a/n: there is no Russia in this chapter, sadly. But there is India, who is pretty cool! I promise more interesting things will happen next time :)
askjdhas and thank you all so much for leaving such nice reviews! I really really appreciate it and promise to reply once my midterms are done tomorrow.
.:.
3. (november through end of the year)
.:.
Two Saturdays later, I make the mistake of bringing Kuma-creature with me when hunting for goose in the early morning.
"This thing is covered in feathers!" I tell him, when I find my piss-poor excuse for a fieldhound hovering over a messy carcass (which was supposed to be dinner). "You don't like feathers!"
"It's sort of like seal," he explains, and then dives his face back into the bird's breast, snorting grotesquely. I roll my eyes and look for a second goose. The flock has risen now, scared away by the sound of the first shot, but I'm in luck - there is a nice one that's either too fat to be aerodynamic or too stupid to realise there's a reason his buddies left him.
Either way, I track the bird down (by myself, because Kuma-beast is busy and I don't want to have to shoot a third bird), fire, and am very glad when it lands and I find the thing is large enough to feed all of us.
The rest of the day is filled with preparations and by 4 pm, everything's in the oven, or bubbling on the stove, or on the table, set to go. I'm exhausted.
Naturally, that's when Alfred and Gilbert show up. While they're not looking, I start the coffee machine.
Both Italies wind up coming, so I should discern which is which. Usually I just call whichever one is nearest at hand 'Italy', but that's not very polite.
It's not Italy Veneziano's first time having goose but he isn't terribly impressed about it, so he goes off to make some pasta as a substitute. I try not to be too insulted. Besides, the way in which he tells me it's just not that tasty is simple and innocent, almost childish in itself, and I can't be any more insulted than that time I brought Alfred to Wonderland and a kid told him he was fat when he broke the Tilt-A-Whirl. It's obvious Veneziano doesn't intend any malice.
It reminds me of the way in which I once viewed Russia. Simple and straightforward, and if he's malicious, well, that's just kind of the way it goes. But I pour the wine before I can think too deeply on the implications of Veneziano being much more than he seems.
Italy Romano, meanwhile, has brought two bottles of a really nice Sicilian red wine, which is dark and manages to offset the typical greasiness of game. Romano's not overly enamoured of the goose, either (which is fine, Alfred's happy and Gilbert thinks it's tasty and they were who I was hoping to please), but he is surprisingly polite about not voicing his displeasure, if a bit stiff.
I think part of the problem is he still thinks I'm America, even though I cannot possibly be America since we can all hear America very clearly in the living room. There, he and Gilbert are discussing Prussia's involvement in his Revolutionary War and debating at long length Gilbert's resultant ability to call himself awesome.
(From the sounds of it, Gil's losing.)
I'm not on a first-name basis with Germany, so he too is a bit stiff. Once he has set down the dessert he's brought - some sort of apple cake - he excuses himself politely to accompany Veneziano to the living room, claiming that the silly man needs babysitting.
Kuma-thingy sleeps off the tryptophan from his earlier meal but wakes up after dinner to clear the bones, so I retire to the living room myself since cleanup is now taken care of.
All in all, it's a fairly nice evening. Nothing gets broken - no glasses, plates, or noses - and everyone enjoys the food - Germany's apple cake is really very good. Alfred and Gilbert and the Italies are loud enough that I don't even have to entertain anybody because they sort of entertain themselves, so I can sit back, relax, and put my feet up.
And fade away.
England shows up later, after dessert, having already eaten (though he jumps at the chance for cake when he enquires about the meal), and immediately offers me a drink of gin. He puts a second bottle in my freezer. "Two bottles, really?" I ask him.
"Yes, well, I need it to deal with you!" he returns sarcastically, waving the bottle in my face, and for a moment I'm taken aback by his tone of voice.
I quickly recover, figuring it out. The heaviness of the meal has left me with a pleasant lethargy, so I'm not as sharp as I usually am when I explain, "England, it's Canada."
He squints at me, takes another swig of gin, and I solidify a little. "Oh. Oh! Sorry, lad. So you are. Want some gin? I've got two bottles."
"I noticed," I reply. "Why so much?"
"Wanted to get rid of it before holidays with the Commonwealth. I don't care for Australia when he gets into it. Erm. You are coming, aren't you?"
I hadn't been planning on it, no. But on second thought, this is a great occasion for me to mingle with all- ...countries that I'm on excellent terms with but don't see often. Countries who are close to Russia and surr- rather. Countries who are geographically ideal. Strategically speaking, it would be advisable.
"Of course," I tell him, and he seems happy to hear it.
"Good idea," Kuma-critter mumbles from the floor, gnawing a thighbone.
I don't hear the doorbell ring again until England disappears and reappears with a friend.
"Kat-ah, Ukraine!" I exclaim. I almost forget not to give away her name, which I'm not sure England knows. "You came!"
"You sound surprised," she says sheepishly, with a bottle of Hungarian red wine which she hands me and a bar of very dark chocolate which she sets down on a table. (The chocolate gets whisked away a second later by Romano.)
"I wasn't sure whether to expect you," I reply honestly, and pour her the last of Romano's bottles.
She sidles up closer to me and, accepting the glass of wine, admits quietly, "It took me awhile to realise that I didn't want to be alone."
Katya, it turns out, gets along like a house on fire with Veneziano. For one, it's difficult to tell where his eyes are looking so he doesn't come off as a giant pervert (unlike Alfred, whose eyes are magnetised apparently beyond his control, and who gets a light slap for his troubles that I have to agree he deserves). And for two, he's got this wild charm that endears him to pretty much everybody, including yours truly.
Some people just have it.
Part of me can't lie about being envious. I've ... always liked Katya. In one evening Veneziano gets farther with her than I have in a hundred years. And he's not even serious about it, he's just flirting for the sake of flirting. I'll bet he'll even manage to end the night without Katya feeling like she's been unnecessarily led on, which takes game - game that I know I haven't got. That part of me thinks Veneziano's a dick.
But, the other part of me is a little inebriated, and I'm not typically a sad drunk. Besides, it's really nice to see Katya smile so widely and genuinely. So that part of me thinks Veneziano's kind of an angel, and that part wins.
The message I get mid-evening helps to distract me from whatever self-pity I might have obtained by sulking in the friend-zone.
.:.
From: pridstavitel . rossii (*) fsb . ru
To: matthew . williams (*) csis-scsi . gc . ca
Cc: borovsky (*) fsb . ru, petrova (*) fsb . ru, colin . campbell (*) pm . gc . ca
Date: November 26, 9:35 PM
Subject: Tax software - keygen
mailed-by: server . dom . ru
Dear Canada,
It has come to my attention that the keygen I sent you in the file - you ought to have received this by mail by now - has not been used, so here is a new one. Let me know if you still have problems with the executable.
14981760s3360d23100r9180e3570t35t7616c
Yours,
Rossiya
.:.
That... doesn't look like our code. It also doesn't look like a typical keygen, but perhaps Russia is able to fudge a little more with different software to prevent those who are monitoring him from figuring it out.
I copy and paste the numbers down in the file where I had the key - not that I really need the key anymore, I've got it well memorised (is that sad?). Sure enough, it gives me gobbledegook as-is, which means Russia must have done something to the numbers.
23100 in particular sticks out like a sore thumb. Coming from a logical standpoint ... if we ordered the characters from the underlined words in the poem in ascending order, then no matter how you slice up that word - 2-3-10-0, or 23-10-0 - it doesn't fit. And the final 0 is, what, a placeholder? We haven't used placeholders yet, so why now? (That or we have 100 letters, and the last I checked this was not the case with the English alphabet.)
Supposing he added them all together? No, that would be too many possibilities, I'd be here all evening. And the order of magnitude is wrong.
They're obviously words, separated by the letters.
He must have multiplied them. Looking at the 35, that seems likely. 35 is 7 times 5, and 7 is a, 5 is t - 'at'.
Well, it's a start.
Of course, the longer the number string, the longer it takes me to figure out - and also, these give me anagrams, that I'll then have to solve. But looking around ... Alfred and Gilbert are discussing something loudly, Germany and England are debating soc- ah, football with Romano, Katya's certainly very taken with Veneziano, Kuma-whatsit is stuffing his face...
I appear to have some free time on my hands, and an entertaining puzzle wouldn't go amiss.
I can't admit - not even to myself - how gleeful I get whenever I receive messages from Russia now, because he appears to have a genuine motivation for sending me these messages besides 'hey, here's something fun for you to do'. But it is really thrilling.
14981760 - divide that by 2, get 7490880, again for 3745440, again for 1872720, again 936360, again 468180, geez Russia hope some of these two's are 4's or this is going to be a lot of i's - 234090, once more 117045 - hah, okay, that's out of two's.
Divide 117045 by 5, gives 23409, which is divisible by 3 so 7803, which is again divisible by 3, 2601, another 3, 867, hmmm, another 3 which is 289. 289 I don't recognise as being anything other than 17 squared. So we must end there.
Then, that gives me nine 2's, three 3's, a five, and two seventeens.
The two seventeens must both be c's, since we don't have letters as far as 34. But that still leaves a lot of options. Do the letters he's included have anything to do with it?
Sure enough, for 35 being 'at', it's followed by a t. Possibly he's giving me the last letter as a hint.
So, 's' is 12, takes away two twos and a three, giving seven 2's, two three's, and a five.
Suppose there's one e - well, that's logical, it's the most common letter. So now five 2's, two three's, and a five, since 'e' is 4. We'd get two more 's's if we take four 2's and the two three's, and that leaves either i and t, or a u.
- hmm, that doesn't make any sense ...
- Ah!
Success.
I almost giggle, I'm so proud of myself.
"Heyyy, what're you up to, so quiet over there in the corner?" slurs Gilbert. He drapes himself over my shoulders heavily, taking a glance at what I'm typing.
I hit save quickly and snap the laptop closed. I'm sure it won't like that but whatever. "Nothing," I reply quickly. I try to be smooth about it.
Gilbert isn't so easily convinced. "Is it pooooorn?" he asks in a sing-song voice, grinning.
"Yes, Gilbert, I was looking at porn in the middle of a party," I reply with some significant sarcasm, but I am blushing at the mere mention, and he cackles.
"Okay bastard, shove off, be nice now," says a voice above Gilbert.
"Hey, I'm nice! I'm plenty nice, aren't I?" Gilbert must be a little soused. He flings himself off my shoulders with enough force that it nearly knocks me face-first into the laptop.
"You're something, alright," I reply.
Romano rolls his eyes. "I'm amazed you get invited anywhere," he says. "Quit buggin' the guy who fed you such a nice meal!"
"See, he never lets me have any fun," Gilbert slurs, "if it weren't for his brother I'd never bring him along!"
It's an offhand remark but it evidently makes Romano see red - and to be honest it'd piss me off too if someone said that about me (given how much everybody talks about America this and America that - even England), so I don't blame Romano when he purses his lips, gives Gil a rude gesture and walks out the door to the backyard.
"That was unnecessary," I say.
"Aw, he'll be fiiiine. We do this once a week. Anyway, what was I saying about porn at parties?"
Alfred overhears. "Wait, what?"
And that's my cue to exit. I duck out from the conversation and excuse myself to Gil's boisterous cackling.
Italy Romano is outside on the porch having a smoke. I bring him the only ash tray I have at this place (France never visits me in Ottawa anymore, there's a bunch more in Montreal) and say, "Sorry about him."
Romano gives a dry smile. "What've you gotta be sorry for, it's his dumbass attitude, not yours." He exhales a cloud and says, "You fuckin' apologise for everything."
"Well thanks, eh? He's a bit much."
He snorts. "You're tellin' me. He was pestering me the whole way here about why I didn't bring Spain and Spain this, Spain that."
"You could've," I offer.
Romano shrugs. "Didn't wanna. I was already a friend of a friend of a friend coming, didn't wanna impose. An' I didn't know how large your place was. Besides, Spain's loud."
So's Romano, but I don't say that. "Y-you're welcome anytime! You or your brother. Although I have to admit, I definitely like your wines more. Uh, a-and you don't mess up my kitchen making tons of extra food."
Romano smiles briefly before the mask of sour replaces itself. "Ehh, I'm sure the potato bastard'll clean it all up if you ignore the mess long enough. Anyway. You too, huh?"
"Hm?"
"You're welcome if you want. Or if you're bored, or whatever. I don't care." He takes a last drag on his cigarette. "But only cause, y'know, you're a better cook than your brother, and you have decent taste in wine, and you don't take Prussia's bullshit."
It takes me a few seconds to realise what he's saying is an invitation, as roundabout and vague as he can make it without having to say the words 'you're invited'. It takes me a further minute to figure out what to say in reply besides a stammered thanks. In the meantime, Romano has shrugged, put out his cigarette, drained his wine and returned inside.
.:.
I work out the rest of the message in my head. First I wait until Gil and Alfred are deep in conversation again and open the laptop only long enough to jot the supposed keygen onto a paper napkin.
The rest is fairly straightforward math. It takes me a good hour only due to the guesswork that I have to do figuring out which numbers go where. It'd be simpler to use primes. If it weren't for the sake of lack of small primes, a code that worked solely like this would be pretty slick, but pretty easy to figure out.
3360d with a final d gives me 2x2x2x2x2x5x3x7. And d is fifteen, so my five and three are gone, which means either a, i, e, e, d; or n, e, e, d - oh, 'need'.
92400 - r, gives 5x2x5x2x3x2x2x7x11, well 11 is r right there, so the rest is either u, u, f, e, a, r - not likely, supposing that's two t's with 5's - t, t, plus a 4 for e, - hm, that looks like 'better'.
9180 - e, okay, so 5x2x3x3x3x17x2 - the 17 must be c, so with e being 4, that's a 15 and a 9 most likely, so d and o. Code.
3570 - t. Then 5x2x3x7x17, this one is easy, 17 for c, the t gives me the 5, so remaining is 2, 3, 7. Probably h, a. Chat.
Chat at, chat at what?
7616 - c gives me 17x2x2x2x2x2x2x7, so 17 with c, 7 is a, with six powers of two, that has to be no more than 16 - p, and 4, e. APEC.
Success. Need better code chat at APEC.
Indeed we do need a better code, but ... where? When?
Is he asking me not to send anything more? He said the letters were being suspected. If I write any more letters, using the code more would likely give them, whoever they are, more material to decode. A better ability to decode it.
I suppose you can only send messages for so long until the same numbers keep popping up; associate them with the most common English letters and it wouldn't take a master code breaker to work out the message. Anyone who's played Hangman before will do nicely.
Right. No more messages, then, until we can get figure out something more sophisticated.
It makes me more than a little sad for more than one reason.
But then someone in the party picks that moment to topple over a non-empty wineglass and I have another happy distraction.
.:.
I try not to show up too early for England's commonwealth holiday celebration. Usually it starts with food, and ... I want to avoid that part.
Although England can somehow conjure up an amazing dessert, so I can't be late for that. (Sticky toffee pudding. Oh man. I could eat that all day.)
Australia answers the door with a bucket of KFC in his arms.
"Really?" I ask sarcastically.
"Mrf krsh!" he replies, swallows, and repeats himself, "of course! I wasn't going to eat England's chicken." He yells back to the kitchen, "You poke the breast, it still bleeds."
"Not my fault," shrieks England from the kitchen, "it was a degree conversion thing! How was I supposed to know they meant 200 degrees centigrade! So much easier using gas marks -" then there's a giant crash and a puff of smoke - "bollocks, bollocks bollocks shit damn bugger!"
"Salmonella's England's gift theme this year," I joke. Then I hand him his actual gift. "Here. Something a little less biohazard. Happy Christmas, it's good to see you."
"You too, didn't 'spect you to show. Oi, and ya didn't have do this," Australia says, blushing. He mumbles, "I didn't get you anything, mate."
"Oh, it's nothing, just something small. The kiwi around?"
The kiwi is, in fact, and is watching the rugby game in the TV room with Wales and Northern Ireland. None of them look up from the tube until gifts appear in front of their faces.
India's there too, and though I have to wave wildly in front of his face before he can see me, he actually greets me when he does. He also complains that rugby's boring and that once this game is through they're catching the tail end of the test match. I give him a quick kiss on the cheek as I hand over his present. He squeals in delight - because he doesn't celebrate Christmas, and he knows I know this, which means this is just for fun - then coughs to try and recover some seriousness.
Perhaps it's a bit manipulative, but little gifts are tools to me. If it's a grand extravagant gesture, people become embarrassed and defensive (unless they're narcissists). Nobody likes owing people things, and the bigger the thing owed, the less they like you for it, because the more they expect you're going to hold that favour over their heads, even if you never intend to call it in.
If, however, it's just a small token of your appreciation - and the timing is right - then people accept it a lot more gracefully. They'll still feel like they owe you - and maybe they might - but the favour they feel they must repay is so much smaller in magnitude that the stress involved is practically non-existent. And it becomes your foot in the door.
Anyway, between that and asking everybody about themselves instead of dominating the conversation with myself as a topic (like Alfred, or Gilbert), I manage pretty well, relations-wise, despite being invisible and inaudible.
By the time gifts are passed out - a little tea, and some of my homemade fudge - England has joined us from the kitchen with scorch marks on his apron and a slightly smoldering eyebrow. I reach over and pinch out the spark. "Thanks," he says. "Pudding's in an hour. Didn't think you'd show up."
"That's twice I've heard that tonight."
"Well, the last few years I've sort of mistaken you for America." England looks sheepish. "I, er, wouldn't've blamed you."
That puts a real smile on my face. "At least you got it right this time," I say brightly.
Wales overhears - evidently the rugby game's over - and slings an arm over England's shoulders heavily. "He had some help. All day we've been reminding him that America wouldn't show."
"Well," England says stiffly, ducking out of Wales' arm, "he isn't part of the Commonwealth, after all." But that's never stopped the other partygoers - England included - from mistaking me for America, anyway. I need to bake cookies for whoever it was who convinced them of my existence this year.
I don't spend long at England's, at any time of the year; no more than a couple of days. Guests, he told me once, while I was staying with him, are like fish: after a few days the air sours. He backtracked quickly then, stumbling over his words, and saying that he didn't mean me, really! But I understood. And most of the commonwealthers make it a day's visit and no more (excepting Scotland, who is apparently staying with France this season, to England's utter mortification and Australia's mad glee).
As for myself, I'll stay just long enough to ... finish my task, and then I too can go home.
Wales, like Prussia, somehow manages to see me more easily than most, so I spend a fair amount of time talking to him over the next few days, and he teaches me how to make sausages and rabbit without any meat - all while taking potshots at England's character which England takes in surprisingly good stride (well, for England).
Wales hasn't quite got an army besides the Welsh Guards and the Royal Welsh - who I'll admit I know of only from being linked with le Royal 22e Régiment - so in terms of friends, it appears as though he's a poor choice. But you mustn't underestimate the fury of the Red Dragon. Or more precisely, the ability of the Red Dragon to nag England into motion. If I require England's help, it will come more quickly and be ultimately a much stronger blow if I have Wales to back me up.
Wales is also very good at nagging Scotland. And if Scotland is spending Christmas with France this year, that means I basically get France for free. Which is good, because having accepted England's Commonwealth Christmas invite means I declined France's Noel avec la Francophonieinvite. (It's like having divorced parents; I can never manage to make both sides happy.)
I exchange a few words with Malta, who is a swarthy and shy young girl of perhaps 14 or 15, about Liechtenstein's age. Like Liechtenstein, she has her hair styled in a short bob with rough edges, tied with a ribbon. But unlike Liechtenstein, she's a lot more independent. She's spent time with Italy - both of them - Spain, France, and England, and though she recognises England most as a big brother, they don't often have the chance to speak more than once a year. She's also had moments of extreme mil- (ahem) military brilliance - this is the tiny little girl who, with a bit of Allied help, managed to waylay Germany and Italy for six whole months, without her own army at the time - so her age and size are deceptive.
Cameroon and Nigeria show up in the afternoon two days later, which provides me a brilliant excuse to get out of having to eat England's cooking by taking them out for curry. (Though I was told later by Wales that New Zealand and India managed to convince him to order takeout instead. Still delicious. I never regret curry.)
My relations with both of them have been pretty friendly for the most part and we spend the afternoon chatting about current affairs. Cameroon's government is downright authoritarian, he says, and the southern parts want to secede. He's is good at hiding the stress; I can only see the lines in his face under fluorescent light.
Nigeria is doing much better than the last time I saw her. She says the recent health projects from our developmental agency have been progressing well and the market seems to be responding positively to the input from the financial side of things. Then she starts talking about frontier economies and I get a little lost. I manage to fake knowing what she's talking about enough for her to invite me to a conference she's holding in March.
I try to say hi to Gambia but he ignores the hell out of me. Fine, you jerk, I think, be like that. See if you get any fudge.
.:.
Northern Ireland leaves after breakfast on Boxing Day before we get much of a chance to talk (staying long enough for the meal, after hearing that I'm the one making breakfast). India however stays a few days longer, and we chat at long length about everything and nothing.
I don't see India very often though I know he has places all over Canada - a high rise in Toronto, a small bungalow in Vancouver, a really nice penthouse suite in downtown Calgary, and temples here and there. He also smells amazing, but as we've established, I'm fond of his cuisine. With little convincing, he makes us all a nice eggplant dish that evening in exchange for my pancakes the following morning.
This is good. This is very good. Because India would probably be the most important a- ally to have if needed. He's close geographically to Russia. Plus he's got a certain personality cultivated from years of Mughal rule, British rule, and opposition with Pakistan, Bangladesh and Sri Lanka (and those are just his siblings).
It has the tendency to make him a little abrasive and a little impulsive.
In fact sometimes he comes off as borderline bipolar.
But that's okay! For the most part, he has a no-nonsense attitude that is strict but still agreeable. And we're on excellent terms, which means I could probably trust him.
"I was sorry to hear about those insurgency attacks on the trains," I tell him.
"Yeah, me too," he agrees. "What a waste. Waste of flesh, waste of bombs, waste of decent trains."
"I thought the counter-terrorism speech by Patel was particularly inspired."
"Really? I thought it was particularly insipid. Blah blah deeply saddened by this senseless act, blah blah cannot resolve with acts of violence. Come on, same old stuff. I can't stand my boss." His attention is mostly on the cricket match. "No, you idiot, what are you - oof! Stay there!Stay the fuck there!" Needless to say, the batsman doesn't listen to him, and winds up out. "Goddammit, you moron, serves you right."
Ladies and gentlemen, India.
We watch in silence for awhile until the match cuts to a commercial break. It's then that India tears his vision from the television and smiles at me, very suddenly, a bright, wide toothy grin. "Okay, seriously though, maple-ji, cut to the chase."
"Uh, what?"
He laughs. "Don't play dumb with me! You know I'm older than I look. Really good dark chocolate, that was my favourite by the way, homemade fudge, and you've been chatting me up all weekend." India bats his eyelashes coquettishly. "You want something."
"I can't just give an old friend a very belated Diwali gift?" India laughs even harder, and normally, I'd be laughing along too. Instead my cheeks are warm and I'm trying not to disappear. How am I so obvious to him? "You really think I'm that machiavellian?" Yes, defensive route! That always works, right?
"Hmm. And you're acting all pricey. Must be big big. You want me to play the guessing game? Alright, I'll bite." He pretends to concentrate for a bit. "Lentil exports?"
"I already give you most of mine."
"That's true. Hey, have you got that solar power thing down yet? You know I'd be interested." No, and we never will if Campbell won't quit it with the oil fields. Which India knows full well, so he's teasing me, again. "Guess that isn't it. There is one other option..."
Suddenly his eyes narrow - the kohl he wears around them makes him look three times as dangerous. I feel like a mouse pinned by the gaze of a viper. "But you would never be so silly as to seriously contemplate propositioning me. Because you know I'd shoot your ass down in flames, maple-bhai."
Oh geez. "N-no! Not that - not that you're not - but I just, well! -"
Thankfully he interrupts me by giggling.
He's joking, that hoser.
I wish this were the first time he's done this. I also wish I could tell when it was coming because even after some seventy years of diplomatic relations, I still can't.
"I love doing that to the nice ones," he says. "Arey, if you don't want things, then you must want help with things. Now - what could these things be..." India puts his hands together, rubbing the palms back and forth.
Finally he claps his hands. "I know! Pakistan's not paying his rent in his Toronto apartment and you're a pushover, so you need one proper bully with some real fight to go bug him for it?"
"No, he's been pretty cool. Haven't heard any complaints." I don't bother rushing to Pakistan's defence since he isn't even coming to England's for Christmas. This may be why India's stayed so long. Those two have a habit of calling each other various names like cheap. (In fact... most countries have a habit of calling their closest relatives cheap. It's at the point where it doesn't mean anything anymore.)
...D-Don't think that pushover comment went unnoticed, either!
I'm just, you know, holding my tongue.
"Want ISRO to jumpstart something for your space agency?"
"N- well now that you mention it, that's not a terrible idea -"
"You want to help someone in need and you're building a collection of ... special friends to do it."
Not a question.
Which means he's suspected it was this all along.
But ... I can't make it look like I came here for that! You have to understand, our kind have a certain social rulebook where conflict is concerned. It would be tacky to come to Christmas solely to flirt my way to a winning side of w- of wa- of conflict.
"What would make you say that? I-I mean, you certainly are valiant but there's no sign of - of ..."
I make hand gestures to convey the meaning while avoiding saying the words.
India doesn't seem to understand.
I sigh. "Of... you know what on the horizon."
"Ideal geographical location?"
"I'm on decent terms with everyone in that area," I say lightly. It's not untrue.
"What about just in case?"
"There's always room for a just in case," I remind him, "you could go mad trying to plan for that."
"True enough," he says. "So, yehi hai defence help issue."
I need to get him off this topic! "No, it's, it's really not. I don't need help with the defence side of things," I insist. "I have my own forces!"
"Ha, and that makes you a big boy now, does it? Is it guns you want then? Thought you might ask Russia instead."
"India -"
"Not artillery! Perhaps tanks?"
"It's not, I don't need -"
"Air power? We're not so keen on that."
I scoff. "I could ask America for those if that were it."
"Right, Mister Big Hero Pilot-ji. Then it's that stockpile of, ah, special arms that I like you all to pretend I don't have; that has nothing to do with it?"
"India! No. Gosh. I've got my own nuclear stash too, this isn't -"
India is immediately silent, wide brown eyes and flatlined humour.
It takes me a second to figure out why.
What did I just say? I shut my mouth with a firm snap - it was gaping open. I'm appalled at my brain for not filtering these kinds of things. Shrinking into my chair, I ask quietly, "Is there any chance I can eat those words?" Specifically the n-word.
India shakes his head, his expression somewhere between querying and serious. I feel my skin prickle as I start to disappear, but he sees me doing it and snaps, "Ohh, no you don't. Not on me, boss."
India, if I could help it, I would, believe me.
"Then I think I'm going to take a short walk, if you don't mind." I get up before he can reply, abandoning my tea - and him. (Awfully unfriendly, yes, but damn, what a gaffe that was.) I head for the door to shove on my boots and overcoat.
I should have known I couldn't lose him that easily. "Wales!" India hollers back to the TV room. "I'm taking your jacket!"
"No, I can hear alright," he calls back, too busy kicking Australia's ass at Mario Kart to hear correctly, "you're not making a racket." I burst out England's front door before India's got his shoes on.
Because this is why I decided to come to England's Christmas celebration. Making special friends. Making military allies - hanging out with people because they're useful to me - oh gosh I shouldn't even be capable of thinking like this. Is this all because of Colin's defence spending?
But something inside me tells me it isn't. Something's different, and it's like those times, like the world wars, when in addition to my bosses spending money on building rockets and tanks and bombs, I too felt the stirring, riotous cry of to arms, brave souls.
I don't like to remember those times.
So why can I think like them?!
What the hell is wrong with me? No country - not since the Cold War ended - speaks the n-word aloud among ourselves. I'd rather call everybody I love cheap!
First I start thinking about friends who might help in a fight. Since when did this imply a fight, anyway? Since when do I fight with weapons? I'm supposed to be the peacekeeper!
Though, that isn't strictly true, either. It is not for nothing that I receive tulips once a year, for example. The things I've done ... haven't always been playing fair.
But times have changed, and nobody fights like that anymore, right? Right?
Didn't I learn after the Suez Crisis how important it was to fight with words? Didn't we all learn after the Cuban Missile Crisis that squirrelling away ato- those kinds of missiles wasn't the way to go? Did I just forget all of that?
And - and for what? For Russia! Russia, who still hasn't told me what he wants this help for. I - I don't even know whether his problems require this, this... military allies and defence!
Because that is what I'm doing. Let's call a spade a spade - I came out to see friends, yes, and normally that is what I do. International relations for the simple sake of international relations are what I'm really good at.
But there's been a deeper, ulterior motive at play behind my actions this season - one that I hadn't even realised I harboured - and that's making friends in preparation of a fight. And unfortunately I'm also really good at that.
And I was doing it all along, and I didn't even realise.
Maybe Russia's bosses aren't the only ones who think the Cold War never ended.
I need to talk to Russia. I have to know what I'm fighting for, since apparently, I'm already operating in fight-mode.
"Hey wait up!" I stop and turn; India's about fifty metres away. We've managed to find ourselves in a small, sleepy park. A few trees. A quiet overcast afternoon, the sky a dove grey. Snow gently dusted over the ground. People probably walk their dogs here, or, or feed pigeons.
So idyllic. It's strangely fitting how even this mocks the conflicted, torn way I feel right now. I sit down heavily on the bench, feeling glum, and he approaches and takes a seat beside me where someone has scratched 'Nurya' and a heart.
"So," he says. "You going to tell everything about this person who has caused such a great change in you? Mister peacekeeper, mister fight with words not with arms."
"It's, um, complicated," I say, hoping it'll throw him off, but of course it doesn't and he just sits there, looking expectant. "There's this - this friend. And they're ... uh, in a bit of trouble. I think. I-I don't really know. We haven't had much of a chance to talk freely recently, I kind of get the impression they're being monitored, really closely. And, and I want to help."
"What can you possibly do to help?" India asks. His tone is soft and gentle, but the words sting anyway. He's right. What the hell can I possibly do?
"I don't even know. I don't know if there's anything I can do. But I - I want to try. I think... I think I might be the only one who can help. That's what ...they've said to me."
"And help means one stockpile of ... you-know-what-kind bombs as just in case, hmm?"
I don't really have anything constructive to say to that.
"So have you slept with her, or are you just madly in love?" is India's first question.
It takes me a second to stop coughing. Silly Matthew, air is not for swallowing.
"Um," I stammer, when I can breathe properly again, "w-what?"
"It's got to be a she," India says thoughtfully. "Otherwise you wouldn't be tripping on pronouns like this. I know you. And there is such small number females than males, for us, you're hiding a her. Otherwise I'd be able to guess who it is. You're very obvious." He grins. "So, you like her then?"
"Oh, oh gosh, maple, I hardly ..."
I don't even know what to say to that!
On the upside, this has definitely got my mind off the more sensitive topics. I'm really glad, and completely horrified, that India is suspecting this. It gives me an easy out, sure, which is good, but - but -
But I don't, obviously! There's no way that I - that I -
I can't even think about it!
Russia and, and me - we're hardly even friends. I'm not attracted to him.
I mean he isn't unattractive! I just - I'm not.
India giggles. "It's cute. Young love."
"No," I tell him. "I - it's not like that. This is just, um. This is just me wanting to help someone who seems to really need it." Someone who reached out to me and asked for help. How could I refuse?
"Yeah okay, yaar, so you keep telling yourself that. But I know you," he says, tapping the side of his nose and then pointing at me with his finger, almost admonishingly - so characteristically English a move that I might call him on it if I weren't so scared he'd break my jaw - "andyou are not like this. You are not like this at all."
"What, are - heh, are you saying I've changed?"
"Achha, love changes people, but no, not changed." India's eyes narrow sharply. "Changing. I don't know if I like it much."
"I'm not -"
"But countries change. This is as events are. I know I have changed; it's more than only not calling myself Sindhu Valley."
"This is why I don't talk too often," I mumble.
"No, honey, it's fine! Listen. I hope she's worth it, bhai. And you know. If she isn't you let me know and I'll good swift kick her in the dicky. Okay well I won't actually. But you keep your head, okay? Don't go ... being your brother. You keep calm and carry on. She wants Canada, you give her that."
I smile, though weakly.
"Also," he continues, "India will support Canada no problem, no questions."
"I didn't really. I mean, you don't have to."
"I know I don't. And you did really. But I will let you deny it if that makes you feel better." India takes a quick, deep, purifying breath. "Chal! Let's go get something to eat! And you can tell me all about your lady-friend."
Something should go here about frying pans and fires, but at this point I'm too exhausted to be witty. I just let India drag me to the nearest chip stand.
.:.
Avoiding that topic is difficult. Over fish and chips India tries to worm a few things out of me and I stay tight lipped as long as possible. He asks if it's Ukraine - since she and I are so close that I use her first name, and since India doesn't know of any other female nation who's taken up permanent semi-annual residence in Canada - and I blush - partly because I do like Katya (gosh do I like Katya), and partly because India's guess is so close it's terrifying - but manage to deny it.
So now India's convinced it's Katya who needs help. But that allows me an easy out to distract him, and talk about the other female nations - and other nations, period - who have emigrated in large enough flocks that their representatives have taken up residence in a Canadian city.
Which works just as well, because in the end India's got it narrowed down to a small list. And let him keep guessing all he wants, because Russia's not on it.
.:.
When I return on the morning of the 31st, picking up a very well-fed and slightly heavier Kuma-whatsit from the kennel (and by kennel, I mean forest) I find another envelope from Moscow in my mailbox.
Instantly my heart begins to pound.
It's a card again, though instead of an adorable cartoon monkey with freakishly large ears, it's a picture of what seems to be downtown Moscow, with "C Hobiu Togou" written in curly script. The inside explains, C Hobiu Togou - pronounced s novim godim - happy new year. Fondest regards, Poccur - Russia.
I'm glad I sent him a Christmas card after all. I wasn't sure whether it'd get past whatever filters he's got, but at least I tried.
...Of course, I'm slightly less interested in the card itself.
With greedy fingers I peel back the envelope as gently as I can and slide my nail underneath the folds, where the paper is glued together. I get more than a few paper cuts for my troubles, but so what, as long as I don't bleed all over the message that I suspect is there, I'm good.
I'm not disappointed. The message written is written faintly in ink pen, so lightly that it hardly makes an impression on the other side. It isn't coded.
Security is becoming much tighter, so this must be the last message. Still, I doubt they will find this note. Thank you for all of your help. You do not know how much it means to me. I shall see you in May. -Ivan
My pulse races and my cheeks grow warm.
Ivan. His name is Ivan.
Of course his name is Ivan. It suits him so well I don't know how I might ever consider any other option. It's graceful and elegant but still classic and simple. Ivan. Ivanivanivan.
I ring in the new year alone, but strangely more content than I have been in some time.
.:.
Thank you for reading! until next time! :)
