The atmosphere was unusually strained.
Illya kept fidgeting with the button on his jacket while Napoleon sat with an expression of utter disinterest, perhaps feigning an emotion opposed to his true feelings.
The bartender had been watching these two for the past forty-five minutes, willing them to speak… get drunk. Anything would be better than this reserve, this apathie. People without words or emotions did not belong here in his establishment.
Illya reached for the espresso, the strong flavor something at least to counter the silence. Napoleon was not himself, his mood in stark contrast to the normally gregarious man whose presence tended to light up a room, not invoke gloominess as he was doing now.
"My friend, for how long must we sit here and wait? I for one do not believe that she will make an appearance. She has already chosen between you and… Must I say it? Her husband."
Napoleon Solo looked up then, his eyes expressing a depth of heartache that even he had failed to measure accurately. Clara was not going to change her mind after all. She had responded once to his messages, giving the American some hope that her marriage to Stefan was as faulty as the man himself. Even now, after Terbuf, after a year spent forgetting her… again … Napoleon had let himself hope for something more.
"Illya, you don't have to wait here with me. I know it isn't likely, but if she does come here then, well… I have to be here." His words held an indefinable sadness that made the Russian cringe inside. How did that woman hold such a spell over his friend? Clara was not an exceptionally beautiful woman, was not even blessed with a personality that should make Napoleon yearn for her. The heart was a vexing thing, at once the measure of a man and his capacity for generosity and kindness; but this was something else.
Napoleon was caught up in an emotional box lined with mirrors and imbued with memories that had lost their truth over time. Whatever good he had gleaned from Clara all of those years ago was now transformed into a delusion in which he could find love and happiness amidst a world filled with chaos and terror.
Clara was Napoleon's emotional crutch, his addiction of choice.
"She isn't coming Napoleon. Her message to you promised nothing, and you have no right to expect that she will leave her husband, betray her marriage vows. Why can't you let go of her?"
Why? Why did he need Clara? There were other women, certainly Napoleon could fall in love with someone else. Why should this consume him?
"I don't know Illya. I thought I had, after Terbuf. I didn't intend to look back, but then I saw that little news item about her and Stefan, about their involvement with the new government in their country. Did you know Stefan is the new Minister of Agriculture? Imagine Clara touring with him, inspecting farms and …" The look on Illya's face stopped Napoleon. He turned to see what had affected his friend.
"Clara…" Both men stood then, neither of them able to betray their surprise that she had shown up.
Clara was alone, wrapped in a fur coat, her auburn hair spilling over the full collar, a diamond earring peaking out from beneath one stray curl. She looked like someone from New York or Paris, not the poor little country of Terbuf. It seemed Agriculture had been good to Stefan.
"Hello Napoleon,' She looked from him to the blond at his side, "Illya. How nice to see you both."
"Clara, I… I wasn't sure you'd come. Is Stefan with you?" Napoleon was taking her in, like a glass of water to someone parched from deprivation. Clara was his vision of how life could be, if only…
"No, Stefan is in Stockholm, some business or other with their people. I try not to be too involved, he must take the reins of this position and succeed. I will support himof course, he is my husband."
Ah. Illya caught that, even if Napoleon hadn't. Clara was here to proposition his friend, to see if it might be possible for her to retain her position, and gain a lover. Illya's instincts about this woman had always tended to suspicions and doubt.
Napoleon thought he sensed Illya's disapproval, and his own impression left him disappointed in Clara, in her obvious attempt to seduce him into an affair. A dishonest affair.
"Illya, could you…?" Of course, Illya nodded and made his excuses. Clara smiled, hopeful that in private a deal might be struck.
"Why did you come Clara?"
'Why did you write to me?"
Touche.
"I suppose I shouldn't have, but I read an article about you, and Stefan. I, well I … " Why had he written to her? He shouldn't have, and Illya had tried to dissuade him from it.
"Napoleon, will we ever not have this connection? Stefan is a good man, flawed to be sure and certainly not like you; but he loves me and is now in a position to achieve something in Terbuf. The fall of the former government gave way to something better, if not perfect at least an improvement. My part is to support my husband and help him to succeed. but it doesn't mean I don't still think of you and…' She stopped herself. Napoleon didn't look pleased, and suddenly she knew this had been a mistake.
"I shouldn't have come. I was hoping for something and now I see that it would be impossible. I love you Napoleon, I always have. I suppose I always will, but I won't leave Stefan. And I think now, looking at you, that you wouldn't tolerate an affair with a married woman." Napoleon wondered if she had read all of that in his face.
"I'm tempted to suggest that we at least give ourselves one last night together, but that would be dishonest of me. I need to thank you Clara, it seems that I am finally and, without regret, truly over you."
That caught her by surprise. Perhaps she had expected at least some resistance to ending things completely.
"Napoleon, did you expect me to leave my husband for you? And to what end? For you to continue going away and leaving me so that the rest of the world can be safe? Stefan always comes home, and his job isn't something that makes me fear for his life. You were never willing to give me that assurance, that you would return to me, alive."
For the first time that day, a smile creased Napoleon's face; a familiar smile, full of charm and devoid of self-recrimination.
"You made your choice Clara. You wanted safe and secure, easy and never complicated. Well, Stefan is the right man on all accounts. I doubt he will ever challenge you, he won't make you wonder what's coming next. I guess I just never realized it before."
Clara's expression had changed, the smile was gone and the look of yearning replaced by something less attractive.
"Realized what? That I'm deserving of more than being left behind, of coming in second instead of first. Stefan may not be you, or anything like you Napoleon, but I know he'll never knowingly risk his life or mine and call it duty."
Napoleon Solo, in that moment, shed all of his remorse over lost love. He had a life to live, and Clara was never intended to be part of that life. Her ideals were selfish, her methods self-serving. He just wished that it hadn't taken him so long to feel free of her.
"You're right, and I wish you and Stefan a good life. A good, safe life. Good bye Clara. I don't think we'll meet again."
Napoleon got up then and left the room, leaving Clara wrapped in fur and filled with something she would learn to live with in time.
Illya was waiting outside on a bench, watching tourists and locals pass by, listening in on bits of conversation in a variety of languages. Napoleon sat down next to him, relieved and grateful to have the company of his friend.
"Are you all right Napoleon?"
"Me, yeah I'm great. You know, I remember a place near here that serves a meal so good it'll make you want to slap your mama."
A phrase intended to stupefy the Russian. Illya wondered if Napoleon searched for these strange idioms or if they came naturally. In any event, it was good to hear one in spite of the mystery of it.
It seemed that all was well.