The Man from Yesterday
A Man from U.N.C.L.E. Story
by Darklady
Chapter Twelve - A Dedicated Follower of Fashion
Rated: PG
******
It is late, and I have not had breakfast. Major Yelena buys three perogies from a man on the sidewalk near the gate."Here." She says as she hands them to us. " Just a little something on the way. You don't want to ruin your appetite."
I take a sniff. Cabbage and cheese. Excellent. These ruin my appetite? Not when we are going to hike half way to the Volga. Still, the exercise loosens up my legs, and by the time we pass the Admiralty Park I am feeling very good indeed. Most of the buildings are offices, and closed, but where she stops it looks like the space has been over-run by a gypsy caravan. There are booths, and tables, and people everywhere.
"This is the Arbat?" I ask.
"Quite a mob scene." She pulls me away from a table loaded with radios. The sound is appalling. "Watch out for the electronics. All garbage. And I wouldn't guarantee all the food." Which is not comforting, as we are supposedly here for lunch. "But if you know where to look you can find some wonderful fashion. I know mostly the women's shops, but the people I know will know who you should see... for a commission, of course." She weaves past an untalented group of musicians, clearly intent on some destination. We can only follow.
"A commission?" I ask when I catch up with her.
"If you would eat fish, you must get in to the water." She laughs. "They will expect one - and I will expect one too. That is business."
Which makes me question what business she is in.
I stop again by a kiosk of magazines. Perhaps I can find a copy of Astrophysica, or something else worthwhile to read while Napoleon tries on suits. I have been shopping with my partner before. It is never an expeditious process. I am flipping through an import called 'Science Digest' when I feel a pressure on my pocket. Without thought, my flattened hand whips down.
*THWAAAK*
"Aaah"
Both Napoleon and the Major turn at the sound.
"Oh", Major Yelena says. "And there are pickpockets everywhere." She looks at the man who is now holding his wrist rather then my wallet. "Try not to break any arms. I could handle the local police - but it is better to avoid the trouble."
The would be thief vanished into the crowd, even less interested in 'trouble' then the Major. She watches him go, debating the prospect of his arrest and quite clearly deciding againt it. "Excuse me, gentlemen," she says suddenly. Then she takes off again. Napoleon puts down his copy of Moda Itallia and follows. So I get no magazines. Perhaps, I think, after lunch.
We catch up to her not in a restaurant, but in an alley off the main street, where she has backed a black-clad young man against the wall. He is drunk, and clearly unhappy, but as neither he nor his flashily dressed companion is bleeding, I do not quite understand her rage.
"Private Slovak!"
The young man tries to come to attention, but he wobbles. "Wha? Ma'am? That you?"
"Private Slovak , you are drunk!"
"No ma'am, I just....." He shifts the bottle behind his back.
"Do not lie to me!"
"No ma'am." He tries again to come to attention,and this time to bottle drops to the pavement.
"You are drunk!" she repeats.
He nods, careful of his head. "Yes ma'am."
"You are disgusting!"
"Yes ma'am."
"Your pass is revoked. Consider yourself on report as of now!"
"Yes ma'am." He attempts a salute, but manages to hit only his nose, then the gypsy earing he has stuck through one ear.
Her lips tighten, "How did you get here?"
"Bus, Ma'am."
"Well, that's something." She pauses. "Not enough. Return to the base. Report to your sergeant, and tell him *exactly* what I told you. I will deal with you when I get back."
"Ma'am?" He considers arguing, then...... "Yes ma'am."
"And wash your face! You are a disgrace to the uniform you are not wearing!"
"Sorry ma'am."
"Dismissed."
The young man glances at his companion, then staggers off in the direction of the bus stop.
The major turns back to us. "My apologies, gentlemen. I regret that you had to see that."
She shakes her head and heads back to the main courtyard. "Drunk in public. You may consider me harsh. So be it. I am not one of those soft modern officers in fashion now days. For which I do NOT apologize. The FSB has a tradition of discipline and duty and I am PROUD of it. No excuse that the hospital staff acts badly. He was one of mine."
What? My ears catch. "FSB?" I question. " Not KGB?"
"OOps." She mock-winces and grins. "You caught me. Federal Security Service. It's the same thing, really. Close enough. They just changed the name because.... no reason, really. Just silly politics. But Dr. Goldak thought something recognizable would reassure you. Aid in recognition. My CO gave me his old tags when I took this assignment."
"Which was?"
"A year and a half ago. Too damn long. Sorry, but.. to be totally honest I wasn't thrilled to get it. I am ambitious. Sitting in an empty mine shaft is not my idea of a career making command." She smiles at Napoleon, intent at taking the sting out of her words. "That was before you showed up." By implication, his arrival would make a much longer wait worthwhile. "Then you even survived. Now? If you will just stay healthy, I will probably make Lt.-Colonel by next year."
"So." I decide to change the subject. " What will happen to your unfortunate private?"
"If he were an alcoholic, that would be Dr. Goldak's problem. But I believe this is a first offense. I will speak to his sergeant. Perhaps a few week's kitchen duty will teach him some self-restraint."
"And the ..other young man."
"Another drunk. Not my problem. Likely from the college, which means he has a deferment. Although a few months in the service would do these spoiled brats some good. But the politicians.. I am sorry. I did not mean to let my personal complaints spoil your lunch."
I marvel. For a spy, the major is painfully obtuse.
Another few steps take us to a red door on the far side of the crowd. Several people are standing in line outside, but our guide sails past.
A heavy middle-aged man wearing a white apron looks up as we come in.
"Yelena, who are your friends?" he calls.
"Rich tourists - but don't think you can double the bill, Vanya, you old gypsy!"
He makes a face of exaggerated innocence. "Would I do that?"
"Only if you didn't triple it!"
"You know me too well, child." The man pulls back a chair. " Well, I have a table for you. Do you need a menu?"
"I don't." She motions us to sit. "They might."
Napoleon smiles at her. "I'll have the blini - since you recommended it."
"As will I." I answer the man. "But I would also like to see a menu. Just in case."
"And coffee first." Major Yelena adds at his retreating back.
The man turns. "Coffee, and then ten minutes."
**********
The coffee is wonderful. Here it is brewed dark and rich, not like the American dishwater I have come to endure. The blini are even better. I follow them up with a big bowl of karcho soup. No matter if this is Russia or not, the cooking most certainly is. I make a note. When we get back to New York, I will make more of a effort to eat at Yakov's, rather then always going to the Italian place.
Even Napoleon has paid attention to his food, rather then just flirting like he usually does. From him, that is a very high complement.
Finally, I sit back, savoring the last bite of jam-covered cake.
"Wonderful." Napoleon sets down his fork. " Do you eat here all the time?"
"Of course not." Major Yelena shakes her head. " Neither my wallet or my waist could withstand that much of Vanya's cooking. But it is a nice treat. And I am under orders to fatten you both up." She reaches for her purse. I reach for the bill. It is *very* high. Then again, the food was very good. And U.N.C.L.E. has been very generous.... I think. It was worth it.
"Then perhaps you should submit the bill on your expense account." I suggest, facetious.
She pauses, considering. "That - is an excellent idea."
"I'll get it," Napoleon says.
"No." She holds out her hand. "Mr. Kuryakin is brilliant. I will submit this - headquarters will pay it - and I will be commended for working on a day off. If I learn to be that clever I will make General."
The aproned man comes over to collect the money. "Vanya?" the Major asks. " Where is a good place to go for men's clothing? Not too expensive, but nice. And none of your rocker crap. Nice suits and casual."
"Italian or British?"
She looks at Napoleon.
"Italian" he answers.
"Either" I shrug. Any place I could get some better pants.
The man rocks back on his heels. "Try Moshi. He has some nice leather in. Or Sergi around the corner. He just got some new Italian in. And he has American shirts."
The first stop is a small shop two doors away. Outside, it is nothing. Inside, it is much like Del Florio's. Without, I hope, the revolving fitting rooms.
"Yelena Sergiova" A skinny little man comes from the back to greet us. "Vanya called and told me you were coming. What do your friends need?"
"None of your lousy Polish crap," she answers. "But if you have something decent?" She lets the sentence trail off.
"Pants," I say, looking at his racks. The workmanship is very good. "Perhaps some roll-necks. In black."
He vanishes, then returns with an armload of boxes. "Fresh from Scotland." he insists as he hands them to me.
The knit is thick but the fiber is excellent. True cashmere. And they *do* look like the pictures inside Napasha's magazine. I select four. Two black, one grey, one cream. I find two pair of black wool pants to go with them. It seems strange to wear pants cut so wide, but Major Yelena insists that such is the fashion. And they do match the posters scattered about the shop.
Napoleon is inspecting shirts with the attention others would give to T.H.R.U.S.H. battle plans. Possibly more.
I settle down with a fashion magazine. It will be a long wait.
In the end, he settles on a grey suit with a narrow collar. I do not know fashion, but it does look good on him. Most things do. But this looks good *and* like the pictures. The shopkeeper makes various marks and - after some pressure from the Major - agrees to have our purchases ready by the time we come back from out next stop.
The price is astronomical. Normally I would protest. Today? It is either U.N.C.L.E.'s money, or T.H.R.U.S.H.'s. Whichever way, I have decided not to quibble.
Next, apparently, is the Moshi place. We both need shoes.
His shop is even smaller, and on the second floor, but again the stock is excellent. And again the proprietor knows we are coming. Whoever runs this network, I commend their efficiency. This time even Napoleon does not complain. I find a nice pair of loafers and a better pair of low boots. Napoleon picks some wingtips. When I smile at that, he just says "For now."
The shop also has some heavy leather pilot's jackets. I do not truly need one but..... even in summer the nights can get chill. We have already spent so much that Waverly would yell, so...why not? There is one in black that fits me perfectly. I pick another in brown for Napoleon. Then two leather valises. We will need something to carry our purchases in.
The major looks at the bill and smiles.
With our main work done, the Major suggests we stop at another place she knows for cakes and tea. This time a open storefront with iron tables set spilling into the sidewalk. We serve ourself from the samovar while the Major picks out pastries from the glass fronted counter. It is delicious, and I am hungry. I do not even ask if this is another of her 'commissions'.
We make one last stop for necessities. Toothbrushes and combs. Socks and briefs. More of the loose fitting colored undershirts these people wear constantly. At the Major's insistence we each get a pair of what she calls 'jeans'. I can not foresee a need for dungarees, but she insists they are indispensable. I am relieved to find they now come in black. Perhaps I can wear them in the lab.
We return to the tailor's where Napoleon's suit is, of course, waiting. My trousers are still to be hemmed, so I wait with him while he dresses.
"Decent?" he asks.
"You look like Napoleon Solo."
He gives the mirror a last look. "I suspect I will have to burn the tie."
The tailor gives him an approving once-over. "Very nice. Now for your hair, I know a good place..."
"Not today, thanks." Napoleon shakes his head.
When the man leaves to get my pants Napasha turns to me. "I may be forced to trust a Russian tailor. I will never be desperate enough to trust a Russian barber."
I am too tired to calculate the money we spent today. That is probably a blessing. Napoleon may have tried Mr. Waverly's patience with his expense reports on occasion, but today? I look at the well packed leather bags. Today we have set a record.
I step back to the major. "For that price, I hope your 'commission' is substantial."
"Inflation is terrible everywhere," she agrees. " But truly, I think you managed some bargains. Cashmere isn't always so easy to find."
I shrug. At least now I will be comfortable.
"Well," she smiles "You both have enough clothing to see you through the next few days. By which time you should be home." She thinks a moment. "Is there anything else you need while we are here?"
"Perhaps." I reply. " Would it be possible to find a bookstore? Or at least stop for some magazines at that stand I saw?"
"Television is a vast wasteland." she replies, agreeing. "As long as you don't need this week's best sellers, there's a really good used book store right around the corner."
Everything here is just round the corner. I am beginning to figure that much out. It is actually more like two corners. No matter, the walk is worth it. The dusty store is a big room is packed floor to ceiling with books. Wonderful place. A young woman sits at the counter reading and sipping coffee. Finally, I think, a Russian clerk. She looks up when we pass by. "Anything I can help you find? Mystery to the left, science fiction to the right."
"Classics?" I ask. That at least should be familiar.
"To the back just beyond poetry."
Napoleon turns over a few volumes on the counter. "Anything in English?"
"Your Russian is perfect!" The girl answers.
He smiles, charming. "Not for easy reading."
She looks sad. "No too much. Left hand to the rear. Mostly leftovers from the university kids."
Near my destination. He fingers a few worn volumes without much interest. My section is almost as bare. Obviously the popular taste has declined in more then clothing. I have decided against rereading Dostoevsky when I see it.
"Napoleon." I whisper.
"Yes?" He comes over instantly.
"Look at this." I hand him the book with 'Gulag Archipelago' flaming in gold letters on the cover.
Major Yelena comes up. "What? Is there a problem?"
I hand her the volume. "Why is this being offered for sale?"
She gives it a look of utter disgust. "You're right. That is in dreadful condition." She flips open the cover, horrified. " For how much?" She waves over a man who is sorting books on the side counter. "Mikail Petrovich, you should not be robbing your customers. This should be on the bargain table."
He takes the volume in question and shrugs. "I can't help it if a book is popular......"
The Major gives him a look harsher then the one she had aimed at the unfortunate private. He crumbles. "OK - for you, half price. Or I have a nice fresh copy in hard cover. Very Nice."
"Don't bother," she snorts. Then she turns to me. "I'll lend you my copy. This Cossack charges too much."
I put down the book. "I think I'll just stick to some science journals. If you have them."
The man starts to answer, but another look from the Major changes his mind. "Not much." He points to the rack on the far wall. " Most of these are a week old - or more. But...." He looks confident again. "If you want them I could give you a bargain...."
The Major looks at her watch, then at us. " We should be getting back." She glances at the two bags, then at my growing pile of magazines. "It is silly to walk so far with packages. Why don't you two stay here while I go get the car?"
Napoleon offers to walk with her but she declines. Regretfully, I think.
I pick up four issues of Astrophysica, and a few more of magazines I do not recognize that look interesting. The dates do not matter. If this is 2001, to me they will all be current.. Napoleon pays for them along with some paperback. That done, we sit on a bench to wait for our ride.
"Illya?" he asks. "What was the problem with the book. I know you are a neat freak , but..."
"Napoleon. Last time I was here, reading a book called Gulag Archipelago could get you sent there." I look at his bag. "What did you get?"
"Murder mystery. Something called Gorkey Park. Cover looked interesting. You should like it. Hero is a KGB officer hunting for a serial killer."
"What?" I look at the cover, which is laden with awards and praises. " The killer is a foreign spy, or a counterrevolutionary?"
"No." Napasha flips to the blurb on the inside. "I think he's some bureaucrat - it isn't really clear yet."
I reach for the book. "Let me see that." He is right. That is what the back says.
"Napoleon - I am beginning to think we *are * in 2001. And we are still in a lot of trouble."
END CHAPTER TWELVE