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I sigh a bit as I pick up the last patient chart. I had already checked all the in-house patient charts and done rounds with Dr. Ayadote who was on the three to eleven shift. We are almost full right now: seven of the twelve regular beds filled and one in the ICU.
In addition, we have three patients who are recovering at home.
Two are influenza cases, one recovering and expected to return to duty tomorrow, the other is his partner who just started with symptoms today. Apparently, the sick partner had required cheering up in the form of several hours of bourbon and gin rummy. They figured the bourbon would kill any germs. Yes, in an emergency, when there is absolutely nothing better available, you can use alcoholic beverages for external sterilization. However, it has no anti-viral properties when taken internally.
The last chart was Agent Kuryakin. Recovering at home from a knife wound and a moderate concussion, again. I think he has the UNCLE record for most concussions; possibly the world record. It defies medical science that he doesn’t have the intellect of a blancmange by now.
Nurse Kindness was scheduled to check on him and re-dress the wound over his ribs, but her sister died and she is in New Jersey for the funeral. I’ll swing by and do it myself. Illya can be difficult and the only available nurses are new. Besides we have been friends for three years and I have never seen his apartment.
When I phone to let him know I’m coming, he suggests I come at six and have dinner with him. I didn’t know he could cook. Just in case he can’t cook, I offer to bring dessert.
I finished my seven to three shift by three thirty, so I have plenty of time to shower, change, pick up an apple solozhenick from my favorite bakery, and get to Illya’s at ten to six.
He lives in a quiet street of older townhouses, now turned into apartments, many having small businesses on the ground floor. Mature trees line the streets. It is a predominantly Ukrainian neighborhood with a couple very good Ukrainian restaurants in the area and a Ukrainian Orthodox church. A Ukrainian Soviet spy doesn’t stand out here.
The house is a narrow four-story brick, painted light yellow with blue trim around the windows and door. It has wide bay windows all the way up on one side. The lace curtains at the first-floor windows are twitching. The lace curtains on the second floor are looped back and an elderly lady is openly watching the street.
The doorstep is aggressively clean with a mat that practically screams “Wipe your feet!” The vestibule is immaculate too. There are four shiny mailboxes: Gavrilyuk, Zelenko, Maximoff, Kovalenko. Illya said he is Illya Alexandrovych Kovalenko here. I wonder if all Section 2’s use a variant of “Smith” as their surname alias? I know Napoleon Solo uses Fabbro and Mark Slate uses Psmith.
Pressing the bell over the Kovalenko box gets a curt response of “Yes?” I identify myself and am told to come to the fourth floor and “watch out for the dogs”.
As I’m buzzed in, the first-floor door opens and a thin elderly woman with orange hair pops out accompanied by a yipping Russkiy Toy and a strong smell of Pine-Sol and Lemon Pledge. The woman’s “Can I help you?” seems more threatening than the dog’s barking.
“Hello, I’m here to see Illya, fourth floor, right?”
“I haven’t seen you here before.”
“No, I’ve only recently moved back to New York. I’m Anna Nikitichina Pasternak. You must be Mrs. Gavrilyuk, Illya’s landlady? He’s told me how comfortable you have made him here.”
“How do you know Illya?”
“He’s my двоюрідний брат [male cousin]. Our mothers were sisters.”
At this point the minuscule dog has decided that she won’t tear me limb from limb and is wagging her curly tail. I tentatively offer my hand to sniff. “Привіт, маленький. Як вас звати?” [Hello, little one. What’s your name?]
The landlady thaws a little, “Її звуть лялькаичка.” [Her name is Dolly.] She seems to like you.”
“She knows I like dogs. I’d better get upstairs before Illya comes looking for me. It was nice to meet you.”
As I pass the door on the second floor, it opens a crack and an eye peers out accompanied by the wuffling of a couple dogs and an aroma of baking cinnamon and sugar.
The third-floor door has a mezuzah on the frame. It is cracked open too, emitting a waft of chicken soup, and the sound of a very young infant crying. It seems that Illya’s neighbors keep a close eye on his visitors.
I finally reach the fourth floor and Illya is waiting at the door, barefoot, wearing a moss green polo shirt and gold jeans. He gives me one of those soft Russian smiles that always seem warmer and more sincere than an American’s wide grins.
“Survived the gauntlet, then.” He says as he locks the door and puts his Walther back in the holster hanging on the coat tree behind the door.
“Barely. I told the landlady I’m your cousin on our mothers’ side. She looked like she thought I was some cheap floozy with designs on your virtue and was going to throw me out.”
“Anya, no one could mistake you for a cheap floozy.” There is a suspicious emphasis on “cheap”, but I let it pass.
“It is just as well you said you are my cousin. If Mrs. Gavrilyuk thought I had a nice, marriageable, Ukrainian girl visiting, she would have the priest here before we can start dinner.”
As we talked, I was looking at the apartment. The dark blue floor and pale-yellow walls are carried through from the hallway with a grey carpet on top of the linoleum. The wall to the right of the door has two DIY bookshelves crammed with books and journals in various languages. They look like they are in some kind of order, but I don’t have time to figure it out. Just beyond them is a wider dark wood bookcase that seems to be missing some shelves. It contains Illya’s record collection and has his portable stereo in top. A trio is playing bop with a hint of Satie, probably a Herbie Nichols recording.
To the left is the front wall with a large bay window open enough to allow a breeze that gently stirs the white sheer curtains. In the bay, a light green wooden arm chair faces a gray easy chair with stained, worn upholstery. A small end table, very modern in style, but painted black with hand drawn red and white diamonds sits between them. Brass candlestick lamp on the top shelf, gun cleaning kit and throwing knife tucked underneath the shelf. Behind the chairs, guitar and horn cases and a music stand with some sheet music are neatly stashed in the corner.
On the wall across from the door, a large cabinet painted to match the wall looks like it holds a Murphy bed. Another end table, that would match the one by the window if it weren’t painted bright blue with gold curlicues, is placed near where the head of the bed would be. It has a smaller lamp, a Raymond Chandler paperback, and, under the top shelf, a small hold-out gun.
The really startling piece of furniture is the chest of drawers painted magenta with colorful flower stickers all over it. Not a choice I’d associate with Illya.
Illya has placed my shoes next to his under the coat tree and hung my medical bag on it. Taking possession of the cake, he leads me to the kitchen. The narrow hall has an unusual glass door on one side. When I give it a closer look, I see it is a shower door; the shower is right there in the hall. Illya gestures toward the door opposite, “Lavatory is there if you want to wash your hands. There are clean towels.”
I do wash my hands after being on the subway. The lavatory is tiny, but clean and everything seems to have a precise place. Illya may have questionable taste in home decor, but he is very neat. When one has very few possessions, one keeps track of them, and serving on a submarine would probably discourage leaving things strewn around too. The only other thing in the hallway is a door that I assume is a closet.
The kitchen is larger than my tiny strip kitchen, but still very small. Under the only window is what must be the remainder of the dark wood bookcase, holding a few pots and pans and an assortment of canned goods. The top of the bookcase is empty in the center, almost like It is being used as a window seat. Again the Venetian blinds are angled to block any line of sight from outside. A card table and two folding chairs are in the only empty corner. An oilcloth tablecloth printed with a lace pattern covers the table which is set with Golden Wheat plates and Tom and Jerry jelly glasses.
There is a pleasant aroma of baking potatoes and chicken.
“Dinner is almost ready. Would you like wine or are you on call?”
“I’m off duty until three tomorrow afternoon. Since you are my only patient, I can handle a glass of wine. Sure you are sufficiently recovered from your concussion to drink though?”
“I had a couple of cognacs with Napoleon yesterday and didn’t have any problems. You worry too much.”
“Worrying about my patients is my job. Some patients worry me a lot more than others because they ignore my instructions and do stupid things.”
“I’ll have a word with Napoleon about following your instructions more carefully the next time I see him. He is rather lax about such things.”
I give up on that argument and sit down with my back to the kitchen door. Section Twos always sit facing doors.
“Did your apartment come furnished?”
“No, just the Murphy bed and kitchen appliances. I found most of the rest on the streets near Columbia and Barnard. Can you believe the students just put this stuff out on the curb as trash at the end of the year? It is in perfectly good condition!”
“How did you get it here? I can’t see Napoleon approving.”
“Napoleon certainly did not approve. I thought he was going to have a stroke when he realized I was picking up things from the trash. But he helped me rent a truck and bring it here anyway. He also explained Green Stamps3; that’s where I got this table and the metal bookshelves.”
Illya puts some inexpensive wine glasses on the table and pours some very good Chardonnay into each glass. Then he takes the plates back to the stove and removes something that smells delicious from the oven.
In a moment, I have a plate with a breaded chicken breast, baked potato, and that canned corn with the little red and green pepper bits in it.
We start to eat and it is excellent. Illya is certainly able to cook, even if the meals are quick and simple. When I complement him on the flavoring of the chicken, he ducks his head and murmurs. “It is just something called Shake and Bake. I found a coupon for it in Redbook and tore it out.”
“Shake and Bake. I’ll have to get some. You read Redbook?”
“Not normally, but there was a copy in the Agents’ lounge and the title intrigued me. It was rather disappointing though: just propaganda urging more consumption of unnecessary goods and a story about a hard-working young woman striving to improve her career who then gives it up to marry a rich, elitist capitalist. I think it was supposed to be romantic, although I doubt the heroine will have a ‘happily ever after’ with husband she describes as domineering.”
“I’m familiar with Redbook. They never have a story about a hard-working young woman who meets a poor but zealous reformer who organizes the labor movement, opening her eyes to how her capitalist boss exploits the workers. Then she assassinates the boss, turns control of the factory over to the workers, and everyone lives in a socialist paradise.”
“I know. The magazine didn’t even have an educational article on how to repair the collective’s tractor. Very disappointing considering the name. At least it had some money-saving coupons.”
“You do know that was April’s magazine you were tearing coupons out of?”
“April and Mark were sent to Upper Volta that afternoon. By the time they get back the magazine will have been thrown out by the cleaning crew. Besides private property is theft.”
“Proudhon’s approach was bourgeois according to Marx. Although you are getting a bit bourgeois yourself with your Green Stamps and china premiums.”
“I am not getting bourgeois. I am simply taking advantage of the rich capitalists for my own benefit.”
“Of course you are. You’re another Karmaliuk.”
We finish the main meal and I suggest dressing Illya’s wound before we have dessert. He washes the dishes and I dry, because he chivalrously insists that I need to “save my hands for surgery”. Putting things away is easy since a tiny cabinet above the sink holds all his dishes and flatware.
I wash my hands again and get my bag while he removes the tablecloth and sits down with his hands folded and his innocent, angelic, little boy face on. It would be convincing if I hadn’t had him as a patient before. As a patient, he is more of an irascible, bull-headed, pain in the зад
First the concussion. His eyes are tracking, pupils regular and reactive, lump on head no longer palpable, able to pass a couple basic neurological tests. Claims to have no headache.
“Shirt off, please. Can you put your left hand on your right shoulder? Excellent! Just stay that way.”
The knife was aimed at his heart, but fortunately simply slashed his side down to the bare rib. The story, that I pieced together from his bickering with Napoleon while I was stitching him up, was that he was undercover and therefore unarmed. Some common muggers armed with knives and clubs forced him into an alley. By the time Napoleon got there from where he was observing, the three muggers were dead and Illya had the knife wound and the mild concussion. There were a lot of comments about Napoleon being late as usual, scaring off the mark by waving his gun around, Illya killing the muggers because he was peevish from the heat, and the mission having to be aborted because the local authorities would have been upset about Illya strewing dead bodies around their city.
I’m suddenly reminded that this young man who resembles a soft-spoken graduate student is in reality an expert killer.
The bandage looks clean and dry. I cut through it and gently pull off the pad underneath. A little blood and lymph, but no pus. Wound is only slightly red, closed, not hot to the touch. Illya doesn’t flinch when I touch it, but that means nothing. He hides pain very well when it benefits him and he is scheming to get back to active duty. I clean the wound with an alcohol swab and trim the stitches a bit so they are less likely to catch on anything.
“Looks good. We can leave the bandage off and it is all right to get it wet as long as you are careful not to rub or snag the stitches. I think we can take them out Monday.”
“Does that mean I can return to work on Monday?”
“That means you will come to Medical at 8:30 to have your stitches out and another evaluation. If all is well you will be cleared for desk duty.”
I go to wash my hands again and make a quick inspection of his medicine cabinet while I’m there. The minor first aid supplies someone who travels a lot, often in rough country, would have, plus a very large bottle of aspirin and large tube of Ben-Gay. The only thing unexpected is a large bottle containing an assortment of sedatives and narcotics.
I take it with me. “Illyusha, брате мій, what is this?”
“Those are the sleeping pills and pain pills your people keep forcing on me when I leave Medical. I don’t have any use for them, but it seems wasteful to just flush them.”
“Why aren’t you taking them as prescribed, or is that a silly question?”
“I can’t take them at home. It is bad enough being made to sleep that heavily when I’m in Medical, but I can’t risk sleeping through an intruder coming in.”
That… makes sense from an Agent’s perspective. “Maybe I should make a standing rule that sleeping pills and narcotics should only be sent home if the patient requests them? Would that work for Section Two?”
“Yes, a drugged sleep just makes us nervous. It isn’t healthy. Speaking of health, I think I should be ready for fieldwork Monday since I’m healed.”
“Desk duty. You may spend a half hour on the firing range. No combat practice or vigorous exercise just yet. You are not fully healed.”
Once Illya has given up trying to talk me into letting him go back to field work on Monday, we move into the living room for dessert. Illya is apologetic that he only has strawberry jelly for the tea, but I assure him that it will go well with the apple cake.
He gives me the “good” chair despite it being the one that faces the door. The good chair is the stained one with the sagging seat. The wooden armchair looks even more uncomfortable. It wouldn’t cost much to replace the cushion and get a slip cover for the upholstered one and maybe a seat cushion for the wooden one; I don’t know if he doesn’t know about such things or is just adverse to spending the money.
No one, including Napoleon, seems to know what Illya does with the considerable salary UNCLE pays him. I know he gives generously to a local food pantry and to a rescue for stray cats. He has also contributed to the local Ukrainian church’s refugee support program, although most of the refugees these days are Cubans fleeing Castro’s regime. He should still have enough left over to buy decent furniture and a few luxuries. Maybe he sends most of his money home or he just doesn’t want to have any possessions that he can’t abandon at a moment’s notice. Given the lack of decoration, I suspect the latter is an important part of his decisions. No pictures and only one decorative object, a small antique lacquer box on the chest of drawers.
After putting Thelonious Monk’s Criss Cross album on the stereo, we settle in to our tea and solozhenick. We talk about the new album Monk is putting out, a nightclub he is performing at that we should visit next time we are both off the same evening, wander to the Civil Rights Movement, then current politics in the US and USSR, decide that is too depressing, so I change the topic to my quest for a decent English translation of Eugene Onegin to give to my friend Vi as a birthday present. Illya knows where to get the Nabokov translation which reproduces the story correctly instead of trying to force the poem into the rhyme pattern and meter in English. I think he knows every bookstore in the city.
After we clean up the plates and cups, I decide I’d better head home before it gets too dark. Illya, as always, offers to escort me, but it is safe enough at eight thirty and I’d rather he wouldn’t be walking that distance back because I know he will walk. Taking the bus is too extravagant for someone who gets his furniture from the trash.
I retrieve my shoes and bag, thank him for the dinner and firm up the trip to the jazz club for next week if both of us are available.
On the way out I run the gauntlet of neighbors again. The elderly lady on the second floor is just taking two tiny bolonkas out for a walk and stops me to ask how I know Illya. I give her the cousin story and then have to explain that I have just returned to New York from Philadelphia. No, I am not married. I am a doctor and I work for a private clinic. Yes, it pays pretty well. My parents are both deceased. I have no siblings. By this time, I am almost out the front door, but “the landlady pops out of her apartment again to ask how my visit went. Had it been a long time since I had seen Illya? When will I be back?”
Fortunately, the toy and the bolonkas decide to quarrel and I escape while they are being settled down.
Illya’s neighbors should be recruited by UNCLE for their surveillance and interrogation skills. UNCLE could save a fortune in electronic alarms if they just billeted their agents in houses with several elderly ladies. Maybe I should suggest it to Waverly.