THE ALTAR EGO AFFAIR
ACT 1 "Loves me, loves me not..."
The agile Illya Kuryakin tripped over his shoes and cracked his head against the wall on his way out of bed Wednesday morning. He had neglected to flip off the Mr. Coffee switch and the decanter poured thick black sludge with crispy edges.
He felt indefinably sluggish, as if something vital to his spirit had been drained out of him. Then he remembered what was missing-who was missing- and slumped into his chair, exhaling wearily.
He had put Tracy on the train himself, in a last gallant display of confidence. But now his head throbbed, his stomach churned, and he knew everything in his life was irrevocably wrong
If he had asked for counsel, anyone could have advised him. It was so obvious that Tracy would have settled for two simple syllables-"Don't Go"- and waited patiently for the three little words she longed most to hear. But being Illya Kuryakin, he neither sought advice, nor shared his heart, nor stood in her way.
At headquarters, he was characteristically glum for an uncharacteristic reason. His concentration faltered. He was snappy to coworkers to whom he was formerly unfailingly courteous. When Napoleon Solo was informed that his partner had skipped three consecutive meals, he grew alarmed. He poked his head into the Russian's office to find him stripping the petals off a plant that Tracy had brought for his desk.
"Practicing our torture technique, are we?"
Kuryakin grunted a greeting, never looking up from his listless task. He was too bummed to retreat behind his usual mask of privacy. " I don't know what she wants, Napoleon."
"Yes, you do," his partner contradicted. "And it scares the hell out of you. The "C" word."
"Coffee?" Illya guessed hopefully. "Conversation? Crosswords?"
"Commitment."
"Ah. That."
ACT 2 Cupid Complex
Tracy trotted down the steps expectantly, and her good breeding showed, in that she instantly disguised her disappointment and greeted him cheerfully. "Napoleon, what a lovely surprise. When they told me I had a caller from New York-"
"You thought I was someone else. I guess blonds do have more fun," Solo conceded.
A shadow crossed her face. Tracy lifted her chin and willed it away.
"You are missed in New York," he affirmed quietly. " It's obvious to me-to everyone around him-how much you mean-"
"I wish he had made it clear to me," her voice wavered. "I'm not trying to be contrary. I don't play those silly female games. But I made a mistake trusting Jonathan. And with Nicky-Illya- it's like some kind of backwards ballroom dance. I take one step forward; he takes one step back. I don't want to dance the Twist across the floor from each other. I want to tango."
"Not only tango, my dear Tracy, I want you to waltz at your wedding. "
She shook her head. "The man speaks eight languages and he can't say 'love' in any of them."
"Nine languages, present count. But you're right about his romantic vocabulary. He never had much practical use for it," Solo explained.
"He's dedicated himself to grand, honorable ideals. He's ready to sacrifice his life for thousands of anonymous people all over the world. But I'm standing right here in front of him—" she checked her frustrated tears. "And when did you become the Man from Matchmaker?" she asked pointedly.
"Call it a Cupid Complex. I have a hearty self-interest in preserving the Solo-Kuryakin partnership, and I'm not trusting my life to someone as dangerously distant and distracted as Illya is now."
ACT 3 Wedding Bell Blues
Kuryakin strode into Solo's office and addressed him without preamble. "Where were you this weekend?"
Solo kept his eyes steady on the file in his hands. "Are you asking, or telling? Actually, it was quiet in town-"
"So naturally you flew to Cincinnati, glamour capital of the Midwest?"
"Dropped in on an old acquaintance of yours..." Solo casually volunteered.
"Why am I not surprised?"
"You shouldn't be. Tracy is a charming woman. I've always thought so. Out of respect for our partnership, I stepped aside. But since-uh-circumstances have changed-"
"Don't, Napoleon. Do not trifle with her affections." His advice hovered somewhere between threat and plea.
"Illya, Old Chum, she's a grown woman who can decide for herself where she wants to live, and with whom. She's not the virgin queen whose honor you're bound to defend."
"Of course," Kuryakin agreed sharply. "I just feel a certain responsibility-"
"I think her moving out of state absolves your claim."
I'll always find you, wherever you are, Illya had vowed silently after he had rescued Tracy from an abduction plot. Had he ever said it aloud?
# # # # #
It was sneaky and despicable and wholly irresistible. Illya Kuryakin began to spy on his partner and best friend.
He'd slink into Solo's office and thumb through his correspondence for familiar handwriting. When he discovered a half-finished letter in a drawer, he had to restrain himself from 'accidentally' dropping it into the security shredder. He checked credit card receipts and travel logs for evidence of a rendezvous along the Ohio River.
Illya had always believed his partner organically incapable of romantic loyalty, but his datebook and calendar told a new tale. He knew Solo kept an entire photo gallery of conquests buried in a bottom file drawer. But a silver-framed photo of Tracy smiled up at him from Solo's desk. A new fern was flourishing in the corner.
Illya emptied his cold, bitter coffee into the plant's pot.
The Russian was baffled by his own behavior. Books became boring. Music, reduced to tinny noise. He tried desperately to revive her abandoned herb garden in the window box.
He vaguely considered how he could justify a phone tap.
Ha! After several weeks of surveillance, finally a clue. A new name in Napoleon's weekly planner, "Gretchen" and a southern Ohio area code. He dialed quickly. Oh, this was sweet. He would confront Tracy with the evidence of her lover's perfidy and make her cry. No, better-he would blackmail Napoleon with his knowledge of Gretchen (probably blonde) and insist he stop seeing Tracy.
"Gretchen Gage, " she purred.
"Uh, this is Mr. Solo's office. I'm confirming an appointment he has with you this weekend..." Illya held his breath.
"Let me check my book...yes, Davenport-Solo. I've got the cello arrangements they requested. I understand Ms. Davenport will handle the flowers herself. The chapel is reserved for 7, and the candlelight is all set. Such a romantic, intimate service. And they're such a lovely couple. Imagine the gorgeous children ..."
Shaken, but still the professional, he got Gretchen to verify the date and address and directions for an uninvited guest.
ACT 4 "Goin' to the Chapel..."
"Where is he?" Tracy paced the chapel library. "Where IS he? You promised, Napoleon."
"He can't resist, with all the clues I've left him, and he's too crazy to think straight anyway. Calm down, honey, and trust your Uncle Napoleon, Advisor to the Loveworn," he laid a hand across his heart.
"That's love-lorn," she corrected.
"Not in my case..." Solo grinned and waggled his eyebrows to break the tension.
"If he doesn't show, I'm faking a faint," she promised.
# # # # #
Illya was stunned. Had they planned to present him with a fait accompli? Of course, he had been acting...er...peculiar recently. Would he lose Napoleon as well as Tracy? His best friend and blood brother?
Perhaps he should request a quick re-assignment to the London office. At least an ocean between the three of them would make it bearable. Lord knows he'd been alone most of his life. He would survive again. He just didn't know why he'd bother.
# # # # #
There was a discreet knock on the door. "Er, Ms Davenport, we really need to get started."
"I'm waiting for a special guest..." she called out to the chaplain.
"Mr. Solo, you really should be down at the altar. Ms Davenport, you proceed down the aisle when the cellist cues you..."
"Darling, isn't it rather warm in here?" her voice rose to a panicky squeak.
Solo spread his hands in resignation and followed the chaplain out of the room.
The beautiful low hum of the cello filtered through the pounding of her heart, and Tracy tilted her chin and took a deep breath. She walked slowly between the pews with proud, straight carriage, her sea-green frock belling softly about her knees.
"Can anyone show just cause why these two people should not be joined together in holy matrimony?"
The bride and groom, glowing in the soft candlelight, glanced around (an independent observer might say, 'hopefully'), but to no avail. Tracy's heart sank, and she truly began to feel light-headed, like all the blood had drained to her feet. She paled, and Napoleon prepared to catch her.
"Do you, Tracy Marlene Wyatt Davenport-"
"Wait!" The panting blond stranger burst through the doors and collapsed in the aisle, scrambling, half-crawling to the front of the chapel. He pulled himself up along the pew and gasped, "Tracy-please-"
She swooned into his arms.
"Tracy?...Oh, God, Tracy..." he patted her face gently with a cool cloth, still breathing heavily himself. "No taxi. Stole a bicycle...flat tire, wrong street..."
"Nicky?" she murmured, trying to re-focus. "You found me. Again."
"I'll always find you, wherever you are."
Tracy curled deeper into his arms. "I need to hear the words, Illya. And you need to say them."
He took a deep breath, smiled tenderly into her eyes. "Love you. Need you. I do, I do, I do."
"Ahem…you're in the presence of witnesses," Solo cautioned him.
"You're lucky I'm even speaking to you," Kuryakin growled.
"Hey! I'm the one who brought the champagne. And I've spent My Personal Time scouting out suitable honeymoon locations nearby, so we can get back to work. And-" Solo had the distinct impression they were not paying him any attention.
Besides, golden Gretchen Gage was waiting.
finis