Eight Days A Week

by Avery11

They carried the last of the boxes down the icy steps of Illya's Village brownstone and packed them, along with the rest of his meager possessions, in the trunk of Napoleon's car. Illya returned the house keys to his landlady, a dear old thing who cried endless tears at the thought of her favorite tenant leaving.

“Why you gotta go, Eel-ee?” she sobbed into her hanky. “You no like it here no more?”

He took her by the shoulders, rocking the tiny woman, soothing her with comforting little sounds. “Shh. Hush now, Signora. No more tears.”

“It'sa no gonna be same you not aroun', Eel-ee. Maybe rent's too high? I give you a better deal, you don' gotta pay so much.”

“The rent was very reasonable, and I have been happy here these past eight years. I need to move for my work, Mrs. Fusco. Remember, I told you?”

She nodded, although her lip continued to quiver as she strove to hold back her tears. “Everybody gonna miss you. Nobody so sweet to me like you.”

“I will come and visit, I promise. After the holidays. You can make me that wonderful soup of yours.”

Her face lit up. “Pasta fagioli, I make for you! You won' forget to come?”

“I will not forget.” He kissed the top of her head. “And now, dear lady, I must be going. The roads are treacherous, and my boxes will not unpack themselves.”

The old woman threw her chubby arms around him. “I gonna light a candle for you every Sunday inna church,” she said. “An' one for Signore Solo, too.”

“Thank you,” Illya said with sincerity. He escorted her up the steps to her door, and bent to kiss her hand. “Buon Natale, Mrs. Fusco. Now please, go inside and get warm. It will not do to have you get sick for Christmas.”

“Don't worry, ma'am,” Napoleon added as the car's engine rumbled to life, “I'll take good care of our Illya. I promise.”

They pulled away from the curb, the Camaro's wheels fighting for purchase on the snow-covered road. Illya caught a final glimpse of the old woman wiping tears from her cheeks before they turned the corner, leaving his old life behind.

It was dark by the time they finished unloading the car. Napoleon gazed in dismay at the disorder of books and record albums piled atop his antique Aubusson carpet. “My God,” he said. “It looks like your old apartment in here.”

“It does, doesn't it?” Illya smiled rather impishly. “Perhaps we should leave the boxes where they are. They make such convenient coffee tables.”

“Over my dead body. I spent all day yesterday emptying my bookshelves to make room for your stuff.” His expression softened. “This is your home now, lyubov. I wanted you to feel welcome.”

“Our home.”

Napoleon's smile was radiant. “Our home.”

The words filled Illya with pleasure. For years, having a real home with Napoleon had seemed an impossibility, constrained as they were by society's mores and UNCLE's strict regulations. They had waited nearly a decade for the right moment, and had finally decided several months ago — on Independence Day, significantly — that they would wait no longer. They'd approached Mr. Waverly, and to their complete and utter shock, received his blessing to move ahead with their plans.

“To love, and policies be damned,” Waverly had said as they raised their glasses in a toast, the delicate crystal stemware filled with Acquitaine from the Old Man's precious stores. “How can I deny you gentlemen the one comfort I have never denied myself?”

To love.

Illya gazed about Napoleon's apartment — no, he corrected happily, their apartment — and felt a swift surge of joy. It was a cheerful, welcoming space, timeless and elegant like the man himself. Even Illya's perpetually disgruntled cat seemed to approve — Jelly Roll had already made herself at home atop the antique Hepplewhite sofa, and was grooming herself contentedly upon the pillows. “It's wonderful,” Illya sighed.

“It's perfect, now that you're here,” Napoleon replied, his warm brown eyes following Illya's progress with delight.

They shared a glass of red wine before dinner, which led predictably to sharing of another, more urgent kind. Discarded articles of clothing trailed in their wake as they stumbled down the hall toward the bedroom, devouring one another like starving men. They fell upon the silk sheets in a desperate tangle of limbs, gasping endearments as they thrust their bodies together. The hours passed, and dinner grew cold on the table. The moon rose and set. More than once, the silence of the night was broken by their soft moans of desire, and the sweet, pulsing rhythms of their coupling. It was morning before either of them thought again of the boxes on the Aubusson carpet.

They carried their coffee into the living room, massaging their aching muscles, prominent reminders of their long and enthusiastic night of lovemaking. Napoleon plugged in the Christmas tree, and put one of Illya's favorite jazz albums on the stereo, McIntyre's Humility in the Light of the Creator. As the snow drifted down outside their window, the pair set about opening boxes, and finding room on the shelves for Illya's collection of jazz records, his weighty tomes of Russian literature and his Quantum Mechanics journals.

“Here,” Napoleon said, handing Illya a stack of albums. “We can start with your LP's. I'll unpack the boxes, and you can decide where things go.”

They worked steadily for the next several hours, unpacking and organizing, stopping occasionally to replenish their coffee from the pot on the stove, or to snatch a Danish from the cardboard box on the counter. Once or twice, their bodies brushed in passing, drawing a fierce blush from the Russian. Napoleon laughed with delight, and leaned in to feather kisses across Illya's full lips.

“Illyusha moy,” he murmured, “promise me you'll never leave.”

“They will have to pry my fingers from the doorjamb.”

The final box turned out to be a collection of memorabilia — concert bills and theater programs, and an envelope containing a dozen or so black-and-white snapshots. “What do you want to do with these?” Napoleon asked.

Illya glanced down. “Leave them. I will sort through them later.”

“They look like they probably have some sentimental value.” He flipped casually through the photographs, smiling at the image of Illya in his student days, performing moves on the pommel horse. The University of Georgia, he guessed. There were several photos of Illya playing soccer with a group of his Cambridge schoolmates, and another of him in a leather jacket, straddling a motorcycle on a Paris street.

“I like this one,” he said. “You look so dangerous.”

“I am dangerous,” Illya responded, his blue eyes dark and sultry. “I am positively lethal. Or have you forgotten last night?”

The color suffusing Napoleon's face was answer enough.

The next-to-last photograph showed the brick-lined, graffitied entrance to a jazz club. The Cavern, the sign over the entrance declared. The line of people waiting to get inside stretched around the block.

“Popular place.”

“Mmm.”

Napoleon flipped to the final snapshot, and gasped audibly. “Oh my God, Illya, is that who I think it is?”

Illya leaned over to look. The corners of his mouth twitched ever-so-slightly. “Which one?”

“The guy standing next to you in the picture, the one with the wire rims and the guitar. That's —”

“John Lennon. Yes, Napoleon, I know.”

He peered more closely at the photograph. It was a trifle underexposed, but if he squinted, he could make out the proscenium of a small stage. Five musicians gyrated upon it, their bodies captured for posterity in various poses of wild abandon. The one on the left was unmistakably Illya, his face turned directly toward the camera in an expression of childlike wonder. Several hundred screaming women surrounded the stage, their bodies pressed up against the apron, hands reaching toward the musicians in supplication and ecstasy.

“And the two in the background? Isn't that — ?”

“Paul McCartney and George Harrison.”

“The Beatles?” Napoleon's voice was tinged with awe. “You played with the Beatles?”

“No.”

“No? But you're standing right there next to them, holding a — what is that instrument you're playing, anyway? It looks like a pool cue stuck on a crate.”

Illya took the photograph from Napoleon's outstretched hand. “It is an inbidi bass, and technically speaking, those are not the Beatles.” He brushed a fleck of dust from the surface of the photo. “This picture was taken in the Spring of 1958, at a jazz club called The Cavern. The group was called the Quarrymen back then, teenagers from the Liverpool projects playing skiffle sessions at the local jazz clubs.”

“Skiffle?” Napoleon searched his memory for the reference, but drew a blank. “What the heck is a skiffle?”

“It is a musical style, Napoleon, an offshoot of classical jazz, fused with elements of blues and folk music. Skiffle is the de facto forerunner of modern rock-and-roll. Mick Jagger, Roger Daltry — almost the entire British Invasion, in fact — all began their careers playing skiffle.”

“Huh. Never heard of it.”

“Most Americans have not. The skiffle movement was never very large in your country. However, the style was wildly popular among the working class in England, mostly because it did not require expensive instruments or training. England was still under austerity measures in the 50's, you will remember.”

“Skiffle.” Napoleon tested the word on his tongue. “And that contraption you're standing on? What did you call it — an inbidi bass?”

Illya nodded. “Tea chest bass is the more common term. It is a simple and inexpensive instrument to make, hence its popularity at the time. Take an old wooden chest. Add a pool cue for a fingerboard, and a piece of rope or string, with a peg. Voila. You have a rudimentary bass viol. Pitch is changed by altering the amount of tension on the string.”

“Very creative.” Napoleon shook his head in wonderment. “This is incredible, Illya, to think of you playing with Lennon and McCartney. Why didn't you ever mention it?”

Illya shrugged. “It did not seem important.”

“Not important? To have played with the most influential musical group of the decade?”

“I merely sat in for their bass player while he was in hospital.”

“But how did you meet them in the first place? Come on, tovarisch. There has to be more to the story than you're telling me.”

“Another time, perhaps. We still have the journals to shelve.”

Napoleon folded his arms.

Illya sighed dramatically. “You are a stubborn man, Napoleon. Fine, if it will satisfy your curiosity.” He settled himself upon the floor, legs outstretched, and propped his back against the frame of the couch. Jelly Roll curled herself into a ball upon his lap, purring softly.

“You will recall that I had completed Survival School two years earlier, and was working for UNCLE in their London Office under Harry Beldon. This would have been shortly before Beldon was transferred to Berlin.”

Napoleon nodded.

“Word had reached us of a new THRUSH cell becoming active in the Liverpool area, and I was sent to investigate, posing as an unemployed quarry worker. Unemployment was rife in the cities at that time, and people — particularly young men — were feeling angry and disenfranchised. Their frustration with the system made them attractive targets for THRUSH recruitment. On my third night there, I happened upon a gang of punks beating up a young man in an alley outside the local pub. I shouted for them to stop, but they refused. So I stopped them.”

Napoleon grinned. “That sounds like you.”

“I have little patience for bullies,” Illya replied pointedly. “The young man was gravely injured, so I summoned an ambulance and accompanied him to hospital. John Lennon walked into the Emergency Room twenty minutes later, looking for his friend. It turns out that the injured man was Stuart Sutcliffe, the bass guitar player for the Quarrymen.”

“Wow, talk about fate.”

“It was a strange night; that much is certain. John was terribly distraught, smelling of whiskey, and higher than a kite. He could barely hold it together. I stayed with him, pumped him full of coffee, and we talked for hours while we waited for his friend to come out of surgery. John was terrified of losing Stu. He kept saying that he didn't know what he would do if something happened to him.”

A chill shivered its way up Napoleon's spine. “I can relate to that,” He remarked softly.

“Yes.” For an instant, Illya's blue eyes mirrored his partner's. “Stu sustained a severe concussion as a result of the attack,” he continued after a pause, “and he suffered from blinding headaches for weeks afterward. It became clear to everyone in the band that he would be unable to perform. John recalled that I played the bass, and asked me to fill in while Stu was recuperating.”

“A lucky break for you, as it turned out.”

“I could not have planned it better,” Illya agreed. “It provided the perfect cover story for my mission. Who would suspect the bass player in a little-known skiffle band of being an UNCLE agent?” He smiled. “I was with the band for three weeks — long enough to identify the leaders of the THRUSH cell and arrange to have it shut down. By that time, Stu was ready to rejoin the group, and I was recruited to join Beldon on his new assignment in Berlin.”

“And the boys never knew about your mission?”

“No, although I think George may have suspected something. He was remarkably intuitive.”

Napoleon nibbled pensively on his Danish. “It must have been amazing, to be there at such a seminal moment in history. Do you ever hear from them?”

“We have stayed in touch, off and on. George even invited me to play sitar with him on their recording of Norwegian Wood a few years back, an offer I was forced to decline, due to my involvement in the Neptune Affair. I have heard nothing since the band broke up last year.” He shook his head. “Too bad, really. They were very talented. I would like to have seen where their music would have taken them, given another twenty years.”

Illya handed the photograph back to Napoleon, who replaced it in its envelope. Jelly Roll, disturbed by the movement, rose with a soft hiss and padded away.

“Roads not taken,” Napoleon remarked softly. “Do you ever wish —?”

“No. Never.”

“Are you sure? I mean, think of the incredible experiences you might have had.”

“I have no regrets, Napoleon. Rest assured, I prefer the journey that I am on. It suits my nature, and —” He took Napoleon's hand. “— I positively adore my traveling companion.” He lifted the hand to his lips, and brushed a kiss across the palm. “And now, lyubov, I believe we have done enough work for one morning. It is time for my morning nap.”

Napoleon looked around at the piles of journals waiting to be shelved. “You want to take a nap now?”

“Well, if you like,” Illya deadpanned, “I can take you later, too.”

It took a moment for Illya's double entendre to register. Then Napoleon grinned, a jubilation that bubbled up from somewhere deep in his heart. “Now. Later. Always, my love.”

Illya's eye sparkled with mirth, and with something deeper. “Ah, moya krasivaya lyubov, that is precisely what I hoped you would say.”

Hand in hand, they drifted down the long hallway to the bedroom. The door closed softly behind them.

Eight Days A Week
by
Lennon & McCartney

“Ooh, I need your love, babe, guess you know it's true.
Hope you need my love, babe, just like I need you.
Hold me, love me. Hold me, love me.
Ain't got nothin' but love, babe,
Eight days a week.

Love you every day, yeah, always on my mind.
One thing I can say, yeah, I love you all the time.
Hold me, love me. Hold me, love me.
Ain't got nothin' but love, babe,
Eight days a week.

Eight days a week, I love you.
Eight days a week is not enough to show I care.”

(Repeat verses 1 and 2)

(Chorus)