THE REMEMBER ME AFFAIR
Act 1 Mirror, mirror, on the wall
She stared at the stranger in the mirror. She had swatted at the alarm clock that summoned her from that recurrent dream-who was that intense blond man who haunted her sleep, anyway ? She had showered and dressed and made up her face, automatically, as she had for years. But who was gazing back at her?
Her face was not hers. The coloring was different; cheeks, nose, chin all sculpted, the very shape of her eyes and lips altered. A pleasant face, she observed dispassionately. But unfamiliar, even to her own fingers which had applied the cosmetics. Disconcerting.
Maryrose McCallum felt hollow as a paper tube and sat quite deliberately before she collapsed. She looked at her hands, relieved to see they were still familiar, still hers. She clutched the phone and dialed her boss. "Chas, it's-" she hesitated. "-it's Maryrose. I'm not feeling quite myself this morning..."
"Maybe somethin' goin' around."
"Maybe. I need to take off today. Maybe a few days. Tristan can handle the menu and the dining room." As chef of the popular resort, she had trained her staff well.
"Sure, honey, take what you need. Just feel better soon and come back to us, huh?" Her boss's concern buoyed her. It was a stable, dependable thing she could cling to. "Uh, if you need to talk or somethin'..." his tentative offer warmed her. Chas was still real.
"I'm going to make some tea and go back to bed, I think. Thanks, Chas." She replaced the receiver onto its cradle but her fingers were unwilling to let go. She made a wild glance around her room and everything looked the same. The breathtaking view of the Poconos valley from her window was still there. Everything was the same-except her.
Maryrose had a sudden weird compulsion to check her ID. She pawed through the accumulated junk in her purse, finally dumping the contents all over her bed and grasping the wallet. Her hands shook. There was her drivers license: the bad photo was her, the address correct. Her well-creased library card. MasterCard. But the confirmation gave her no comfort.
She felt dizzy and disconnected. Panic gathered around her tangibly, creeping closer, and she took long, deep breaths to keep it at bay. Suddenly a vision snapped across her line of sight, clear as day, sizzling all the details in her brain. It was the man with the moppy blond hair, intense blue eyes seeking hers, calling wordlessly in some exotic tongue.
In his office, Charles Doolittle dialed the unlisted phone number he had memorized years ago. He had known Maryrose before she was Maryrose; before she'd come to work for him .She did not sound feverish-she sounded disoriented. When he connected to the well-modulated voice of the New York operator he said one word: Kuryakin.
Act 2 You made an extraordinary stroganoff
Damn. Kuryakin finished the short exchange with Doolittle and hung up. The woman he had known and loved as Rosemary Livingston was a thoroughly trained T3 operative. He had no doubt that as her mental shadows cleared she would follow the clues to him.
Rosemary had been the top assassin of The Termination Team. They had met off-duty and become involved. Too involved, Illya granted. His decision was personal, not professional, when he arranged to have her memory chemically wiped clean. He manufactured a new life for her, a safe life, as chef at the Moonlight Mountain Lodge in Pennsylvania.
The treatment had been experimental, of course, and the possibility of reversal had always existed. Even Solo had questioned him at the clinic: "Do you have the right to make this decision?" Illya's choice had been painful, but prudent.
There had been no second-guessing, no brooding. Until now. Rosemary's trust had been hard-won. Would she forgive him if she learned the truth? He had always hoped this moment would never come. Still, to be prudent and prepared, he made arrangements with Del Floria and the admissions desk and security.
# # # # #
The dreaded confrontation came sooner than he expected. Damn, she was good. Even with a memory as holey as Swiss cheese, she managed to locate his apartment. When he answered the door, she let out a tiny, involuntary gasp. The man of her dreams...
"May I help you?" he offered blandly.
"Who are you?" she breathed, tingling and almost afraid of the answer. "Better yet, who am I?"
"I'm sorry," Illya shrugged, presenting her a prepared baffled expression.
Maryrose pressed on. "I think you know me."
He seemed to study her, without ever meeting her eyes, then shook his head. "No, I'm sorry. I don't believe-"
"Please." Dignity was slipping away into desperation. "I woke up one day as someone else. All the clues lead to you. Please," she repeated.
He started to close the door. "Some memories are best forgotten, " he said, not unkindly.
"Or buried? or erased?"
Her thrust hit home. "Please." It was his turn. "Please go home. Now."
"But I don't know if home is home. And you won't help me."
"I've given you my best advice."
"I think you can do better," she challenged him quietly.
"You were always so determined." The blond stranger spoke of her in past tense, and it made her feel as if she had died. He stepped aside so she could come in. He shook out an old blanket, spread it smoothly to cover his battered couch, and gestured for her to sit down.
"You were a specialist in government service," he began. "You were good at your work. But a situation developed and for your own safety, you were given a new identity."
"But this was more than a different address and a new library card, " she protested. "My past is not hidden-it's missing. It's stolen ."
"I am sorry."
"Why do you keep apologizing?"
Kuryakin put his hands on his knees, and leaned forward. "Because it was my responsibility. Please try to understand. I did what I thought was best for you."
"And for the government-and maybe even for you. What gave you the authority to discard my life, whatever it was?"
"You trusted me to do the right thing."
She pondered that awhile. "So..." she focused on his worn carpet. "We were close?"
He nodded.
"Can you tell me...anything about me?"
He had foresworn to himself that he would not be lured into involvement again. He had been quite mentally prepared to send her packing after answering a few general questions. But she was so lost, so forlorn. And his insistent defense that he had only done the right thing, the expedient thing, the correct thing, echoed hollow in his heart. He cleared his throat. "You made an extraordinary stroganoff."
"I still do," she whispered, and held her breath for him to continue.
"You preferred sherry. You could drive a stick-shift. You read Dorothy Parker. You loved roses..." he mined his memory of riches long buried.
"I still do."
"Saturday mornings you watched Heckle and Jeckle. You took one-half teaspoon of raspberry jam in your tea. And you still look lovely in pink." He had to break eye contact. "So, perhaps you have not lost anything...essential..." he suggested gently.
"Then why do I feel so empty?" she struggled to explain. " Like my life was sucked out of me? And why, when I look at you-"
Her memory was blotted out; his had been repressed by sheer will and necessity. But unbidden hunger overtook them both . Her eyes widened on him. "Ill..Illya...?" she tested the exotic name. "Oh! Illya!" she cried and flung herself home in his arms.
"Some things..." he said thickly, " are best forgotten." But the kiss was savage, primitive, designed to blaze across their memories and brand them.
"Too late now," she murmured against his chest.
Act 3 Approve of my motto?
They stood side by side, she washed and he dried. "Sorry I dragged you out to the grocery. It's what I do," Maryrose explained.
"To a very satisfying conclusion," Illya agreed. " It gave you comfort, a sense of control that you must need right now. And that pecan- crusted fish is new," he added.
"I developed the recipe a couple years ago. It's a specialty of the house now," she said proudly.
There was an awkward silence.
"You're welcome to stay here, of course," Kuryakin half-invited. "But it may not be the wisest choice. You're trying to sort things out and, well, past history may muddy things for you. I hope you know, I'd never press my advantage to hurt you."
"You're probably right," she agreed reluctantly. " Maybe you could recommend a clean, cheap motel?"
"I was thinking more along the lines of an efficiency suite within our complex," he suggested. "Rather like protective custody."
"Wow. Am I that dangerous?" She was impressed.
Only to me, he thought. "Well, you were. But I was thinking more of protecting you than us. Your former employer should not know you're in town."
"Omigod!" Maryrose had a revelation. "Is that what I did? I was a caterer for the IRS?"
"Not precisely."
"Please stop hedging and just tell me," she insisted. "The mystery is making me dizzy. Look, it cost me three sick days to track you down; now I've got a weekend and one vacation week to pull my life together."
"This is serious business, Rosemary—I'm sorry, Maryrose. I don't want to make a mistake. There's someone you should see…"
"Oh?"
"Our staff psychiatrist."
"I thought you had a violent antipathy toward the entire profession."
He sighed. "You recall the most inconvenient things. Yes, I prefer my privacy. But you are trying to work things out. Dr. Mason is a good man—though if you repeat that I'll deny it. He could help."
She dried her hands on the towel and folded it neatly over the sink. "Did we ever live together?" she questioned casually.
"No," he replied quickly. "Impractical notion. You were based in Washington, I'm here. Our work required a lot of travel…" he trailed off.
"Did we ever work together?"
His eyes clouded, remembering Thermopolae. "Our paths crossed," he answered cryptically.
"But we managed to have some kind of close relationship."
"We managed."
"Somehow, it's all tied in with the work," she concluded.
"Let's get you safely settled at headquarters."
"I warn you, I'm going to keep pumping you for information."
Kuryakin sighed. "You always were determined."
# # # # #
Every mile closer to UNCLE headquarters, she slipped deeper into depression. Illya tried to lighten the mood. "My partner had a nickname for you," he teased.
"Do tell."
"Lizard Lady."
"Lizard Lady?" she repeated, "Oh, that's simply charming. When do I get to cook dinner for this gentleman? I can do very creative things with rat poison..."
# # # # # #
The plaque hung prominently in Teddy Mason's office, allowing the blond agent more than sufficient time to study it:
"Only love proudly and gladly and well, though love be heaven, or love be hell." S. Teasdale.
Kuryakin concluded he had an appointment with the raving romantic of Rorschach.
"Approve of my motto?" Mason asked as he entered. His sanguine style put most folks at ease. But not Section 2 agents, and especially not Illya Kuryakin. It was a pity his 201 file was so sketchy. Mason sometimes speculated on what had been done to the Russian to leave him so icy and intense, so unwilling to admit to a single warm feeling.
More than professional curiosity, it was Teddy's insight that the man needed some genuine friendships to develop trust. He had reviewed the file when Illya requested this meeting, and noticed the agent still owed him a session scheduled after that Thermopolae affair several years ago.
"Thank you for seeing me," Kuryakin greeted the psychiatrist stiffly.
"I know you're concerned about the lady. I won't breach the confidentiality of our sessions, but there are some general observations I can share."
Teddy Mason sat back into his chair, Maryrose's file across his lap. "We're doing intense work. She is highly motivated. She plans to return to Pennsylvania by the end of the week, with some answers." He studied the Russian's expression at this news, but seeing none, he continued.
"I'm sure she's told you we are using a combination of leading conversation, hypnosis, and drug therapy so she can uncover the past for herself. You were correct not to confront her with the truth directly. She was in a particularly dirty part of the game and that's a difficult responsibility to accept."
"Will she ever reach the whole truth? The induced amnesia—"
"Experimental. They're still tweaking with it down in R & D. For now, there's gaps in its effectiveness, as you've discovered. Applying her makeup that morning triggered a connection to her old life, when disguise was an essential part of her survival. What I'd like to know is, what do you want the outcome of this therapy to be?" Mason put his curiosity into the direct question.
"I want what's best for Rosemary," Illya insisted stubbornly.
"That seems to be a pattern for you," Mason observed off-hand.
"I lost her once," the agent muttered involuntarily.
"But you didn't lose her—" the doctor interrupted. "You gave her away."
"I kept her safe. I'd do it again."
"You may have to. The original situation has not changed. She's still in danger if T3 discovers her memory is returning. How do you feel about that?"
"I am not the patient here, Dr. Mason," he reminded coldly.
Teddy propped his chin up against his hand and engaged Illya's glare. "Agent Kuryakin, you are mad as hell."
"Is that your clinical diagnosis? How many years did you study to produce that keen insight?"
"Illya," he disclosed quietly, "Maryrose is close to a breakthrough. She needs your support."
"She has it. Of course. Completely. Always." How much sacrifice is enough? he wondered. Sacrifice in body and spirit, on duty and off. When was it his turn to be selfish, to set down the burden of the world, to demand happiness with both hands?
Act 4 Much Ado about Something
Maryrose knocked at his office door.
"Come."
"I came to thank you for a lovely holiday…although for eight days I never saw the outside of this building or a single Broadway show. Not that I'm complaining," Rosemary continued. "I don't think I'm that kind of girl—a whiner."
Kuryakin glanced at his watch. "Is it time already?"
"Yeah. I made arrangements to ride back on a tourist bus. I remember I used to jet everywhere, but I don't believe I ever liked it."
"I hope this has been some help for you," he said sincerely. Agent Illya had returned.
"I can't resolve the puzzle of my past in eight days of wonder-therapy, but Dr. Mason gave me a couple local referrals, a sample prescription, and an encouraging word. Seems I am 'integrating' my memories."
Kuryakin snorted. "I always suspected that vocabulary was contagious. Um, Rosemary..." It was always the 'I' messages that were the most difficult: I'd like, I need…a trait Mason would enjoy probing, he was certain. "Do you forgive me?"
"Forgive you?" she questioned gently. "I thank you. You made me a good new life."
"I just provided the opportunities. You made your new life, made it good. It is good, isn't it?" he needed her reassurance.
Rosemary cocked her head to one side and grinned. "Who are you kidding? Charles Doolittle has been mailing you quarterly reports on me for years, right?"
He blushed.
"Poor Chas has so much to do, running the lodge and all. Maybe I should take some more responsibility. If you'll hand me a bunch of those official forms, I'm sure I can file the reports on time," she offered.
"I'd like that," Kuryakin admitted.
"It's hardly fair that you know all about me. Puts me at a distinct disadvantage, when all I know about you is the little you reveal." He stared at her until she confessed. "Oh, all right. That, and the tidbits I picked up eavesdropping and peeking in your 201 file."
"How did you manage to get hold of that?" He asked with more interest than irk.
"A lady has to preserve some mystery, after all," she answered airily. " I had lots of time to fill up here, and I guess some of that old training is still valuable." She sought to read his eyes. " I know you don't get a lot of down time, but the Poconos are really beautiful, and peaceful. There's this little lodge on a mountaintop that I could recommend. And the chef's terrific."
She waited for his reaction, for a sign, but the impassive mask had slipped down again. You have the map to my heart, her eyes said. I'll give your directions. I'll leave you a trail of breadcrumbs…At least he would discover the sprig of savory rosemary on his pillow that night. "Illya, you did the right thing," she assured him. "And I will always—"
"Are you still a 'sucker' for obscure Shakespeare quotes?"
She nodded quickly, forestalling the telltale tears.
"I have one for you. "Much Ado about Nothing" Act 5 scene 2. Benedict's speech."
Her face blanked, then she scrunched her forehead, finally giving up her concentration. "You've stumped me," she admitted. "I'll have to look it up later."
"Time flies.."
"Yes," she grabbed up her travel pouch. "I've got a bus to catch for home. Bye." She leaned into him, planting a soft kiss on his cheek.
"Safe journey, Maryrose."
She shook her head. "I'll always be Rosemary for you. For remembrance."
# # # # #
She bought a Ladies Home Journal for the trip home, skimming the recipes and the cosmetic ads. But her mind drifted to a short, obscure line she loved from Much Ado about Nothing:
" I will live in thy heart, I will die in thy lap, and I will be buried in thy eyes."
finis