THE HURT ILLYA CHRISTMAS AFFAIR
December 1968
"I am miserable. I am suffering."
"My condolences."
"You are not listening."
"I am. You're miserable."
"I can tell from your sarcastic tone you are not taking me seriously. As my partner you should be sympathetic."
"I am –
"Condolence is the incorrect response. You should be – more - appropriate. You should share in my misery."
The sigh from the other end of the communicator was deep and not without the telltale twinge of wry amusement. Only Napoleon Solo could manage to convey such emotion in a wordless sound.
"My report will be entitled The Hurt Illya Assignment for Christmas."
"Ho, ho, ho. Sorry, melodramatic Mister K. I do sympathize."
The tenor was sincere this time, but it didn't make Illya Kuryakin feel any better. Isolated on a disagreeable assignment, he did not have the support of his partner. Importantly, he lacked Solo's hefty rank as the Section Two chief. Those weighty credentials could be put to excellent use right now in dealing with the obstreperous authorities in this backwater Norse-rooted country of Bjorg. Number Two of Section Two was just not cutting through the diplomatic morass quick enough.
Irritating bureaucrats were not the only reason he felt glum and wanted to leave. Though he would never admit it to Solo, frankly, he missed the sharing of the boredom, the meaningless chatter, the companionship of his friend.
The Prime Minister of Bjorg had asked UNCLE to find the mole sabotaging efforts for the tiny country to join the United Nations. False reports of Nazi cooperation during WWII had leaked to the UN. There was enough factual detail to make the documents seem real, but all those who lived through the Nazi occupation of the small country knew the papers to be fabricated to sabotage Bjorg's efforts at being recognized as a legitimate government within the world council. The Prime Minister suspected THRUSH as being behind the underhanded efforts. Waverly was not so sure when he had assigned Kuryakin the investigation, but expected the truth to be discovered by the Russian.
Because of his nationality, and working openly with government officials, Kuryakin's mission had hit various roadblocks engineered by sub-ministers of the anti-Communist little country. Self-important bureaucrats - probably the double agent for THRUSH - worked against his non-covert status.
"Then do what you need to do and get me out of this, Napoleon! I am not suited for dealing with deputy ministers of inflated egos and delusions of grandeur!" His voice lowered. "Besides, I do not want to spend the holidays in this little country where everyone is determined to spread their Christmas cheer."
"What kind of cheer is that?" The American's voice brightened.
"Not what you are thinking," was his glum retort. "Giant pine trees and local traditions of candy exchanges and carolers. It is enough to make Bob Cratchet proud."
"Bah humbug."
He ignored the irony in the tone. "Exactly."
Another deep sigh. "Believe me, tovarich, I would be happy to share your misery. A Danish holiday with all those Nordic blonds sounds a lot better than being stuck in Edinborough! Do you know how cold it is in Scotland in December? Well, anytime, now that I think about it."
Illya snorted out a laugh. "I am closer to the arctic. I have no sympathy for you, moi brat."
"Hardly empathetic, partner. Besides, as you constantly remind me, you are Russian and can weather the cold better than anyone else."
"True. Perhaps you could have someone else assigned –"
"Waverly put you there," Solo snapped back in irritation. "Now he's on holiday. Rawlings won't be switching assignments because you don't like being tied up in red tape."
Rawlings. Section One Number Two. A British snob who had little appreciation of Section Two agents. The enmity between Rawlings and Solo was palpable. There would be no cooperation from the temporary leader of North American operations. Worse, if Illya failed at finding the double agent infiltrated within the Bjorg ministry, Rawlings would have more ammunition against Section Two in general and Solo and Kuryakin specifically.
"My talents are cunning and trickery, Napoleon. I am wasted out in the open!"
"All right, Illya. You want me to come out there and help?"
"With your lack of language skills?"
"You shouldn't insult the person who is offering to rescue –"
"I don't need to be rescued, Napoleon! Get me home for Christmas. Please."
"Home for Christmas. What a Capitalistic sentimental –"
"Napoleon!"
"Well, I'll do what I can, tovarich. Meanwhile, please don't make a hash of diplomatic relations between Bjorg and UNCLE. We could use a few gold stars next to our names this year."
The reminder sobered the Russian. Assignments had not gone well for them the last few years. Injuries. Disagreements with superiors. Choosing to risk the mission and/or others to save a partner. Superiors easily lost patience with the top UNCLE team. In fact, Kuryakin and Solo were currently split from sharing cases. Napoleon called it probation until they learned humility and obedience. Kuryakin considered it their reminder as precarious positions as agents not autonomous operatives.
"Very well," the Russian signed off with irritation. "A hash? Isn't that food? You and your American colloquialisms!"
"I think it is self-explanatory. Good luck, tovarich."
For the third day in a row Kuryakin took up a post across from the ministry offices and waited until a corpulent little man in a tan greatcoat and matching fur hat emerged. No word from Napoleon on diplomatic improvement of the frustrating situation. So he would continue with his plan and try to speed up his progress. Not much time left. He desired to be home before Christmas.
Why this interest in being in New York for the holiday? Once he did not acknowledge Christmas or anything about the season. He did not even profess to have a home. Much had changed – for the better. When he joined UNCLE, then was stationed in New York. Then a dramatic shift when he became partnered with an American who was sentimental enough to force him into some traditions that were now important. Events he anticipated and enjoyed.
The evenings here were cold; snowflakes large and gentle fluttered around the street and caught on his dark trench coat. The scene was out of an old-fashioned post card of a classic Christmas scene. Archaic, grey buildings dusted with winter's blanket. An occasional window was decorated with a wreath, but this was a staid government district, removed from the bright commercial lanes of the capitol city.
Grateful for his own nondescript overcoat, the operative tugged the collar tight around his neck. He used doorways and alleys to duck into as he trailed Minister Dannz. The course took them into more populated areas and it became easier to tail the man amid the holiday crowds.
Curious that the pudgy minister did not use a car, Illya was mildly surprised when, for the second evening in a row, the man turned the corner leading toward the border crossing. Along the divide between Bjorg and Sweden, a customs stop was lined with businesses and places to eat.
Bjorg was a pleasant country, really, that managed to survive Nazi occupation intact, and avoid the modern onslaught of Communist takeover. Bjorg was famous for artistically painted china as their greatest export, and there was abundant tourist merchandize in the duty-free shops. Business was brisk with holiday buying and the stores brightly lit and decorated, the feeling festive. Immune to the cheer and general spirit, Illya trailed Dannz into the largest store at the border.
A fussy clerk kept her eye on Kuryakin as he wandered the maze of shelves loaded with dishes, cups and platters splashed with eye-catching patterns. Various old-world styled Father Christmas figurines were exhibited with Christmas candy and crèche displays. The fuss and crush made the Russian pleased he had shopped early, before he left New York for this assignment. He bought a gift for only one person at Christmas and that simplified things tremendously. One birthday present in November, a present for Christmas, and that was the extent of his shopping sprees.
He studied the sweets counter while keeping a peripheral watch on Dannz. Would Napoleon like some of this candy? Maybe he should buy some for the plane trip back to the States. What was Napoleon going to think of his gift this year? It was difficult to surprise the American who was a top-notch spy. Craftiness being his nature, Solo loved trying to guess what it was Kuryakin had purchased him. One year he should buy nothing and tell his partner just that. Napoleon would never believe him of course, and be totally surprised when he opened an empty box!
The watchful employee asked if she could help Kuryakin with something. She was nervous, as if expecting him to vandalize the delicate dishes. Politely he replied he was just observing.
Looking up, among the dinner-for-eight sets, Illya lost sight of Dannz. Irritated, he dashed toward the back of the store. Rounding a corner, a blow to his head knocked him into the wall. He slid down to the floor, rainbow colors spinning in a dizzy circle of disorientation swirling around him. He irrelevantly considered himself lucky not to be falling into a display case of breakable dishes.
Now this was misery! Tried to a stiff chair, Kuryakin regained consciousness from the pain throbbing his wrists. Blinking his eyes open, he tried to stare behind the bright light in his eyes. The sleeves of his black turtleneck were rolled back to leave his arms bare. His head pounded with pain, but he ignored that by straining to sense what was lurking in the darkness beyond the arc of illumination. There was a form back there – Dannz?
"So, you awaken," Dannz called out in Russian. Smirking, he walked into the light.
"You speak Russian," the agent replied in kind.
"Da."
Even through the headache the plot easily took shape in his mind. "You are a double agent. Not for THRUSH. For the Communists."
"Mother Russia. I came over after the war. In all the confusion no one suspected." The fat man smiled pleasantly. "You, on the other hand, have succumbed to the weaknesses of Capitalism. You are a traitor! Working for the West!" He slapped Kuryakin – a stinging, hard blow to the face.
Vision swimming, Illya pressed his lips together so no reaction, no sound of anguish would escape. Misery. Yes. Typical. How he had been caught so blindsided was embarrassing. Good thing no one else was here to witness his slip. Especially Napoleon. He did not want his friend to see this. That seemed the height of embarrassment – messing up in front of Solo. Besides being concerned with Napoleon's opinion of his skill there was the tease factor. Any little mistake and Solo never let him hear the end of it!
"Now you are going to tell me how much UNCLE knows."
A needle dripping with some unknown substance came into the light and was aimed at his exposed skin. He hated shots.
Feeling pleased with his skilled machinations, Solo expected a warm welcome from his partner. Flying fromEdinborough, to Denmark to Bjorg was quite a coup even if he said so himself. Rawlings was too busy running the big show back at HQ to worry about the sudden assignment that required the attention of the head of Section Two in his little backwater of a country. He and Illya should be long gone before their superiors had a clue!
Cruising around his partner's empty hotel room, Napoleon perused the cup of cold coffee, the unfinished breakfast cake, the folded paper which he couldn't read. A cold snack and an old paper. Illya had not been back here since this morning when they talked. So where was Illya? The Russian had been out of touch since their last conversation. That worried Solo. By the time he landed here he was actively concerned. Now he was itching with anxieties just below the fear level.
Searching the room, he found in the desk drawer a map of the city. An area near the border was circled and in the margin was scribbled, in Illya's hand, a name. Dannz. Familiar with his partner's progress reports, he knew Dannz was one of the minor ministers giving his friend a hard time. Four PM was underlined next to the name.
"The hurt Illya assignment," he ruminated grimly. "I hope not, tovarich, I hope not."
The excruciating pain had passed quicker than Kuryakin expected. Whatever had been injected into his system burned on the inside like acid through his veins. Morphing along with that and well after the ache was the far worse affect – the hallucinations. Whatever psychotropic drugs he had been given warped his vision, mind and body.
How revolting! He had experienced this kind of disorienting torture before. Hated this! Just last year he had suffered through an episode with this kind of drug! At least this year Napoleon was not obliged to rescue him! He was freeing himself this time!
Strapped down, he was actually grateful for the restrains otherwise he would have toppled over in complete disorientation.
"What did you tell UNCLE! Who is working with you? What have you revealed? Do they know my name?"
The questions had come with shouts, demands and physical strikes, but Illya could not respond even if he wanted to do so. His tongue was as useless as his body. It was irritating, and painful, that he felt the ache of the blows even through the vertigo.
Dannz had been there part of the time but had left after fruitless interrogation. Alone, Illya still could not command his body. The small window in the basement of the shop had showed drifting snow – December at the top of the world. How maddening to understand what was happening and be trapped by his betraying body!
There was hope, though. One, he was slowly regaining motor functions. He could wriggle his hands to stretch out the leather straps on his wrists. And two – the best of all – Napoleon would be worried about his silence. His partner would send help. Maybe agents from Norway or London? They might be here soon. Now, it was acceptable to receive aid. He would minimize the report when he related this misadventure to Solo.
Not willing to wait, he wrestled in the chair until he was able to bite at the straps, finally tearing enough of a gap in one to loose his right hand. He clumsily fought and freed himself, only to fold to the floor, his muscles not obeying the commands of his mind!
It seemed forever before he was able to crawl/stumble to the door. Manipulating the locked bolt was impossible with hands turned to putty, but the vague memory of a secret weapon hammered in his brain along with a splitting headache. Scrambling around on the floor he retrieved his trench coat, which held some kind of special buttons – ho! – his Walther! The stupid – what was his name? – the daft minister-double-agent had left his weapon!
Back to the door, he tore off three buttons and scraped them against the latch. The last one sparked and exploded, singeing his fingertips. Unable to coordinate them into his mouth, he blew in their general direction. The minor pain melded with all the other hurts and he ignored this newest problem and tried to kick open the door. Missing several times, he chose to throw himself against the old wood. The metal knob and bolts flew apart and he crawled, then scrambled up the old stone stairs leading from the basement of the cold building.
Should have brought his coat, he muttered, too disoriented to try finding the imprisonment room again.
He had to get out of here. Had to get help. Should have checked his coat for his communicator! Instinctive measures were coming too slowly. As he reached another door he slid against it, rubbing his head, triumphant that he could manage his motor skills enough now to do - kind of - what he intended. He thought he giggled when he realized he was clutching the Walther in his hand!
Yes! Armed and dangerous. To himself as well as everyone else!
Trying again, he pushed, fumbling with the knob until the door opened. Light and sound assaulted his numb senses. He poked his head around the corner and almost head-hit a bearded man!
Gasping, falling back and dropping to the floor, he focused on the still figure. It was a mannequin in a Nativity! The First Noel was being sung in Danish? Glittering, sparkling colors and crowded shapes . . . he was looking at such wonders . . . dishes? Cups? Holy and ivy? Wreaths? The china shop? He had followed – that minister – the pudgy Russian – yes – Russian – he was in the china shop!
Crawling on his hands and knees he avoided the display cases loaded with fragile goods. Bull in a china shop. A phrase he had heard Napoleon use. Strange that he understood the meaning better than ever before now. He crouched down when a woman passed along the next aisle. When he popped up to get his bearings again, he gasped.
The fat Russian was coming this way! Behind him in the straight line of site someone was following the man. Illya scurried behind another display case. There was the fat minister – and a man in a black trench coat – a man who looked so familiar. Almost like Napoleon . . . as the hunter and hunted grew closer Kuryakin's eyes adjusted.
Napoleon! It was Napoleon!
The fat man stopped to check out a dish. With speed unexpected for someone of that bulk he spun and flicked a plate back toward the American agent! Napoleon deflected the saucer with his hand. Too late, Napoleon! The minister was going for a weapon! Illya watched it all in slow motion as his friend realized the danger too late. His right hand, which had instinctively protected his face, was reaching for the shoulder holster seconds too late!
Seeing it all unravel before his eyes was helplessly watching disaster unfold from a distance. Eyewitness, but unable to act in time.
NO! He slurred warning stuttered out . . .
Illya's hand instinctively popped up before he remembered he was armed. He fired.
To his horror the fat man did not flinch. The soft coughs of his UNCLE special continued spurting bullets across the store. Plates, cups and all manner of crockery shattered and flew as the projectiles splattered the myriad breakables. Without control, Illya sprayed a volley of lead across the room. Finally the fat man went down!
Dazed at the level of his destruction, he honed in on the most important factor – his partner!
Where was Solo? There leaning against a display case, an expression of surprise and horror on his face! He had crashed into a display! Hands clutched his head as dishware cascaded atop him!
Napoleon! No!
"Napoleon?"
The name was garbled and he didn't know if he spoke it or thought it. There was a clicking sound – his finger still pulling the trigger after the clip was empty.
He had shot Napoleon!
Kuryakin dropped the Special and stumbled, leaning on tables and display cases to get to his partner. Tripping over Kris Kringles, elves and sleighs he made his way to his fallen friend. More emotion and clearer thoughts flooded into his system as coordination returned. Anguish twisted inside as he fell to his knees and crawled the last few feet to the agent.
Solo's face was nicked from flying shards of china. Kuryakin collapsed with his forehead against Napoleon's. He had killed his friend! Out of control he had shot his partner!
"I thought this was the hurt Illya assignment?" came a sighed whisper in his ear.
Jumping back, he stared at the brown eyes that regarded him with wry displeasure.
"You're alive, Napoleon!"
"No thanks to you."
Stiffly, with moans and groans, Solo sat up with the help of a clumsy Kuryakin. The Russian brushed pieces of porcelain from his partner's shoulders and head.
The American pulled long spears of china from his coat. "I don't think I like the pattern. And another coat ruined!" he grumbled as he picked crockery slivers from the perforated black material. He studied the Russian, tightening his grip on the arm. "You don't look too well, my friend."
Shaking his head, Illya looked around, pleased that the fat minister was still on the ground. Then back to Solo. Alive and mostly uninjured!
"I didn't shoot you?"
"Close. I think I was saved by a set of dinner for eight."
Another Christmas season in an airport. They had done this before. So many times. The trappings were a little more old fashioned, the soundtrack in a different language, but it was essentially the same. Outside, light from the large windows shone on large flakes of snow pouring from the sky.
I'll Be Home For Christmas played on the music speakers! The Frank Sinatra version! A universal constant apparently. It was sentimental and warming, in this chill, foreign hub at the top of the world.
The song recalled underground radio transmissions from the BBC in his WWII youth. Painting a musical picture of an ideal of safety, heated homes and peace. No running from gypsy camp to forest, to makeshift shelter. It had been an idyllic his young mind could not comprehend.
Then post-war Oxford, England. The country had moved on to leftover rationing, hard times, and socialist academia. Then the Cold War. Housing, a chill flat where he spent little time. Laboratories and libraries kept him too busy for comfort or socializing.
' . . . I'll Be Home For Christmas . . .'
No time for sentiment as he juggled his nationality with Western university. Not home.
Then recruited by Alexander Waverly to join UNCLE. London. Not home. New York. Not home. Always a bit set apart from others. Too intelligent. Or aloof. Or mysteriously enigmatic. Just the way he enjoyed life! On his own, few restrictions. Utilizing his talents for language, cunning and trickery. No sentimentality. No involvement with others on a considerable social level. Not home.
'. . . please have snow . . .'
Apparently he was not the caliber of espionage agent he presented to his superiors. He had been trapped unawares. Tricked to be gradually absorbed into Western decadence. Record collections. Fashionable, mod clothes. Friendship. It had crept up on him unexpectedly. Where had it brought him? A cold, northern airport, sharing a meal of fruit pastries, chocolates and coke with an American!
Ensnared. Trapped in a gradual evolution. Arrogant – yes, he was. Supercilious? Maybe. Aloof – certainly! From chill to tepid, to warm. Stages so subtle he never realized the transformation. An introductory mission where he saved a fellow agent. A second assignment. Then another. A transfer to New York. Then a partnership! An apartment in the same building. Sharing rides, hotel rooms, meals, cabs, jeeps, convertibles, dinners . . .
' . . . presents on the tree. . . '
Birthdays. Christmases. Presents. Life and death.
Sharing everything with his fellow operative, colleague, partner – friend. Right up to this moment.
Kuryakin counted them fortunate they were able to escape this tiny postage-stamp- sized country tonight! Vaguely recalling the shooting without control – the cost – monetarily and reputation-wise for UNCLE was already astronomical! Rawlings had been so livid over the communicator he ordered them not to return to New York until summoned! Consider themselves reassigned to the London Station. Indefinitely. And no longer leading officers in section Two North America!
A promotion, in Illya's opinion!
Regaining his wits on the floor of that shop had been more torture than he had received at the hands of his enemy. The inner anguish of thinking he had shot Napoleon was more hurting than he ever felt from any physical injury. If Solo had been damaged at his actions? Wasn't his friend's safety what he valiantly and sometimes vainly attempted to save with each assignment? His life? It had been too close today.
An ultimate hurt.
As he sipped his coffee and observed his friend walking toward him, Kuryakin considered that this was the best present he could ever have. Yes, it would be nice to have a good dinner, a warm fire and easy companionship for the holiday. Whatever gift he received would be pleasant. The real treasure, the true prize, was sitting here next to his friend – his alive and well partner.
If Napoleon had died? That would have been the ultimate hurt from which he would never recover.
Slipping into the next seat, Solo handed him a bottle of coke and a bag containing sweets and some kind of luscious-scented pastries!
"You are worth all the trouble you cause, Mr. Solo," he thanked his friend around a mouthful of a fruit turnover-type sweet. "Are those chocolates?" he wondered, examining contents at the bottom the bag.
"Ah, I can always get on your good side with food," Napoleon tsked with a chuckle.
"You know me well."
"Da, da." The senior agent reported, "The jet will be arriving in about ten minutes. The snow is getting thicker," he observed as he stared out the big windows toward the runway, "They're thinking of closing the airport soon, but we should get out of here in the nick-of-time. As per our forte."
Kuryakin grunted, licking the crumbs around his lips.
"You're not mad about how things turned out, are you? I think it's been a win-win for us!" After taking a drink of his soda, Solo began ticking off their successes, but slowed to silence at his partner's dark expression.
There was an unintelligible grunt as the Russian shook his head hard enough that his blond bangs bounced on his forehead.
"What?" Solo turned and gave a level scrutiny eye to eye. "I thought you would be happier. Christmas not at home as you wished, but we'll be in London for the holidays. We will book a celebratory Christmas supper somewhere nice. Savoy . . . hmm . . . I'll have to make some calls." After moments of study at eye-level, he nudged his friend's shoulder. "Why are you so glum? You were anxious to leave here yesterday."
"I am. Still." He managed a smirk. "Spasiba."
Bowing his head in an acceptance of the gratitude, he continued. "I even managed to keep you out of jail! Does that cheer you?" Sobering, he jabbed his friend with his elbow. "Come on, Illya. There is a bright side – several! You will not have a record as an international vandal because the authorities believed us. The entire debacle was the Russian agent's fault," he winked, then smiled. "The Bjorg Prime Minister is even billing the Russian Embassy for all the damage in the shop," he chuckled. "You're the hero who took down that nasty Communist spy!"
"You are enjoying this far too much," was Illya's acerbic acknowledged his friend's silver-tongue diplomacy manage to twist the tale in their favor.
"Rawlins is so mad at us we are an ocean away from him! Posted in England. Demoted." He was annoyingly absolutely cheery! "See! Win-win!"
"Until the next time Waverly needs an expendable team."
Nabbing a chocolate from the bag he ignored the taciturn gloom. "You are so moody. I for one am looking forward to London." He tilted his head sideways in a familiar gesture of scrutinizing his partner. "Oh, my sullen Russian! What is wrong? Why aren't you happy to leave?" He lifted a small pastry from the bag. "Although the Danishes are delectable." Before he took a bite he quietly, but firmly demanded, "Spill it all, tovarich."
Kuryakin nodded, looking out the window instead of at the various scratches on Solo's face. If the bullet meant for Napoleon had not been deflected by flying china plates . . . Too often their lives were spared by chance. Or Solo Luck?
"I will be pleased to leave this forsaken spot."
"Well, I am grateful for a happy end to the Hurt Illya Christmas Assignment."
The light tease did not lift his spirits.
The tap on his shoulder brought his attention back to his partner. The brown eyes were regarding him with sober concern. "I am pleased the hurt Illya attempts did not go too far." Staring into the blue eyes, he shook his head. "That little rat DID hurt you, didn't he?" The scrutiny intensified. "What is it?" Silence. His shoulders shivered. "You were a bit loopy shooting up the china shop. Remind –" Abruptly pressing his lips together, he shook his head. "Nevermind."
Thinking of the when drugs had addled Kuryakin to the point of abject fear, or mumbling insensibility? The haunting memory was reflected in the American's dread expression more vividly than in personal recollections.
How flippant Illya had been with his banter yesterday! Hurt Illya. Not comprehending that phrase as a tasteless rant until he thought he had shot his friend. That was how to hurt Illya – by hurting Solo.
Raising his eyebrows, Solo gave a subtle nod as comprehension dawned. "Oh. Illya, what happened was not your fault." No change in the saturnine expression. He gripped onto the thin shoulder next to his. "And the only damage done was to yet another article of my clothing. All right?"
Naturally, Napoleon comprehended his inner disquiet; he needed to face that question honestly. Was he through with the distress? The trepidation over what he could not control? As usual, they had come out of the menace triumphant.
"I am fine." He repeated with more certainty, and a relieved sigh. "I am absolutely fine. Now."
A more complete statement than he had given in a long while. Everything was superb. He was alive, his friend was alive.
' . . .I'll be home for Christmas if only in my dreams . . .'
In his youth he had not dared to dream. Too dangerous to raise expectations. He planned ahead only as far as surviving beyond the Nazis. Then to Oxford. Under the tutelage of Waverly. Career in espionage. No place for dreaming.
Never could he have dreamed what he now defined as home!
Home? Not an apartment in New York. Not even UNCLE HQ. Home was right here, right now. Sharing bottled coke and sweet treats. Waiting in a snow-bound airport. Striving to make the best of a post-mission debriefing. Home was beside his partner, wherever they landed. Victory – defined as surviving their last mission. Again.
Solo studied him for a moment and seemed to understand the impact of the exchange, the mood. With a nod he raised his soda and tapped his to Illya's coke bottle in offer of a toast.
"Merry Christmas, Illya."
"Merry Christmas, Napoleon. And many more."
MERRY CHRISTMAS