A Man from U.N.C.L.E. Story
by Darklady
Chapter Twenty-Nine: New World in the Morning
Rated: PG
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Napoleon has gone down before me, and I do not spot him as I enter the hall.
"Good morning," David calls to me. "Breakfast is almost ready. Why don't you have a seat?"
I look from the barren dining room to the bustling kitchen. No table in there. Where are we eating?
Mark is squeezing oranges, and when the pitcher is full he heads out the sliding glass doors. Is this a picnic? I follow him into the back yard. Interesting. Here in the back yard the British formality gives way to wildflowers and fruit trees. A shaded table is set on the brick patio overlooking the pool. Very pleasant in the morning warmth.
Napoleon is already seated at the table, nibbling on grapes. He pours a cup of coffee and sets it at my place. Judging from the aroma, this brew is excellent.
"Ready?" David asks, bringing out plates of something golden, swimming in a red sauce. He puts them at each place, along with platters of bacon and crisp pork rinds. At my uncertain look, he smiles. "Fried cornmeal mush with raspberry salsa."
"Try it," Mark encourages, taking his seat. "It tastes better then it sounds."
Napoleon takes a bite. "Wonderful."
I test a bit. Napasha is right. It is delicious. Richer than pancakes. Fresher than syrup. I look at the laden table. "Do you always eat like this?"
"Hell no," Mark answers, snatching up a strip of bacon. "David's just putting on the dog. He keeps me on granola."
"Mark," David begins.
"It's the truth!" Mark insists in a tone of outraged innocence. "The last time I ordered fried pork chops, you sulked for days."
"Good health is a matter of personal responsibility."
"It's my blood pressure."
"But *you* are mine," David snaps back smugly. " I am far to young to be widowed. Besides, I'd look terrible in black."
"Do you know?" I said, looking over at Napasha. "I have had the same thought recently."
David laughs.
Napoleon looks thoughtful.
"So," Mark asks as he picks up a last bit of bacon. " What would you two like to do today?"
"I thought I might go over to the campus," I answer. "I could check out the facilities, and perhaps meet with Professor Grustov. If you think he will be in?"
"Very likely. Almost everyone keeps Saturday office hours. You could ride in with me, if you like," David offers. " I have some paperwork to finish."
"I think I should find a car." Napoleon adds. "California is supposed to be impossible without one. Then I need to set up an appointment with my broker. I can't find half my stocks in the listings." He shrugs. "Thirty years is a long time to ignore matters."
Mark clears the plates. "You best be off then."
David stands. "Conference with Nachiem. You likely won't see me till well after lunch."
Mark smiles at David. "Don't let her spoil your appetite." And then, without any warning, Mark leans over and kisses him. On the lips.
I look at Napoleon.
He looks at me.
I gather my courage, nod, and .... I feel his lips brush my forehead.
"Good luck, Illyusha."
"Take care, Napasha."
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The campus is larger then I had expected. Acres of modern architecture set on well-groomed grass. Not just classrooms, but restaurants, shops, charming picnic spots. Quite a thriving little community. David points out the major landmarks on our way in. I ask him to drop me at the administration building. That should be a good place to find a map.
I am right. The young lady at the first desk hands me a thick guide and marks the directions to Professor Grustov's office in the Language Arts building.
Even on a Saturday the grounds are busy. Somewhat from classes, more so from the social life that forms anywhere you gather a few thousand of the twenty-something. Still, other then a few intrepid skate boarders, I pass unimpeded.
I smile at the cluster of casually clad students seated on the grass around an older woman. A seminar class, I suppose. At least, several of the young people have open books. Although given that they also have radios and snacks, I doubt their attention is totally focused on the subject matter. I remember such images from my Cambridge days, although back then I never had the spare time to join such frivolities. Now, perhaps? It might be very pleasant to learn that way.
Or perhaps to teach? Not the sciences, of course. Mine is not a field for the undisciplined. And I have more to learn there then to teach. But perhaps language? If this Grustov can serve in two departments? I will read over the catalog closely, and see if they are lacking any languages where I am fluent.
The building is open, and I head up to the faculty floor. Several offices are empty, but when I come to Grustov's the door is open and a young lady is busily sorting papers.
"Professor Grustov?" I ask.
She waves me towards the far door. It is unlocked, so I open it and look inside. A heavy-set man in his fifties is sitting at a book-covered desk. "Professor Grustov?"
He glances up from his papers. "Yes?"
"Illya Kuryakin."
"Who does not need any language classes at all."
I ignore the challenge. "I'm a friend of Mark Slate."
"Your pardon, I thought you might be greetings from home. Your accent, you know." He shrugs. "You have a very military bearing."
"That too." I pass him the most Russian of my ID's.
"Sorry. Not interested. My secretary will show you out."
"My apologies. You really are retired." I look over his wall of diplomas, and my eyes are caught by his thirty years certificate. Meritorious service with highest honors.
He follows my glance.
I shrug. "Not too often I've seen one of these."
"Give it another fifteen years or so."
"Actually, I believe I have one now." I hesitate, then add. "In theory."
"Medical?" Grustov questions, giving me an accessing look.
I smile back blandly. Not a bad assumption if he chooses to make it.
"Sorry, but you look a bit young to have put in twenty years."
"As you say." I agree. "I just flew in from St. Petersburg, where they ..... 'retired' me, I believe was the phrase used. I find myself at a bit of a loose end. David Martinez suggested you might have some ideas as to how I might ... occupy my time?"
"Well then," Grustov says, opening a file drawer. "Would you care for a drink?" He pulls out the familiar blue-labelled bottle and fills two glasses.
"You know?" I say, taking a sip and appreciating the familiar burn down my throat. "You are the first man this week to offer me Russian vodka. I was beginning to think we stopped making the stuff."
He raises his glass. "That is the bosses for you. They have gotten puritanical in my old age."
END CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE