Jac Darnay spent his Saturdays swimming to forget: it never worked. He didn’t drink anymore, and he had to stop smoking because of his asthma, so his vice was the water. Jac was an “old man” now, if you believed fifty-three was old (and even if you don’t, he sure as hell felt it). Though 1962 was twenty-two years away from him there in that pool, it seemed to follow him as he swam from side to side. His eyes were closed to keep the chlorine out, but he could see it all again…
It was warmer than it had been that April and a little after 10:00pm. He walked with a fire under his ass through the Parisian side streets to Pain de la Vie, not because of the rain, he never really minded the rain. He did mind being beaten and outsmarted. And yet there he was, being dragged to a cafe by the same Slavic brute that had been giving him trouble for a year now.
And it wasn’t even a cafe either, it was a fucking bistro. Jac hated bistros. Jac hated Paris. He hated busy spaces in general, honestly, but he flew to France often enough for work to realize it was something about how Parisians acted that bothered him like nothing else: their upturned-noses syncing; the way their tight lips blew plumes like silent, scowling smoke stacks; and the way their lifeless eyes darted across their newspapers as they ate with wine-stained teeth... just awful.
The polaroids of his mind sent shivers down his spine as he power-walked around the corner of Rue Jardin to see Mikhail Lebedev sitting there alone at a table for two, beneath the awning, reading the latest issue of Rive Gauche. Jac let out a shaky breath before approaching the Ruskie at the table. Once he got there,
“Bonjour, Misha.” Mikhail looked up, a smile finding its way onto his face when he saw Jac’s.
“Good evening, Jacob,” replied the Russian.
“It’s a little later than evening, no?” Jac said somewhat coldly through a poorly hidden smirk.
“Then have a seat. The kitchen is going to close soon, you will probably have to settle for the late menu.” Mikhail passed Jac the menu as he took to his seat. “You look wet.” “I am wet, how observant.” Jac checked out the sandwich section.
“You should have brought an umbrella, you are going to catch cold.”
“It’s still a little warmer here than what you’re used to, no.”
“You don’t know half of what I am used to.”
“We both know that’s not true.” Their glares met and shook hands with smiles. They sat in silence and spoke only with looks till a waiter walked up and took their orders: two merlots, a Croque Monsieur for Jac, and a Salade du Jardin for Mikhail, the latter of whom said thank you on behalf of both of them.
“You look tired. What is on your mind, my friend?”
“You. My boss isn’t too happy with what happened in Vienna, Misha.”
“I can imagine that is case, yes.”
“That was a lot of data you stole,” Jac said, sitting up a little straighter. “You put me in a very uncomfortable position.”
“I know, Jacob, but that is line of work we are in. You know this.”
“I do. But…still.” Mikhail nodded at this and looked to the table.
“I don’t feel good about it either–”
“Well you don’t have to go back there,” Jac interrupted. “You know that. I told you that. You could–”
“I know. I do... But I do.”
“Why? What do you owe them, Misha?”
“I don’t owe them anything. It isn’t about debt–” the waiter came by and dropped off their wine. This time, they both said thank you. Jac reached for his glass and took a sip.
“Well then leave,” he said, crossing his legs. “We could use someone like you in Langley.”
“Death. It’s about death.” Mikhail’s glass of merlot suddenly became a lot more interesting than Jac. He stared at it for a minute.
“My fa— my father, he tried this before, to defect. Maybe one year before you and I met. By way of Italy, he tried to escape Europe. They have people working, like you and I, in Italy. They find him there, and they capture him. They take him home to my mother, his wife, and… they kill her. They said ‘this is what happens, when you betray your country.’ Then he kills himself.”
Mikhail stone-faced the glass for a moment longer. His lip quivered for a half a second, but no longer. Back to stone.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Misha, but–” Jac took a sip of liquid courage before continuing, “and excuse me for saying this, if you’ve got no one left over there, then why stay?”
“Because there is someone, Jacob.” Jac straightened up a bit after hearing this. “My sister.”
“Oh.”
“And her husband. And their son. And I know, if I leave, not just to States, but to work for States, to be with–”
“Yeah.”
“I cannot let this happen to them, to her, to her son. They should not suffer for my sins. They do not deserve to die because I want a fairy tale.”
“I wouldn’t call it that, Misha.” Jac’s eyes got wet and a frog hopped into his throat. Misha smiled, his eyes wet too, then took the hand of the man across from him.
“I know.” Their food was brought to the table, and they found their composure and their appetite. The subject changed to work, their attention to their meals and the company, and they agreed to spend the night together in Paris. They paid the check, went back to Mikhail’s hotel room and helped themselves to each other for the last time. They laughed and cried and laid together for another two hours before they put their heads to the pillow and surrendered to sleep. They were both exhausted.
Jac woke up first, he always did. His sleepy eyes stared at the face of the man who slept next to him, the man who he loved. The man he’d never again be able to share himself with ever again. Their love had to end which, in Jac’s mind, just made Misha an enemy of the Constitution of the United States.
At least, that’s what he told himself as he got up and went to his jacket pocket, and picked up his pistol. He walked back over to the bed, kissed Mikhail’s face one last time, and put a pillow over his face. Then he put the tip of the silencer to the pillow as six muffled words came out from underneath:
“Well, good morning to you too.”
Tunk.
Tunk.
Forty eight.
Forty nine.
Fifty laps in the pool later and water swallowed the noise, just like the pillow had. The memory of Mikhail Lebedev was a muted one. Jac swam to the ladder and made his way up and over to the chair with his towel on it. As he dried himself off, he admired the beauty of the home he had built for himself.
He had served his country faithfully and she had compensated him accordingly. It was the information he had taken out of Misha’s hotel room that tipped the U.S. Government about the missiles in Cuba. He had him to thank for the corner office, the promotions that would follow and the savvy life of solitude he lived.
It was a nice life, a quiet one.
The kind he would've liked to share with Misha.
And it was one he was miserable living without him. As solemn as it was without him, there was a plus side he’d often remind himself of: he found himself in fewer bistros.
***
written by jay servedio
art by naomi king