birthday, it's crazy Russia. Amazing.
.:.
I was tempted to throw it out, I won't lie.
I hadn't planned on getting that drunk - I'd gotten home so late - but the card did it. Besides, I didn't have anywhere to be until America's big birthday bash which wasn't for another day, and as for the card, I just didn't know how to feel about it. I think I might have been happier if everyone had forgotten. That, I'm used to.
So, anyway, three beers later (and not the easy stuff, I dug into the stronger ones you can get in the grocery stores across the river with the chasse-galerie on the label), I was fairly well tanked.
I don't quite remember what happened after that, but I woke up on the couch feeling like someone dug out my tongue and replaced it with cloth. And there was something poking me in the ribs.
"Food," said the bear.
"Ngh," was my only reply, but to be fair, I had done this to myself, and it was my own fault. I didn't give the bear much food before I took off to China the day before, and I didn't remember feeding him when I got home. So I pulled myself up, dragged myself into the kitchen, tossed him a fish or nine and started the coffee.
On my way to the washroom something caught my eye.
I must have ripped the card while inebriated, because it was in a few large pieces on the kitchen table. So was the envelope, which I apparently did a real number on. I was ... not too sure how I felt about that, either.
But looking closer, I found little gray squiggles and marks on one of the envelope pieces. Those hadn't been there yesterday! Wouldn't I have noticed something like that?
There was more of them too, and shockingly - the revelation jolted me way more than caffeine would have - they looked like letters. English letters.
I made quick work of the washroom before coming back to figure this one out. It took some time to reconstruct my damage but the marks - pencil, because at some point my skin oil managed to smudge a couple - were all concentrated on the seams of the envelope, where the flaps joined and overlapped to create a paper pocket for a letter. Or in my case, a birthday card. Hm. Well that explained why I didn't see them before.
Once I got more coffee in me, I needed about an hour to figure out what goes where (maple, I remember thinking, really gotta lay off the Maudite, it doesn't make for easy mornings after... or afternoons after), and I did not like the sound of the message as it came up, but I tried not to let my anxieties solve the puzzle for me. I was grateful, despite the heat of mid-day July, for the comforting weight and texture of Kuma-whatsit's fur as he snoozed on my bare feet. It felt like grounding, when meanwhile, my heart was racing so hard it was liable to fly out of my ribcage.
Despite not making much sense, the final message was bone-chilling. Hell, maybe because it didn't make any sense.
Only you can help me. I am a sick man, I live in a ward in a psychiatric hospital where I am tormented. I have lost my drink in its strange, curvaceous glass. This is my predicament. Matvei, deliver the message from the son to the devil.
Yeah, Russia, you're a sick man, alright. What the hell did this mean? A drink in a strange curvaceous glass? Were we talking wine and stem, curvy? Russia spent time with France, there was no way he didn't know the word for 'wine glass', why couldn't he have just said wine glass? Unless it was cognac, but same argument applied!
And the psychiatric hospital, where he is tormented. Because that's not creepy. Was Russia being tortured? (Could you even do that to a country?)
The worst part was - and for me is still - the first and last bit. Only you can help me. Well! No pressure or anything! And, Matvei, deliver the message from the son to the devil.
From the son to the devil ... that kind of talk sounded religious. Which meant mostly-secular Canada needed to call someone a little more knowledgeable.
.:.
"Ve?"
"Uh, hi, Italy? It's Canada -"
"Hello? Is there anybody on the line? Pronto?"
"Yes, um, it's Canada -"
"Prank calls are mean, you shouldn't do them!"
It took a lot of effort for me to practically scream into the receiver, "N-no, Italy. It's, it's Canada. Ca. Na. Da. Canada!"
"Oh, yes! Martin, right? Hi! Why don't you speak up some? I can barely hear you."
"Heh, yeah... must be a bad connection, eh? Listen, I know you don't like talking about the Vatican - but I have a question in regards to, um, to those kinds of things... and I didn't have your brother's number, so..."
There was silence on the line, and for a moment I worried he hung up. "What is the question," Italy asked, a little sadly, like someone took his pasta away.
"So um, someone's given me this message, it says 'deliver the message from the son to the devil'. Does that mean anything to you?"
"What? You don't have a son."
"N-no, uh, I mean more, in a religious way. I think."
"Depending on who you ask that would be Jesus! Actually, wait. No, that's pretty much Jesus. I think anybody would agree that 'son' refers to Jesus. Now, whether they believe the son is on par with the father, different question, but you know that is not something I really want to get into."
"Okay, so Jesus." I could've figured this all out myself. "And, and the devil part?"
Again, there was silence on the line. "That ... would be the devil? Obviously? You ask some silly questions! Listen, is that all you had to ask, because I'm kind of in the middle of something right now ..."
Probably food. I had faith in Veneziano's ability to talk on the phone and put dough through a roller at the same time. However difficult he'd always found it to do two things at once, if one of those things was food-related it would not be an issue. Besides, he probably had me on speakerphone since I'm just that damn quiet.
"But then, what is meant by giving a message from Jesus to the devil? Is there anything in the bible about that?"
"Well, that depends on which bible! ... Actually, wait, no. That doesn't really happen in the book. I mean, the only time there's really a message from Jesus to the devil would be during the temptation. Maybe? Would that count?"
I had no clue whether that was what Russia meant. Maybe I had just better look it up for myself. "Okay, where does that happen?"
"Hm... You can try one of the gospels. Try Matthew. Hey, that's your name! Or was it Mark? Because there is a Mark gospel too..."
Italy continued blathering on, and as I waited for an appropriate silent moment to let him go, I cursed myself for my own stupidity. Of course - Matthew. Why did that not surprise me. He even wrote the name down. How Russia knew my first name was beyond me, but - Matvei to deliver the message. I'm an idiot.
But believe it or not, that was where that trail ended. The gospel of Matthew yielded absolutely no clues. Ditto for Mark. It was just more tales about Jesus and stuff he did. And the other two gospels that mentioned the dealings between Jesus and Satan were equally vague. Useless, dead end.
And that's when I figured - mostly-secular Canada had to ask help from a country that was more religious, but who wrote the letter? A country that at one point made religion illegal. Why would godless Russia make a bible reference?
No wonder it was a dead end.
.:.
So I tried something else. Who else knew Russia? Pretty well everybody who lived with him under the Soviet Union would, but on the other hand, I couldn't make contact with those guys. You have to remember the era, it was pretty closed off. The best I could do then was to make contact with someone who could make contact with one of those guys, and we had a NATO meeting in early July in Berlin, so the timing was perfect.
"Uh, hey, Germany?"
Germany - more specifically, West Germany - didn't move from his stance on the bench in the park outside the hotel. (His dogs didn't even look up! Was I really so unremarkable that I didn't even leave a scent?)
I cleared my throat a little and said it again, as loud as I could. Which was not very loud.
One of the dog's ears perked up, which drew Germany's attention. Finally he spotted me. "Ah, America. What do you want?"
"It's, um, Canada actually -"
"Well, what do you want?"
"Um," I began awkwardly, trying not to fiddle with the ends of my sleeves. "I, uh, I really hope this isn't a bad question -"
"Just spit it out!"
"I, um, kind of, wanted to know if you have been able to, um, talk to your brother recently."
Germany's face changed only imperceptibly. I wasn't sure whether he was shocked or offended at the question. "Why do you want to know?"
"Well," I began. I explained the entire situation and Germany - for once - didn't interrupt me. Guess it must've been shock.
"S-so anyway, I thought it would be useful if I could talk to someone who, you know, knows Russia a little bit better."
Germany thought quietly for a moment. Finally he remarked, "I am almost certain that it is dangerous to be spreading this information around. How many people have you told that Russia has contacted you so directly?"
Now, I really should jump in here. Remember the era? Yeah, so did I. So it was real dumb on my part not to have thought of this one first. But at the time it just didn't occur to me, like the bible reference that obviously wasn't a bible reference, and I remember thinking instead, wait, what? And then I began thinking oh, shit, ohshit - "Oh gosh, um, nobody. You're the first. I mean, I asked Italy -"
"You WHAT? Dummkopf, Italy's the biggest gossip after France!"
"No, no! Oh no. I didn't explain him the, um, the whole thing, I just, I just asked him a related question! About the son and devil portion. As- as far as he knows, this is nothing but a mild interest in Catholicism on my part."
Germany's eyes narrowed and he scrutinised me a moment (I tried very hard not to, but it made my skin crawl and I went half-transparent), but either he believed I was telling the truth or he was otherwise satisfied. "I have no direct contact with my brother," he admitted, "but what I can do is approve for you a letter to be sent to him. He will then have to make contact with you. How he will go about doing that will be difficult - I suggest you therefore make the request that he deliver the response to me which I can deliver to you."
"Wow. Um, gosh. Guess that wall's pretty thick, eh?"
"It is," Germany muttered tightly. "I would also advise offering some sort of reward. If I know my brother, he is not likely to do anything without incentive. If that is all, good-day."
Dis-missed.
.:.
The final copy went like this (I keep carbon copies of all my outgoing communications, which explains the mountain of filing I have to do all the time):
Dear GDR,
The nation of Canada kindly requests your services in decryption of what may be an encoded message. I was recently sent a message from an anonymous source that includes the following:
1. Only I can help
2. A sick man who lives in a ward in a psychiatric hospital, being tormented
3. An alcoholic drinking glass that is strange and curvaceous
4. Someone named Matvei is to deliver some message from Jesus to Satan.
I have a feeling the homeowner of your current residence might know something about these matters. Would you please intervene on my behalf and obtain as much clarification as is possible on these matters?
In return, I have sent to your brother (as I am not permitted to send these official forms over the Wall) paperwork detailing trade for any one of my natural resources. You may pick whichever you like - lumber, freshwater, fish, minerals or metals (your pick of element - I notice the Soviet Union is concentrating some effort on building nuclear reactors; we have operative uranium mines in the north), maple syrup if you really want. East Germany would become the prime trading partner for the resource in question at extremely attractive prices.
My thanks for your help in this endeavour. Sincerely yours,
Canada
.:.
Three months later Germany shoved a letter-sized paper folded neatly in thirds in my direction at the next meeting. "My apologies," he said, so I had low expectations even then.
Here's the copy of what Prussia sent.
Canada,
Yeah so I tried, but I have no freaking clue what the hell Russia is ever talking about. Nobody does. He's a nutbag. He just looked at me and said something about taking his tea with limes today. Normally he takes it with lemons, and to be honest I don't know where he's gonna get the lime from, it's not like Russia grows these things and imports have been slim to nil, for reasons that are painfully obvious. He also asked whether I have seen the big black hippo cat, because it stole all the vodka. What.
Keep in freaking mind: he was stone-cold sober when he told me this. Frankly I think Russia is more normal when he's inebriated. I waited 'til he found the vodka and tried asking him again but he just got quiet and said he wanted to be left alone to read. Also did not take his tea with a lime. So, I'm as much what the hell as you right now.
Sorry I can't help you any more than that. Frankly, I have bigger fish to fry at the moment. Also too busy being awesome. But it's mostly the fish.
Awesomely,
Me
(PS, I've decided I want your maple syrup. But it'll have to wait until trade can flow a little more smoothly between us. In the meantime, don't let my brother have any. That stuff is mine.)
Prussia. Because colloquialisms aren't just for common speech anymore, apparently.
And yes, he really did go with the maple syrup. I'm constantly sitting on a goodly amount of the world's freshwater supply and he wants maple fucking syrup. Because Prussia, that's why.
.:.
At this point, I only had one card left, and while it was a trump suit, it was a pretty risky one to play.
"Canada! Chéri! You haven't been to see me in awhile. And just in time for my Bastille Day celebrations!"
"Hahahaha..." I murmured awkwardly into France's chest. His standard greeting for me - both then and now - is to clutch me and pin me there like he hasn't seen me in forever. I always try to squeeze out but he's like a finger trap; the more I struggle the harder he holds me (the less I can freakin' breathe).
So instead I gave up and went limp and eventually, he let me go. "I was wondering," I said, but he interrupted me.
"Come! Let us walk and talk. I have much to prepare for my party. Besides, the day is nearly three pm and if I know you as I - ahem! - know you -" he winked salaciously, and it's just impossible to force oneself not to blush so I went bright red - "you have not had anything to drink today! It is a crime most affreux."
I was lucky I was good with wine, because half a glass didn't affect me nearly as much as it once did. That, and I'd been smart enough to have something starchy before I came to Paris, so I was well-equipped with a full stomach. France isn't the only one who knows people.
Once we'd gotten settled, I sprang my own trap. "Can you tell me about Russia?" I asked him.
France gave me a look I've only ever seen perhaps once before on his face. It was somewhere between knowing, pensive, and tart. "I think you mean l'Union Soviétique," he supplied helpfully, his voice a little lower.
"The... part that is Russia," I clarified. "You knew him when he was younger. What was he like?"
France didn't reply for a minute and just sat there sipping his wine. "Capricieux," he said finally. "Temperamental, at times. Mostly he kept to himself. It was difficult to get him to come to parties, but once he got used to it he adapted readily. He was a wonderful dancer," France finished, swirling the wine almost wistfully. "That will not surprise you, I do not think, given the renown of the Ballets Russes. And he has a certain taste for art that is at once conventional and completely incomprehensible. Why do you want to know?"
"That was before you got in fights with him," I offered, trying to get France to talk more and ask me questions less.
"You've been speaking with Prussia," France murmured darkly, not meeting my gaze. "I don't know whether I should tell you any more. After all you have not even told me for what reason it is that you want this information. Quelque chose pour quelque chose, n'est-ce pas?"
And this was why I didn't want to play the France card. Like Germany said - the biggest gossip. And as he said, it would be something for something.
"I'm ... curious," I said instead, hoping it would give France the wrong idea entirely.
He raised a fine, styled blonde arch. "Curious, as in ..." I couldn't hide the blush his insinuating tone provoked, and didn't force myself to try, either. In this case, it was good, because it helped foster the conclusion I wanted France to jump to.
"Oh, non non non," France said, very quickly, patting my hand like I was twelve. "That would be a grave mistake."
"I-I'm old enough to make my own mistakes!" I protested.
"Then you are old enough to do your own research," he snapped archly, "I will not be an accomplice in this. Not with things being between la Russie and your brother as they are. No, I do not think so."
"Please," I said. "Just tell me a little about his personality, enough to get me to talk to him. Likes, dislikes?"
"Russia has changed much since the days I knew him."
"Anything," I insisted.
Francis finally relented. "He is a wonderful dancer, yes, but he prefers quiet activities. Solitary meditation. He enjoys music. He reads a lot. He has a sense of humour that after three hundred years, I still don't entirely understand. He ruins perfectly decent tea by overbrewing it and adding lemon, so I imagine his tastes are less sweet and plutôt amer. Extrapolate that as you will. And that, mon beau, is all I have to say about that."
France swept out of the foyer and only turned back at the end of the hall. After all these years I've come to realise what that means - the more dramatic his gesture, the more his coat swooshes, the more hurt he is. "If you're not coming to help me out with Bastille Day preparations, you can show yourself out."
Harsh, France. It never really helps to have him angry with me. Especially not for something like this, where I wasn't even sure why he was so angry. And I didn't want to have to play the suck-up game later (because I knew it would involve my least-favourite France game, the 'guess why I am angry' game).
So obediently I followed and made no further mention of the beast to the east.
.:.
"Okay, we have the following. Some sort of cryptic reference to the bible. Maybe not. Can't really make any sense of that. Followed by some sort of cryptic reference to limes and cats and vodka. And last but not least, this is a quiet, sensitive, artistic man with a deranged sense of humour." I slouched back in the chesterfield. How did I know this wasn't all some stupid joke, anyway?
I remember thinking, I bet that's it. Just a dumb joke. "Well now I feel pathetic," I told Kuma-something.
"Who?" he asked.
"Oh, Canada. You know, your owner."
"Letter?"
"No, the letter was from Russia." Who had a real dick sense of humour.
"Oh," Kuma-whatever said.
"Yeah," I agreed dejectedly, "'oh' pretty much sums it up."
.:.
And so I put the card and the envelope - in the envelope's case, painstakingly taped up - away in a shoebox, which migrated around my house for a bit until it finally wound up in my closet. Equally I mostly forgot about Russia - technically the Soviet Union - whose eyes somehow seemed darker and deeper than I'd ever imagined with every meeting I attended, until finally, the Soviet Union whittled away to nothing. I, with my brother, and increasingly the rest of them, formally recognised the Baltics, Georgia, Ukraine, Belarus, all the -istans in the Caucasus.
Then, at long last, Russia took his former name, gained a little more weight, looked a little less haunted, and I forgot all about the envelope's message.
Until now.
.:.
(Thank you for reading! :D)