The sound of the train is putting Illya to sleep.
He forces his eyes open. He must not drop his guard. This trip means too much to him — a chance to prove himself, a chance to get out of Russia, a chance at dignity and a better life. They never forgot his father. They never forgot the embarrassment, and neither did he. He can’t afford to mess this up.
But the train car is warm in a way that he hasn’t been in a long time.
Illya has been with the KGB three years and is already one of their best. Trustworthy. Trustworthy enough to make the trip from Moscow to Amsterdam, to the Rijksmuseum, with a suitcase full of Russia’s best artwork. Alone. He’s talented and capable, tall and strong, with an arsenal of weaponry and martial arts experience under his belt. Trustworthy. And yet they don’t like him, don’t like the black mark on his family name. Alone in more ways than one.
Now it’s midnight, and he’s almost halfway there.
The shadows deepen and clear with every town they pass. Illya sits with the suitcase tucked beneath his legs, squashed into a tiny seat. This train is much nicer than the ones they have in Russia, with wide aisles and upholstery. Still, there isn’t enough room for him and his legs. Thank God there’s no one next to him.
The train slows to a halt outside a dimly lit station, the Polish lettering on the signpost almost rusted off. They left the USSR about four hours ago. Illya watches two people get on: a man with a suitcase much like Illya’s, and a woman in an oversized coat, silhouetted against the falling snow. They aren’t together. The woman’s head is down, walking fast in the cold, but Illya can see the man’s face. He has a nice profile, thinks Illya absently, nice hair. Cheap suit. Looks cold.
The woman boards the train. The way she carries herself reminds Illya of his mother, the last time he saw her. Stiff and ignoring her shame. His thoughts drift to his hometown. They’d left when he was young, for a lush apartment in the capitol and a car that worked. Still, they tried to return for visits once a year. Each time, Illya would gaze at the billboard in the city square. It proudly displayed the faces of the people who made Russia great, the people from their own town: Aleksandr Deyneka the artist, Yevgeni Nosov the writer, and Anatoly Kuryakin. Illya’s father. The great.
When Illya was eleven, they tore his father’s face off of the billboard, and left behind an empty space.
Now Illya sits on a train bound for Amsterdam, carrying his country’s glory. We are at war, his commander told him, and every action counts. Every battle counts. Soon the world would see how great the USSR truly was, through the lens of their best art, and be afraid. And Illya? He is content to be the messenger. He doesn’t know how great his country is, or how exhibiting their art will help them win the war. He doesn’t care. He just wants to see the world on the other side of the Iron Curtain. Or to prove himself. He doesn’t know what for.
Movement. Someone’s entering his car.
It’s the man from the station. Carrying his suitcase, he squeezes into the seat across from Illya. “Mind if I join you?” he asks in English.
His accent is round, American. Illya fixes him with an icy stare. His legs are already cramping and he doesn’t want to pull them in any more. Besides, an American? Everyone knows they’re the enemy. Illya doesn’t want this stupid cowboy putting his stupid capitalist legs all over Illya’s suitcase. He glares harder.
The man does not go away. Instead, he folds himself into the seat, swinging his suitcase up next to him. He’s not a small man. He’s muscular, almost as tall as Illya. Maybe a year or so older. He brushes snow off of his lapel, shifts a little, hums. He smells of some alcohol, maybe bourbon, and cheap hair oil.
“Are you gonna introduce yourself?” The man raises a perfect eyebrow. His cheeks are still red from the cold.
Illya says nothing, keeping his glare steady. He does not want to talk.
“I’m Napoleon,” says the man, offering a hand. “Napoleon Solo. I’m an artist. You?”
Illya ignores this Solo’s callused hand, looking out the window instead. They’re nearly to Warsaw. The buildings are creeping closer together.
Solo purses his fine red lips. “Are you deaf? Mute?”
Illya says nothing. He does not want to talk, and if he does, his accent will give him away. He must not be detected on this trip.
“Hello? Are you deaf?” Solo pauses, then waves a hand in front of Illya’s face. He sits back, frowning. “Deaf or just plain dumb?” he mutters to himself.
Illya whips his head around. He is not dumb. Maybe the man is genuinely curious, or he’s frustrated, or he’s drunk or he’s too friendly or he’s just plain mean. Either way he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know Illya. It wasn’t on purpose. He doesn’t know. Illya stills his shaking hands against his thighs.
Solo brings his hands up defensively. “Sorry. Just wanted to get to know you, seeing as we’re on this train for another, oh, maybe two hours assuming you’re going to Warsaw. Are you going to Warsaw?” That eyebrow raise again.
Illya exhales. Two hours. At least. That fool could have chosen any other seat, and yet now he’s penning Illya in with his long legs. Illya is effectively trapped. Of course, he could always knock the man out, climb over him, sit somewhere else, but … Maybe it would be better to make conversation. He might as well.
His mother always wanted him to be charismatic. He could at least try.
“Are you going to Warsaw?”
“I’m actually going to Amsterdam.” Solo smiles easily. It looks good on him. “You?”
“I asked you first.”
“Actually, I asked you first.” He leans forward a bit. “And I answered already. Your turn.”
Illya scowls. Amsterdam … about fourteen more hours with this stupid cowboy.
Solo forges on. “You know, I didn’t know they were letting you out of there. Red Russia, I mean. You have the accent.”
Illya grunts. Solo’s eyes are dark in the light of the train car, but he can’t quite figure out the color.
“Defecting?” That damn eyebrow again. How stupid, how … American of him to even suggest such a thing! Illya is loyal. Every damn Kuryakin has been, besides his father. Illya bristles. His hand shakes, and he grabs his wrist just below his father’s watch to still it.
“Easy, easy. Sorry, I know you all get touchy about that.” Solo’s eyes flit down to the watch, then back up to Illya’s face. “What’s your name? Can’t tell me?”
Illya pauses. It would be unwise, but maybe a first name wouldn’t hurt. Besides, everyone is named Illya these days. At home, he’s mostly known by his last name.
“Illya,” he says.
“That a first name or a last name? Sounds like a first name, but—“
Illya glares. Solo shuts up.
They travel in silence for a little while. Illya stares frostily out the window while Solo sketches in a small notebook. Secretly, Illya hopes the American is sketching him. He keeps his head turned to the side, just in case.
This Solo is handsome, undeniably so. Uncomfortably so. His dark hair swoops over his forehead, blending down into sharp cheekbones and a jawline cut from marble. His hands stay busy on the page, slowly getting covered in charcoal smudges. The suit isn’t doing him any favors — it pulls in the wrong places — but he fills it out well. Everything about him is roguishly perfect, every detail masculine enough to land Illya in trouble.
He remembers kissing a girl, fourteen years old and terrified of his mother finding out. Looking back, maybe that would have been preferable. She would have been ecstatic at the prospect of marriage for him — a chance to settle down, away from the mess that was their family. He and that girl shared a few awkward kisses in a park, then never spoke again. He doesn’t regret it.
After her there was Maxim, the handsome boy in the grade above. They, as the children of government officials, had the privilege to attend a nine-year school, where they studied together. In school, they never spoke, but outside of school, they were the closest of friends. They had shared a few kisses, always pretending it was in a friendly way, always, always pretending. They were schoolmates and nothing more. Of course.
It was Maxim who first told Illya about defecting. No one talked about it, they were too scared, both of themselves and of the spies that walked and talked among them, always watching. But on the long walks home from school, the ones that both boys loved, Maxim told Illya of all that existed outside. He spoke of endless tulip fields, carnivals and drive-in movies, of music and fashion and two-car garages. It all sounded like a fairy tale, a dream. Sometimes Maxim spoke of places where men married men and no one batted an eye, of places where he and Illya could walk and twirl each other under streetlights like they supposed Americans did. When he talked like this, his eyes shimmered with a combination of excitement and hope and tears.
And one day Illya came home from school, alone, to find that Maxim and his whole family had disappeared overnight.
Illya shifts in his seat. His legs are slowly falling asleep where they’re trapped under Solo’s. The American lifts his dark eyes to Illya’s, slowly, and smiles. It’s a different smile than the one before.
“I am going to Amsterdam as well,” says Illya.
Solo sits up a little. “Great! That means I have you all to myself for what, another twelve hours?”
Illya smiles a bit, despite himself. “Thirteen.”
“Hmm.” Solo sits back again, folding the notebook closed. “Whatever shall we talk about?”
Illya stares at him for a long moment, then turns back to the window. He hopes the shifting light will conceal his blush.
“Got a girlfriend back home?”
Now there’s no hope of his blush going unnoticed. Illya clears his throat, clenches his jaw. “No.”
“Mmm.” Solo raises both eyebrows this time. “Me neither. If you could live anywhere, where woould you live?”
“Russia.”
“Of course.” Solo grins. “I’d choose Paris, maybe in the Latin Quarter. Beautiful, beautiful city. Favorite artist?”
Illya blinks. “I don’t have one.”
“What a shame. Mine’s Pollock. Does it surprise you?”
He turns to the window and does not say anything. He doesn’t know who Pollock is.
“Fine. Favorite food.”
This is an easy answer. He remembers how his mother used to make it, during summers, before. Before the kitchen filled with men, first his father’s friends and then men he didn’t know. Men who laughed too loudly and drank too much and didn’t wait until Illya was out of sight to kiss his mother.
He exhales. What does he have to lose by being honest, especially with something as trivial as this? “Okroshka.”
Solo and his damn eyebrows again. He must have a tic. Or maybe he’s just that dramatic. “What’s that?”
“Soup. It’s cold.” He doesn’t elaborate.
Solo shrugs. “Fair enough. Mine’s oysters, probably. Alcohol doesn’t count?”
“No, Cowboy.” Illya fixes the American with a stare. “It’s not food.”
“Did you just call me Cowboy?”
Illya does not answer.
Solo shakes his head, smiling. “I like you, Illya.”
At this, Illya feels his face heat up, and the familiar pricking at the back of his eyes. He flushes too brightly and far too easily, and every time he does, he almost cries. It’s strange.
Solo settles back into his seat. “Okay. Favorite season?”
“Is this an interrogation?”
“I wouldn’t go so far as to call it that.”
Silence again. There’s something about this American, something … different. He’s not like any man that Illya knows. There’s an easy familiarity to him, hiding a current of something darker. Something deeper. They’ve only known each other for a few hours, but Illya feels as though he knows him already, like they’ve been friends since childhood, or something more.
It’s strange. Illya, despite himself, likes it.
The train slows. They’ve reaches Warsaw. A handful of people get on, but no one stops in their car. Solo watches them pass with his shadowed eyes.
When the train starts up again, he reaches into his jacket. Illya’s senses kick into high alert. It doesn’t look like there’s anything under the jacket, but some people, especially muscular ones, can conceal small weapons more easily. Maybe it’s a knife, not a gun. If that’s the case then Illya has a better chance of winning the encounter. If he goes for the suitcase —
“Hey, why’d you tense up?” Solo’s looking at him, more observant than he seems. He retrieves a small flask from his jacket and takes a swig. “Bourbon? Sorry, I don’t have any vodka. That’s what you all drink, right?”
Illya shakes his head. He doesn’t care which question he’s responding to.
They sit in silence for a bit, watching the countryside speed past. It’s getting closer to dawn.
Solo breaks the silence. “How old are you?”
“Twenty.”
“Mmm. I’m twenty-two. Twenty-four on the record.” His voice is thick, tipsy but not drunk. He catches Illya’s questioning eye. “I joined the army when I was sixteen. You had to be eighteen.”
Illya nods, carefully. He’s lucky — he was just young enough to dodge Army service during the war. Solo, though … he must have seen it. He must have seen it all.
“Let me ask you a question, Illya. I might be wrong, I’ve been wrong before.” He laughs, a strange, bitter sound. “Ever loved — ever loved —“
Illya leans forward, but Solo doesn’t finish the sentence. He’s well on his way to drunk, now. His eyebrows twist, mouth stretching into a grimace and then back to a frown, as he struggles for words.
Illya doesn’t need him to finish the sentence. He knows.
There was Maxim, and then there was … him.
Suddenly, suddenly, it feels like drowning, like his chest is slowly filling with black water. He feels the tears again at the back of his eyes, the phantom of hands reaching, pushing, ghostly touches across his chest, his back. He wants to retreat into himself, fold smaller and smaller until he doesn’t exist. Every sound in the train is jarring, too loud and too quiet, and he wants to scream just to hear something else. The smell of hair oil is cloying in a way it wasn’t before.
Three years of stoic silence, he thinks, and now you break? Now you’re fragile? It’s been a long time, Kuryakin, long enough to forget. Pathetic.
Across from him, Solo watches, his hair falling free of its coiffure to fall across his forehead. “Ever loved a man, Illya?”
And with that, the dam breaks. Illya doesn’t care, that he’s baring his heart to an almost-stranger in a train car in Poland. He doesn’t care about his job, about the suitcase full of paintings or the gun beneath his coat. His mother’s disapproving stares, his father’s shameful absence, his sickly-sweet words, they don’t matter anymore. Russia, for all her triumphs and defeats, her great and terrible empire, doesn’t matter anymore. All that exists is Illya, and Solo, and the story.
Three years ago. His mother, dead asleep, and Illya, thinking the apartment was empty, crept down to the kitchen. And he was there.
Solo watches, and listens, an agonized twist to his handsome mouth.
Illya, so long ago and so naive, listened to everything he said. He believed it. He believed he was pretty, and dumb, and useless, and really should have been a girl anyways. He believed he was perfect, and a traitorous disgrace, and only for him to have. He believed he was in love, after barely an hour and a few new bruises, and he opened his legs. Maxim, with his golden hair, had been a dream. He was a nightmare.
And afterwards, Illya ran back to the bedroom, raking his nails down his own thighs. Nothing, nothing could ever compare to the shame.
And his mother slept.
Solo watches, and listens, and cries.
“Illya,” he says, “Illya, that’s not love. That’s not love. Illya.”
Illya cries, too. “I know now. I know now.”
They stare out the window at the countryside and the slowly lightening sky.
Solo says, “But you are — ?”
Illya nods. He knows what the American is trying to say.
Solo nods, too. “Do you think that — that you could fall in love with a stranger? Real love, I mean, not — not that.”
Illya considers it. Before tonight, he would never have thought so, but now, he’s not so sure. Across from him is Napoleon Solo, a man he’s felt he’s known forever, even though they just met. Across from him is a man with charcoal-stained fingers and a terrible suit. Twenty-two but twenty-four on the record.
“Perhaps,” says Illya. He’s afraid to say more. He’s afraid to say, This is my first time out of Russia and you are the first real American I’ve met. He’s afraid to say, You are possibility to me.
“I was drawing you, earlier.” Solo smiles. “I’d give it to you, but I want to keep it. But I want you to have this.” He reaches into his jacket again, and this time, Illya doesn’t tense up. Solo retrieves the notebook and charcoal from before. He scrawls something on a page and hands it to Illya. An address. Somewhere in France. Illya looks up, surprised. His heart is nearly clawing its way out of his chest.
Solo shrugs. “Just in case, you know. We still have the rest of the train ride. I just wanted to — just before I forget.”
Illya nods, slowly. Outside, the sun is just about to crest the horizon.
There’s something in Solo’s eyes. Something … real. In the dark of the train car, they had looked dark, but now, they seem blue, illuminated by the almost-sunrise. Blue with a splash of brown in the left.
Illya leans in.
Solo closes the gap.
The sun rises around them.
Illya wakes when the train slows.
The sign outside the windows tells him they’re in Amsterdam. He’s slept through the rest of the train ride. Quickly, he shakes the last of sleep off of himself, running through his training. He’s been a fool, to let himself fall asleep on the job. At least the suitcase is still there.
The seat across from him is empty. Solo is gone.
It’s stupid, but Illya feels a tug in his chest, like his ribs are about to split open. It was bound to happen sometime, he supposes. Nothing good can last. No one good can stay.
The train is almost stopped, now. Illya reaches down for the suitcase. He should probably check that the paintings are okay.
He opens the lock with steady hands,
The paintings are gone.
Before he can panic, or punch the window, he notices the note, scrawled in charcoal on a small scrap of paper in the bottom of the case. He picks it up, smooths it out, carefully. It feels tiny in his hands.
Illya —
Sorry. Not really, but if you think about it, I’m doing you a favor
(and getting rich in the process — the best combination.)
Wish you the best in Amsterdam. Hope they don’t throw you in the gulag —
I like you too much. I’m waiting for you on the other side of the line. You know where.
All my love,
your Cowboy
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