Dedicated to
George Harrison:
the spiritual soul of the Beatles and our generation
you and John are still alive in the soundtrack of our hearts
with Paul and Ringo
forever
THE
MUSIC BOX
AFFAIR
by
GM
Find more NEW fanfiction: Man from UNCLE - Hawaii Five-0 - Buffy the Vampire Slayer - SW:TPM - Sherlock Holmes --
www.qnet.com/~martin5Email -- martin5@qnet.com
All the usual disclaimers apply -- I own nothing -- just borrowing these guys for a while --
December 24, 1970
"When do you think the storm will lift?"
"A day. Three. Four. Must I be more precise?"
"Smart aleck."
Napoleon Solo turned from the frosted window and favored his companion in isolation with a stare of irritation. "I'm not in the mood for jokes. We're going to miss Christmas!"
"No. It will arrive here tomorrow as well as everywhere else in the world."
"Suddenly you're a comedian."
Illya Kuryakin shrugged in disinterest. "I am not an expert of Newfoundland blizzards, but I believe we will be here for some time."
"Oh. I thought you were an expert of everything."
The sarcasm was not malicious, but was delivered with the impatience which fairly bubbled from Solo's every pore. The senior agent was clearly upset. The dangerous and worldly-vital mission in the northern regions of the province had turned sour. The desperately important assignment to thwart weapons smugglers had deteriorated to a game of snowbound cat-and-mouse with smugglers. Most of the UNCLE equipment, including communicators, had been lost or destroyed in the mad chase across northern Canada's snowy tundra. Somehow Solo and Kuryakin had managed to stay alive until they fortuitously stumbled upon an isolated hunting cabin not quite buried from the storm. Snowdrifts were piled higher than the windows now. Thick clouds were close and grey, snow pouring from above. The agents were effectively trapped within the cabin until well after the storm abated.
Personally, Kuryakin was grateful for the enforced imprisonment. He welcomed a few days -- perhaps weeks -- respite. The haven was extremely well stocked; an abundantly generous larder, supplies, and firewood. There was a modest, slightly unimaginative library to help pass the time. Best of all, there was a valued companion -- of symmetry, depth, expression, life -- a guitar.
It was an old instrument. The maker's name had long since been worn away, but the body seemed in good condition. Several packages of nylon strings were stocked on a shelf with a stack of sheet music. Food, books, and a guitar -- everything Illya could ask to last out a blizzard. There was only one discordant note in the entire arrangement.
"No offense, partner, but I expected to be spending Christmas Eve with Gretchen -- Section Five in London -- and plenty of mistletoe. This is not what I expected."
"What are you doing?" Solo asked. His irritation was now tempered with long-suffering impatience. He knew he could not change the bad luck that had destroyed the mission, nor could he fight an ill-tempered mother nature. Frustration, however, kept the edge in his tone. "Well?"
"I'm stringing this guitar," Kuryakin replied simply. He knew the only sane way to deal with an irate Solo was to ignore him until the mood passed. Which was never very long. Napoleon knew better than to expend energy in a useless direction, over things he could not control.
"Oh, good. I'm trapped in a snow-bound cabin for who knows how long," he muttered darkly. "And you will bury yourself in the guitar. I might as well be alone."
Kuryakin picked out a few experimental notes as he tuned the instrument by ear. He hid a smile, amused at his friend's complaints. The self-pity would also pass quickly, and Solo would stabilize into his archetypal pleasant, congenial self. Satisfied that the guitar sounded right, Illya picked out the first tentative bars of a slow, thoughtful tune.
"Don't you know something cheery like Jingle Bells?"
"No."
"Deck the Halls?
Or Silent Night?""No." Illya picked out a few notes.
"Here's one that women must sing to you every year,
"Santa baby, forgot to mention one little thing, a ring, I'll wait up for you, Santa baby, hurry down the chimney tonight . . . . "
Napoleon's sour expression said it all. "Marilyn Monroe did it so much better."
"What about White Christmas?" the Russian deadpanned.
"If you do I might resort to violence." He rubbed his chin. "We Need A Little Christmas?" He hummed a few bars.
"Aren't you going to sing it?"
"You'll laugh. You're the singer."
"I won't laugh. Much." Illya shook his head, but copied the tune. " Oh I've grown a little leaner, grown a little colder, grown a little sadder, grown a little older, and I need a little angel sitting on my shoulder, needed a little Christmas now. " He stopped to adjust a string from buzzing. "That's all I know."
"Figures," Solo glumly mumbled. "Only you can turn a cheery holiday song into something dour."
"I'm only singing the words I know."
"The glum ones."
"What about this?" A few notes were played then he sang, "Oh the weather outside is frightful, but the fire is so delightful. We have no where else to go, -- let it snow, let it -- ugh --" he moaned when assaulted by sofa pillows. "Just trying to be cooperative."
"Right."
Another prelude. "I saw April kissing Santa Claus underneath the mistletoe last night. What a laugh it would have been, if Napoleon had only seen --ooooffff --" More pillows hit their target. "All right." Grinning, Kuryakin returned to strumming another song. "Then I suppose you are consigned to Beatles' music."
Interested despite himself, Napoleon finished gathering the pillows, then settled into a surprisingly comfortable chair. "What's that song? Sounds familiar."
"Something I strum sometimes."
Kuryakin embraced the neck of the guitar as he slid his fingers along the struts. The rich, deep tone of the instrument was soothing and not too much different from the resonance of his own guitar. The instrument was one of his first loves, though he never seemed to have the time to devote to worthwhile practice. He found music an expression of the deepest core of his soul, a release valve from the pressures of his career. There were very few other outlets for any creative expression in the spy business. Music removed him from reality to a timeless, faultless world where only harmony and beauty existed -- his private sanctuary.
***
Christmas Eve dinner consisted of some canned corned beef with mixed vegetables and strong coffee. Solo bemoaned no marshmallows to roast over the fire. Illya decried it could not be Christmas without vodka. In consolation they used to supplies to make a rum cake from Illya's memory of an old recipe he used while a student at Oxford. Solo would have given anything for a camera. Illya in an apron and smeared with flour -- the blackmail rights would have been good for years! Or the favors from half the women at HQ would have kept Napoleon happy for months. Oh well, he would have t be content with the memory -- and the elaborate-threats-that-might-have-been.
While the cake baked Solo tried a last attempt at escape from the cabin to get a pine tree as their decoration of the holiday. Unable to get out the door because of the snow, they cleaned up and played a game of chess until the cake was done.
"Not bad," Solo choked, downing the piece of dry dessert with gulps of some old whisky, chased down by coffee. "Next time, maybe a little more rum?"
"Are you turning into a lush? I added more at your request, remember? And you've been drinking too much liquor. I didn't want you to drink it all. Who knows how long we will be here."
The prospect of forced imprisonment sobered the American and he fell into silent brooding for the rest of the evening. It was not that he minded the company. He would have spent Christmas Eve celebrating with his partner anyway. He would have preferred it to be somewhere civilized. And a few lovely ladies. In a splashy, vibrant nightclub. In a big city. There was also an element of irritation over failing the mission. What if the dangerous smugglers found them here? They had set us some standard security devices, but the smoke from the chimney would be like an invitation to the bad guys if there were any left.
Some of his unease was over the mission gone awry. Had they been sloppy or was the opposition just better than they were today? They could have both been killed and no one would have ever known. Maybe they would die anyway as helpless victims of nature. Maybe he was letting the weather, circumstances and rum get to him.
Kuryakin had settled back by the fire and strummed the guitar. Solo paced, checking their defenses again. He had another piece of cake and finished the cleaning chores. Maybe there HAD been enough rum in the cake after all, because he was starting to feel tired. Well, it had been a long and disappointing day. To top it all off, Illya's present was back in New York. What kind of a Christmas was this going to be? He'd certainly spent worse, but in his old age he was getting sentimental. He would have wished for something a little better. Well, in his childhood he had learned Christmas wishes rarely came true. And Santa certainly wasn't coming to visit them tonight. No reason to stay up. He settled into the comfortable chair to listen to the music.
Left to his own devices, Illya would be happy for hours with his guitar, Napoleon thought ruefully. Already Solo felt the subliminal claustrophobia of the enforced seclusion. He would go mad from the boredom if he wasn't careful. The situation almost forced him to take an interest in Illya's practice. Stuck in this enclosed music box, he had little choice but to enjoy the single form of entertainment.
Solo had never paid much attention to the Russian's musical talents. Illya's repertoire frequently leaned toward Russian ballads; folks songs, and depressing message-songs. Those were genres he could not relate with. But he would have to adapt to this temporary imprisonment and take an interest in the music for several reasons. One, the library was stocked with old classics Solo had already read. Two, there was nothing else to occupy his mind. Three, Napoleon could feel the cold loneliness of the Newfoundland wilderness in his very bones. He needed the companionship of his friend to fend off the disappointment. To do that, apparently, he would have to share Illya's musical world.
Kuryakin stopped and made an adjustment on one of the strings. He looked up at his partner, as if sensing the need to include his friend.
"You're playing that song again. What is it?"
"Blackbird. Off the Beatles' white album."
"It's very nice. Does it have words?"
Kuryakin smirked. "Yes, but you'll probably think they're depressing."
Napoleon sighed in mock long-suffering. "One of those. They were bright, happy lads when we met them in LA. When was that, Sixty-four? Sixty-five? Wouldn't it be wonderful to be in LA right now? December in California. Beach, sun, convertibles, blonds." He sighed deeply, noted his friend was scowling at him and cleared his throat. "What?"
"You're rambling. Are you drunk?"
Solo yawned and stood to fetch a blanket from the hearth. "No. Too much rum cake."
"Too much tasting when we were making the cake."
"I am not drunk. Quit changing the subject. I didn't take the Liverpool boys for the brooding types you like. Or like you. What are they doing these days?"
"They broke up," Illya admitted glumly.
"Too bad. I guess some partnerships aren't made to last."
"They're still friends."
"That's good." Napoleon mumbled around a yawn. "The Beatles write -- wrote -- rock and roll." He tested out the cushiony sofa, folding the blanket on his stockinged feet.
"You'd probably be surprised what they write."
"Really? Like what?"
Kuryakin strummed the first few bars and sang the words:
"Blackbird singing in the dead of night. Take these broken wings and learn to fly. All your life. You were only waiting for this moment to be free. Blackbird fly, blackbird fly. Into the light of the dark black night.
Blackbird singing in the dead of night. Take these sunken eyes and learn to see. All your life. You were only waiting for this moment to be free."
When he had finished there were several moments of silence as he waited for Solo's comments. Napoleon had leaned his head back and closed his eyes in contemplation. For a moment Illya wondered if he was asleep.
"Well? No sarcastic quips?"
Napoleon glanced at his partner. "That's almost profound. Just the kind of song you like -- philosophy -- something of darkness mingled with hope."
Kuryakin raised his eyebrows in surprise. In the many years of their companionship he and Solo had done nearly everything, talked about everything. Debates and discussions included literature, philosophy, politics, and every other subject -- both deep and trivial -- that entered their minds. They had never covered the social impact of modern music. He was again reminded that Solo was an unpredictable, complex bundle of surprises. He often harbored unexpected depths even Kuryakin had not yet recognized.
"That's why I like the song," Illya responded simply.
"Do the Beatles have any more like that?"
"You mean deep and philosophical? Or depressing?"
"Cheeky Russian," he accused and closed his eyes, gesturing with his hand for his partner to continue.
"We can work it out. We can work it out. Think of what you're saying, you can get it wrong and still you think that it's all right. Think of what I'm saying --"
"Ha, ha, very funny."
"That is not to your liking, Napoleon? About a grouchy person not getting along with a partner? Must be your guilty conscience."
Kuryakin managed to dodge the pillow thrown at him.
"I am not grouchy. And I'm not being difficult."
"Your words not mine."
Solo shot him a sour expression.
Kuryakin fingered out an intricate, unusual tune:
I look at you all, see the love there that's sleeping
While my guitar gently weeps
I look the floor and I see it needs sweeping
Still my guitar gently weeps
I don't know how nobody told you
How to unfold your love
I don't know how someone controlled you
They bought and sold you
I look at the world and I notice it's turning
While my guitar gently weeps
With every mistake we must surely be learning
Still my guitar gently weeps . . . .
. . . . I look at you all see the love there that's sleeping
While my guitar gently weeps
Look at you all
Still my guitar gently weeps
Solo nodded appreciatively. "Wow. The Beatles have other contemplative songs?"
"A few."
"Do you know any of them?"
Illya forced himself not to smile. "A few. Would you like to hear them?"
"Yes," the senior agent decided as he settled more comfortably into the cushions of the sofa. "Let's hear them."
"Here's one that Paul sent me. He said it reminded him of us."
"Paul? You're still in touch? I thought the Beatles broke up?"
Illya ignored the droll wit.
"Two of us wearing raincoats, standing Solo in the sun. Two of us chasing paper, getting no where , on our way back home . . . "
"Very funny." He shook his head and muttered to himself, "I'm snowed in with a walking music box on December Twenty-fourth and he doesn't know Christmas songs."
Still hoping to further convert his friend over to the lyrical music of McCartney and Lennon, Illya played a number of his favorites. It was difficult to choose from such a fine selection of songs that were easy to play and that he liked to sing. Taking a break to stretch his back muscles he glanced at his watch. It was after midnight. December twenty-fifth. Christmas.
"Christmas. You see, Napoleon, it did come after all." No reply. Napoleon was mad or feeling down from the liquor. Like many Americans his friend was a quixotic mixture of bravado and sentiment. The romantic streak was very strong in Napoleon -- turning maudlin when drunk. Admitting to himself he'd been a bit hard on his partner he sighed in concession. "All right," he surrendered dramatically, "I will make a concession and play Christmas songs."
He started playing a medley of songs:
"Silent Night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright . . . .
Deck the halls with boughs of holly . . . .
It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas . . . .
We need a little Christmas, right this very minute, need a little Christmas now . . . .
The holiday requests elicited no response from the senior agent. "Well, not even a thanks? I'll go back to the Beatles."
"It's been a Hard Day's Night. And I've been working like a dog. It's been a Hard Day's Night, I should be sleeping, like a log . . . ."
"I've saved my favorite for last," he admitted quietly and started the chords, softly singing:
"There are places I remember, all my life, though some have changed. Some forever not for better, some are gone and some remain. All these places have their moments with lovers and friends I still can recall. Some are dead and some are living, in my life I loved them all.
But of all these friends and lovers there is no one compares with you. And these memories lose their meaning when I think of love as something new. Though I know I'll never lose affection for people and things that went before. I know I'll often stop and think about them. In my life I love you more.
Though I know I'll never lose affection, for people and things that went before, I know I'll often stop and think about them, in my life, I love you more. In my life I love you more."
Kuryakin stopped singing, but continued strumming the chords for In My Life. He glanced over to question what his partner thought of the tune. Solo's head was leaning back on the sofa, soft snores fluttering from his mouth. Smiling, Illya continued strumming the affectionate rendition.
He stopped playing and yawned. "You would be surprised, my friend," he whispered with a smile as he fingered the strings at the bridge of the song. "There is music for everything. Even for you. Happy Christmas, Napoleon."
GEORGE HARRISON
1943 - 2001