Song for Katya
Kevin Stevens
Pocket Books, 2005http://www.kevinstevens.net
Jazz for Drew and Katya
Jazz = Improvization. Atmosphere. Both American and Un-American. Something Most People Won't Understand.
The Moscow snow swept along streets cratered by neglect, improvising a whirlwind dance under each sodium arc light until, exhausted, the drifts collapsed in heavy waves against the door of a dim, smoky café. A flurry in pure white had the misfortune to land upon the greased-flat hair of an unblinking man in a leather jacket. He wrenched the stiff door open, scattering the fresh snow barricade and carrying his head flakes into Dacha Rizzoli overheated interior, to their doom.
With their baseball hats, the two Americans stood out like factory-new 1981 Ladas. His expression frozen at thirty below zero, the man in the leather jacket took the adjacent seat. The waitress knew to serve him immediately. "Vodka," he spoke. The plump curves displayed as she hurried to the bar offered him no distraction.
"Comrade Oleg," spoke the more athletic American without turning. He raised his glass toward the television in salute.
"Comrade Ahern," Oleg replied. He unzipped his leather jacket. The vodka arrived, and he showed his first emotion as he sipped. A look of distaste. "You have brought company today."
Ahern threw the ridiculous CIA baseball hat to the table. "Boss's kid. Ex-Boss, actually." He pronounced years of education in Russian curses from the corner of his mouth.
"Ya-hoo, Mike!" this young Texan cheered. American exuberance. "Is that a spy you've got there? That's one of them KGB guys, ain't it! Lemme whisper the codeword or shoot 'im or somethin'!"
"No, he's just some Ruskie. The café's filling up. You want another drink to celebrate the release of the Iran hostages, Georgie? Look, on the TV!" Ahern dared no stronger reprimand to the son of the American high party official. Oleg had respect for his counterpart's caution. He averted his eye as Ahern's embarrassing charge celebrated by cutting lines of white powder on the table.
"How is your surveillance progressing in our... mutual interest?" Ahern intimated as the Texan snorted loudly. Oleg had considered, during his long walk from Lubyanka, what he should reveal about Katya Timoshenko and jazz musician Drew Fisher.
"Interesting people in a highly dangerous situation."
"Can the crap and tell me something I don't know, Oleg."
"An existing Western intelligence review, leaked earlier, expressed surprise that these this American and this Russian would fall in love so quickly. I disagree. Both characters have much in common. Their parents are each from diplomatic backgrounds, and now live in some disgrace. Both Fisher and his facilitator have an interest in arts and bourgeois pursuits. I see from the records that your department kindly shared, both have tragic histories of failed relationships. Their love is not implausible. It is inevitable."
"You believe that? Just from reading some papers?"
Oleg turned to study Ahern openly. "You obviously have no understanding of the power of good writing. Perhaps I have a novel I could recommend."
"Stuff your Tolstoy. I'm more a crime fiction fan. Maybe some Hemingway."
Oleg threw a log burn of vodka down his throat so he had excuse to snort with disgust.
"We do not agree." In truth, Nikolay Gogol once described a house on fire. The KGB and CIA knew the story well.
"So you confirm that the wife of one of your leading Cosmonauts is compromising the status quo with one of our visiting musicians?"
"And this, a woman who meets Khrushchev, Brezhnev and Andropov!" Oleg drank again. "A Cultural Exchange of bodily fluids? Détente taken too far."
"Love is rebellious, radical. We don't need anything so unstable introduced. Love, if it's real, could ruin everything," Ahern casually spread caviar on black bread. "Tell me more about this report."
So demanding, the Americans. "It is an extremely detailed read. The Real Deal, as you say."
"Could the trouble have been instigated by Marshall, or Salim, or Yoshi? Fisher's fellow bandmates are all minorities. And jazz musicians-! I don't know if Moscow is familiar with their reputation, but you never can be quite sure what those nonconformists will do next."
"Our dossier is 344 pages long and written with the skill of a Russian master. The illustrations present an insightful, utterly convincing portrait of all parties, including Fisher's comrades."
"OK, so none of those hep cats gave Fisher this notion of Katya Timoshenko seeking asylum. Asylum! I'd like to throw those long-haired hippie types into an asylum, alright. Fifty-thousand volts of shock therapy, that'll burn their draft cards."
Unconcerned that any parties watching might outrank them, the two agents shared a laugh. Young Georgie, roused by the mirth, added his vacuous whoop before promptly spacing back out.
"OK, Oleg, so Fisher did not get his ideas from his American peers. What about the Russians he encounters?"
It was sickly hot in the cafe. Oleg had thought it was the vodka or the warmth of their laugh, but a tickle at the back of his throat put nyet to that. He redoubled his focus. "Our report also contains extensive documentation on Katya's lecherous co-workers Leonid and Reef, her husband- a Hero of the Soviet Union!- and the children of her first marriage. An extensive, satisfying catalog of ties and influences that dare to raise their voice, if only at a whisper."
"Washington wouldn't mind getting a hold of that document," Ahern played it softly.
"Do you mean Washington DC or your US Embassy colleague, Rick Washington?"
"Rick Washington often strikes me as a metaphor for Washington DC," Ahern pontificated, then vacillated. "I think. Is it a simile or metaphor when one represents the other in a symbolic way?"
"You are using elitist literary terms of which you have little understanding, Mike."
Beer proved a handy evasion for the American. Oleg coughed discreetly. This arctic cold which held all Moscow in its frigid grip! The atmosphere was thick, overpowering. He was definitely coming down with something. Ahern returned to his attempt of asking for the surveillance report while not asking for the surveillance report, but the man was not a Soviet. He was not schooled in the proper skills of speaking in double meanings, of hiding whole depths of desire and intention behind a public front. Ŕhern was a capitalist. If pushed, he would pay.
"Comrade, this document is so good, you will feel that you are actually present at every meeting."
"High praise, Oleg. I don't know if it's worth revealing the CIA's secret social engineering plan, though." Details were teased out of the agent. "It's theoretical at the moment, probably too un-American to ever implement. An unwritten, unspoken code of conduct that will control what citizens are permitted to say and think! Truly a page from the Soviet book, you'll even love the title... Political Correctness."
Tempting. More proof that little divided the powerbrokers of East and West. To whet Ahern's desire to trade, Oleg lauded the merits of the dossier the KGB had begun to call the Song for Katya."I challenge you to find one poor sentence between these covers. You will fail. This report practically sings."
"Scuse me, pardner- are there any six guns blazing in it?" Glassy eyed and wired, Georgie the high official's son flipped up his CIA cap's brim to better see. "My ears are so big I couldn't help overhearing! Um." Or sticking his nose in without thinking ahead. "In all the books that I like there's guns and rifles and rockets. And stickers!"
Ahern looked apologetic. Oleg thought his show of any emotion as incautious as Drew Fisher and the beautiful Katya. The men with AK-47s were always watching, just out of sight. To let one's guard down was to invite complete destruction. Oleg addressed the intrusive fool. "If you prefer action-filled thrillers, the work I casually discuss with your comrade is not for you."
"Now you just hold on there a second, pardner! I know a thing or two. All good stories have at least one spaceman or secret agent getting' a terminal case of lead poisoning."
Ahern attempted to appease his charge. "Georgie, we're talking about a special book. One that paints a picture of a place where nothing works right, where every phone line is tapped and the secret police watch all people. Citizens are required to inform on one another, and those who arouse suspicion have their doors battered down in the dark of the night and are carted off to distant prisons. The party which controls the government rigs elections, promotes an atmosphere of constant fear, and bankrupts the nation in an impossible, unwinnable war in the Afghanistan. Even the tiny elite who control this land prove not to be free. Do you really want to conjure up such a terrible place?"
A gleam blazed in the privileged son's eyes. Excitement? Oleg shuddered from a sudden chill. No, no, it was surely just the Ural Mountains of cocaine that the Texan had snorted. The picture his counterpart painted! What fool would want a world like that? Truly?
"I must go," Oleg stood stiffly. "Thank you for the conversation, comrade American. It is good to exchange views, I walk away with a deeper understanding. I will see to it that you receive the book we discussed. Good day to you as well, young..."
Ahern's young dimwit slumped his face onto the table, passed out into the land of dreams as cold as a Moscow January night.
"Later, Oleg," Ahern closed, placing the CIA cap on the inert Texan's head.
"Until tomorrow, comrade. We will meet then."
Mick proudly presents a profile of Kevin Stevens on the DFA Guide to Dublin.
...and check out Mick's interview with Kevin Stevens for writingshow.com.
Speaking of the CIA and Moscow and shit, isn't The Bourne Supremacy a fantastic flick? OK, so it has nothing to do with S4K. Its climax is delivered when Bourne apologizes to the child of the couple he killed, not when he battles the evil Russian assassain. That's personal, emotional. Good storytelling.
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