It's All About Albertville by Striker McBane

       : Ilya shuddered and fear took hold of his senses as the tall men, men whom his father continually called thugs pummeled his father and pushed him up the goat path with his hands tied behind his back.
       : “Oh Ilya Ivanov,” Ilya said to himself. He repeated his name over and over as he always did when he was upset. He had watched his father at the mercy of these four men, men he had not seen before. “Oh, Ilya Ivanov,” he murmured not taking his eyes off his father. They continued striking and swearing at his father as they had for the last mile up the narrow mountain trail, pushed and shoved his father harshly upward and deeper into the mountains, away from the compound and up the slippery icy goat paths. The crystal frozen surface of snow and ice sparkled in the late afternoon sun.
       : Ilya saw the largest man in the black leather long coat strike and push Arman down to the ground.
       : “Bolski, you idiot,” the man in a brown long coat shouted, “try not to kill the traitor before we get the information. We don’t get the information it will be your head, but it will be our heads too.”
       : Ilya heard the names: Sergei, Bolski, which he knew were first names, Martine, a first name, and Ilya identified all three of the men: two Russians and a Spanish type, but the fourth man he couldn’t identify.
       : Ilya shivered. Now he understood his father’s words in their entirety. Words that were instructions Arman Ivanov had commanded Ilya to follow and given him several years ago. The code phrase was It’s all about Albertville. His father had rushed into Ilya’s bedroom, two hours ago, shouted, “It’s all about Albertville,” turned and disappeared out of the compound’s main house. Ilya saw his father jump into his van and drive furiously out of the compound. Chickens cackled and feathers flew in every direction as he screeched through the large gate and out of site.
       : Ilya ripped his Zebra hide mountain jacket off the closet hook and hurried out of the compound. He would wait for further word from his father near the goat cliffs in the low foothills, cold and covered with snow patches this time of year.
       : Ilya came back to his senses and felt his arms. They were cold inside his loose fitting parka. He wrapped them around his chest to get warmer. He became chilled standing and waiting. "Ilya Ivanov," he said to himself in a whisper, "there is much trouble here. If I could only think what to do to help. But father was explicit. Yet, if only I could--"
       : He looked down at his Zebra skin jacket. The black and white of the Zebra’s coat blends better with the snow and dark tree trunks. It will be harder for them to seem as we move higher into the mountains. He guessed he could almost stand in plain sight and not be seen wearing his jacket and dark long mountain pants. He imagined the white stripes of his jacket resembled snow while the dark stripes looked like tree bark.
       : His chin, lips and cheeks grew numb. He knew they were pink with cold. He wanted to cry as the strangers displayed more brutality for his father.
       : “Arman Ivanov,” he said. “How will you handle this situation?”
       : Ilya thought of his mother. He had no sorrow in his heart since his Mamush died. He wanted her alive and back in the compound so they might be a family again. He knew how much his mother loved his father by the way she had said his name, “Arman, my darling.” He knew, with no doubt, that Arman had pined and ached for the woman he had always called his young beautiful bride since she left them and “went with God.” He recalled sounds of love from their bedroom when the lights were out and grown people did what they did in the dark and privacy of their room.
       : Ilya recognized the sorrow on his father’s face, the restlessness in his late evening walks and the softness of his voice when he recalled Mamush, to his son. Mamush is the name Ilya had called his mother since he first talked but he didn’t remember much about her. She left when he was seven, two weeks before his seventh birthday.
       : Ilya watched his breath circle his face and dart upward to disappear. He knew the gangsters were moving his father up past the snow line. He expanded his chest as he took in the chill air, took a deep breath and saw his mother in his heart as he had seen her many times: a faint impression of a pretty face, blonde hair and pale blue eyes, with a hint of a smile. Suddenly she faded from his thoughts and his attention returned to his father who bellowed at the men, swung back at them, fell, was kicked and pulled roughly to his feet. Someone had cut the rope that tied his hands together. The rope dangled from his wrists.
       : Ilya knew his father very well. Arman showed no fear of the men. Ilya understood his father’s temperament and knew his father’s bravery and strength and stamina. He had proven it at times when wild animals ventured too close to the swimming hole near their compound and presented threatening moves against compound workers, Toulon, his friend since they were babies, and himself. He recalled, father had almost strangled a medium sized tiger for circling too close to me as I sat on the bank of the swimming hole putting on my socks and boots.
       : Ilya thought his father should be afraid. He did not know why for certain who the men were or why they were here menacing his father. He had the unholy fear that these men would eventually kill his father, whether they were satisfied with answers Arman gave or not. His heart beat rapidly and his ears heard the loud sound of his frightened heart.
       : “Rough him up harder,” Martine shouted. The men seemed to be enjoying Arman’s punishment and this angered Ilya more. They took turns cursing him and pushing him, first one way then the other, but they continued up the narrow path, deeper into the mountains, slowly upward away from the valley, their home.
       : “What could they be after my father to tell them? What does he know that perhaps I don’t know?” He couldn’t hear all their words but they shouted questions at him and demanded answer. “Who’s in that grave? It’s not your son, Ilya?”
       : “Ilya’s dead. I’ve told you that already. In reports. Many times. He died when his mother caught the sickness...”
       : “Lies. All lies, comrade Ivanov,” Bolski shouted and grabbed Arman’s arm and rapped it with his knuckles.
       : “Ilya’s dead?” Ilya said. “Did father say that?”
       : He thought about the small grave next to his mother’s resting place and recalled his father had told him one of the plantation children, who adored Irena, had died mysteriously two days after Irena died. The chid’s mother requested her young daughter be buried close to Irena inside the compound, inside the Nangassa.
       : Ilya recalled believing it strange because no plantation child appeared to be missing. He heard Toulon deny he knew anything about the second grave. He recalled asking Toulon about the grave as they stripped off their clothes to swim in the swimming hole.
       : “Tell my friend, Toulon Abi Abuto...”
       : Toulon giggled when he heard his complete name. He loved Ilya for always addressing him appropriately and giggled louder as they kicked off their shoes, pulled off their socks and ran naked into the water.
       : “Will you answer me?” Ilya had asked as he came up between Toulon’s legs, lifted him out of the shallow lake and threw him backward, screaming and kicking. Toulon splashed, spit water and laughed righteously.
       : “I have already told you. A small child is buried there. The child’s mother requested it. That’s all that I know. Honest,” he added and plunged toward Ilya. Ilya’s heart pounded as he recalled the swimming hole days with Toulon. The fun that boys shared when they were ten years of age.
       : Ilya didn’t know where the thugs were going but he knew the path they were on led up the small mountain, to cliffs where goats panicked because of the cliffs and many fell to their deaths. There was only one way up to the cliffs and one way down and they were on the only narrow mountain trail.
       : He and his father had made the journey many times. While he saw the cliffs in his mind he continued to analyze the men brutalizing his father. He wanted to rush into the group and save Arman. “Father, father,” he said softly. He knew he couldn’t do that. There were too many of them and his determination would not prove a match for the brawn of the four men. He thought he heard the fourth man give an order. “Hm,” Ilya moaned. “Sounds, not English, not European. Sounds American I would say.” He listened closely. “Hm!”
       : He guessed and concluded that there was one man in charge. The man he judged to be an American. He kept his eyes on him more than the other three. A younger man, Ilya thought. The man had darker hair and spoke in a language he knew was English but he spoke in a hard to understand dialect of English. He may be a southern American.
       : Ilya moved with great stealth from tree to tree, taking care not to be seen by the men around his father. He would move from tree to tree and press his body against it and remain motionless. He enjoyed the feeling as he became one with the tree. He recalled the games he and Toulon played when they ran naked through the rain forest and hid behind and up in the trees. Each boy placed leaves and green tree gel on their faces and bodies and as the game progressed they became increasingly invisible to one another. Only their keen eyesight spotted a hiding place and a young body well camouflaged.
       : He moved with silent footsteps to another tree and pressed his body against it. One man continually looked back down the path the group traversed as if he expected to be followed. Ah, Ilya thought, he doesn’t want to be followed. Who would follow these men? Who are they? Where did they come from?
       : He knew this area of the Congo, the jungle and foothills from north of the rain forest down to the Congo River and didn’t understand how it was that these men knew the countryside as well as they seemed to. And why are they going up this path        : that leads to nowhere? Do they know what is ahead for them? Perhaps they have been here before. Why didn’t I know they were here if they were?
       : Then regarding his homeland. Congo, he thought. Next year the name pasts into history and the name of my country becomes Zaire or something akin to that sound. Ilya wasn’t certain of Congo’s new name.
       : His head pounded while every thought seemed to stick in his throat and he wanted to throw up as he heard his father curse the men and strike out at them. He watched his father rush at them with his body and miss the thugs farther with each thrust. He saw blood on his father’s face. His chest and arms were covered. He noticed his father didn’t wear his mountain jacket. It’s too cold up here now to not have a jacket. He ran quickly to another tree and pressed himself against it.
       : The men dodged Arman’s hard doubled fist and retaliated by hitting and kicking his back, buttocks and legs. They threw insults at him and threatened him more. Ilya shivered and felt sweat trickle down his body, his spine, down his legs, as the boots of the thugs crunched against his father’s body. His father moaned a hurtful sound. My father’s in great pain. He’s hurting. He could see that the men knew how to cause agony and didn’t hesitate to kick and punch his father over every part of his body.
       : Just then Arman screamed, “I’ve told you before. You bastards already know.” Arman stopped and slipped, nearly falling on the ice.
       : He grabbed Bolski’s arm, but the brute pushed him away and Arman fella again.
       : “I have no son. I don’t know why you think I do.” There was silence. Ilya heard his father continue pleading in a lower, anguished voice.
       : “What? You say, Ilya is his name?” His laugh sounded false. Ilya knew he acted. For whom? The men? Ilya himself? He swung at the man nearest him and landed a heavy blow. The man fell over backward and hit the snow rolling over and over. "Don’t insult me with that cow dung nonsense."
       : Ilya frowned. He did not understand his father’s words. What do I have to do with these men? He wanted to cry but his father’s voice made him want to laugh yet his seventeen years told him, the his father’s situation, was not comical, it was desperate. He felt his stomach churn and his ears burned from the cold. He lowered the flaps on his cap.
       : “He was your first born,” the leader said. “Don’t continue your string of lies. You’ve lied to us for years about that kid. We should have never let you take him out of Russia. It was a mistake. You, bastard, are a mistake!”
       : Ilya winced and listened carefully at the harsh words and watching the scene as his cold breath formed a sheer vapor curtain around his face and darted upward. He smelled and tasted the buffalo meat stew, long beans and carrots, with garlic, Toulon had prepared. As he watched his father, Ilya imagined Toulon’s dark face, deep black eyes, and curly hair. He wished he was back in the compound playing, running, swimming with Toulon, safe and serene with his father.
       : Toulon, Ilya’s Congolese playmate from childhood, had become the Chief Chef for the compound at the age of seventeen, performed splendidly as a chef and houseman, although Toulon’s father, Magid Abuto, was really in charge of every facet of compound life, including the care of Ilya and his father. Toulon had been able to create from jungle weeds and herbs soups and potage that defied explanation. Ilya enjoyed Toulon’s cooking and knew he would never be hungry with Toulon as his friend.
       : Arman paid Toulon, his father and mother, Magid and Suisson, and Toulon’s sister, Kalij, very well and the compound operated efficiently, the best run in the northern Belgian Congo.
       : Toulon cooked for the Ivanovs, able to create a sit-down meal for as many as required in less time than it took to discuss the requirements. Suisson never understood her son’s ability but was always proud and supported him when he needed explanation of different herbs.
       : Daily, Toulon prepared noon meals for the field workers, always had plenty of food left over and never ran over his budget. Arman marvelled at Toulon in that he always had time for playtime with Ilya. They were inseparable except when Toulon was supervising the kitchen.
       : Magid maintained complete operational control of the master house, compound and scheduling of field workers and the plantation building. Ilya enjoyed Toulon’s boasting about his famous meals. He was a descendent of the ancient African and Congolese tribes, about which not much was known to Arman, but Toulon had studied cooking from books and with his mother and was only two months older than Ilya. Ilya hoped Toulon had not been hurt by these strangers when they got to plantation, if indeed the strangers had already been to the plantation. He didn’t know where they had been.
       : Ilya couldn’t hear the words clearly as the men argued. His heart beat rapidly. He loved winter, recalled playing in the woods with Toulon and Kalij, feeling the soft warm soil underfoot, warmed by volcanic activity deep underground, Even though the foothills were high above sea level and he enjoyed racing in the mountains with Vila, who sometimes more than Toulon, was his companion as he had grown to the knowledgeable age of ten.
       : Vila came into his mind as he followed the men and his father upward into the hills. Vila, he thought, as he half listened to muffled curses. He saw the large white wolf, and recalled how small she was when he had rescued her, undoubtedly moments before she would have frozen to death under her mother’s carcass. He knew the dead mother’s body kept the little wolf from dying. He never knew why or how the mother wolf died, but she was as white as the snow that surrounded her. My Vila, he thought, and stopped talking to himself. He recalled to saying to the helpless wolf puppy. You are a lady like your mother and as white, everywhere. You are beautiful. He squeezed his eyes to rid them of tears.
       : Ilya stepped out into the open air of the path and positioned his feet carefully upward onto cracked, large boulders. He had been here many times, in winter and the summer months. Although Zaire would be the new name for his Belgian Congo, he had not gotten used to calling it that. Toulon told Ilya he liked the sound of the word, Zaire.
       : He pressed his body against the rough boulder as his father shouted, “Who in hell would name a son, Ilya? It’s not a name I would choose.” Arman swore again. Ilya peeked slowly around the edge of the giant rough boulder as his father shouted again and swung at a tall gray haired man, Martine maybe, who shoved him again, harder this time. “Besides, if the sickness hadn’t killed him stupidity would have.”
       : Ilya knew from Arman’s plan that his words were meant to deceive these strangers. Ilya chuckled and quickly frowned.
       : But, what was it father had said during the last few years? No part of life was improving in the provinces. Albertville, he thought. But we were doing very well in the Nangassa. He pulled his jacket collar up tight around his throat. Albertville was the closest major city in North Congo. He felt the numbness spreading around his nose. He ran the tip of his gloved finger over his lips. Rough. He wanted Vila with him, next to him, for protection and to keep him warm. It was hard for him to lie to Vila. He never had. His heart told him Vila knew the lie. Her eyes, sometimes black, sometimes red knew what Ilya said in his heart. And, she was big and b.
       : He thought about the sudden change of events and moved stealthily up the trail. He recalled the entire scene. Arman had rushed into their large manor house. The local plantation men seemed to know Ilya should leave and leave immediately. Everyone knew the situation about the men, except me. His thoughts rambled as the men walked out of sight again around the curve of the goat path. He edged around the curve, with no fear of the path, but only a growing feeling his father was in mortal danger. He shuddered as the thought arose, They’re going to kill my father.
       : Ilya wanted to remember everything about his father. He had noted, for the last few months, Arman’s changing mood. His feeling of apprehension. He thought it not understandable, his father sent Marquan for the mail and didn’t require Ilya to perform the task. What was it he didn’t want me to see? Ilya had felt for the last year or two that there was always something, some topic, Arman wanted to discuss with Ilya, but had put it off for a reason not apparent to Ilya. He felt that what was on his father’s mind almost happened one warm evening when only he and Arman swam together in the swimming hole. He and his father swam nude many times but this time Arman acted as though he would tell about to relate important information to Ilya. Ilya sensed it had to be important so he indulged in small talk waiting for Arman to give him what he wanted. But nothing out of the ordinary was stated. He thought about that swim with Arman. They swam together, his father pushed him under the water playfully several times, tickled him, held him tight against his b body, and then turned Ilya around in the water and pulled him tight to his chest. Arman kissed his son and held him art arms' length. They tread easily in the deep water.
       : Ilya suddenly recalled his father’s words: “You are a very important person, Ilya, more than you know now. But someday you will understand...”
       : Ilya had thought his father meant that Ilya would become important to him, his father, meaning Arman, but recently, even in their moments of intimacy when only he and his father chatted, Ilya sensed more meaning to the father’s phrase than the likeliest or obvious interpretation. Why didn’t I ask my father? Why? What did he mean? He was telling something. What?
       : Ilya looked back at the group. He didn’t know these men, but all of them were dressed to fight off the cold of the mountain paths of Upper Congo, but he concluded that his father had believed the men were coming. Maybe he was going to warn me about these men. When Arman squinted and gazed into the distance without looking at anything, Ilya knew his father was “listening with his heart and planning with his brain.” Ilya guessed some strange danger was close at hand and he also knew Toulon sensed danger. Toulon’s conversations with Ilya were stilted as though the master chef didn’t know what to talk about with his childhood friend. What did Toulon know? “Maybe he didn’t know what to talk about,” Ilya whispered. He had observed that Toulon knew about future events and he usually kept that knowledge to himself. Even as children Toulon would ask about matters that should have concerned only the Ivanovs. But Toulon knew too. The recalled scene grew mover vivid. Toulon dove into the clear, transparent and blue water. Toulon was ten and the warm valley caressed their bodies as they swam and play in the water and near the lake..
       : The thought of the warm valley air, the tropical growth of short and tall grasses, the vivid green shrubbery and the tall palms caused a smile on Ilya’s face. He saw Toulon chase Vila then Vila chase Toulon toward their private lake. The three of them always played this way many times. A lake they believed was their private area of recreation, until one day Toulon’s sister, Kalij, stood behind a bush to undress as Toulon and Ilya stripped off their shorts and undershorts and hurried into the cool waters of the lake. Toulon splashed Ilya and Vila barked as she welcomed the coolness of the water. Ilya screeched with delight as the water rushed around his body, up between his legs, causing pure delight.
       : Ilya heard her voice as she hummed an Congolese lullaby. He giggled and shouted at Toulon, spitting water, as the joy of their naked freedom, the swim and the moment overcame him. His body tingled. He anticipated Kalij’s entrance from behind the bush. “Hey Toulon, your sister is coming in too.” He shrieked. “Does she have covering? I didn’t know she wanted to swim with us.”
       : “Why should she not?” Toulon laughed then added in literate French, “Et Pourquois non?-And why not?” And then again in English, “What do you mean, ‘our’ lake? Vila enjoys the water.” The large white wolf barked, swam and beckoned to Ilya. “Everyone else must keep cool too. Even Kalij.” Toulon went still in the water. He knew Kalij’s breasts had grown much in the last few weeks. He arched his eyes wide at her beauty and swam away.
       : Ilya saw Kalij’s slim tan profile and for the first time realized her body was soft and tender, not hard like his and Toulon’s. He noticed her breasts, lips and short curly hair. He didn’t know what his feeling meant: the fast pace of his heart, the sudden burning in his eyes. He laughed aloud trying not to be embarrassed by his feelings and trying not to be startled by Kalij as she stepped slowly and gingerly into the water. She wore nothing over her breasts but had a cloth that hung loosely kept in place by a thin string around her waist.
       : Ilya knew she kept her eyes on him while pretending not to be aware he tread water and spread his b legs wider and wider.
       : Toulon laughed a laugh that excited Ilya and he screamed as he went bottom up and disappeared under the cool blue of the valley lake.
       : Ilya enjoyed shallow diving and followed Toulon toward the center of the small lake, thinking of Kalij as he pulled himself downward. The three children and Vile swam many times together. Every time Ilya dove he would think, Only twelve feet to the bottom. Even when Kalij didn’t swim with them, Ilya always thought about how far it was to the bottom of the lake: the soft mud bottom.
       : How free and how exciting to swim, to throw off hot, sweaty clothes and the roughness of wool swim trunks. How great it feels to be free. It’s a marvelous life to have a friend like Toulon, to be friends with Kalij, for them to play house. He saw her breasts again and her dark eyes. Her straight white teeth. He cherished Kalij and Toulon, the ease with which Toulon prepared food, even in remote areas of the Congo jungle when they camped. Even Kalij admitted Toulon cooked well without even one lesson.
       : The shouts of the strange men broke the reverie of the lake on his sounded more threatening to his father. He didn’t know his thoughts rushed through his mind as a defense against the fear of the men, the fear his father would be harmed, and the cold of the night in the mountains. The sun was nearly out of sight.
       : As a strange voice threatened again, Ilya saw Toulon hurry him out of the manor house, nearly causing him to stumble, and at the same time he threw a camping sack at him. The strap circled in the air as he caught it and began to run, faster and faster.
       : He edged forward again in the near darkness. But who had the men come for? Maybe they’re not after father. Maybe they’re after... Me? But why did they bring my father out here? This place is many kilometers from the manor house. Why are they here, in this remote region of The Congo?
       : He stopped as the last rays and soft light movements of the setting sun cast golden shadow on the group of men. His father’s hands bled from the tight ropes. The younger man, Gayeff?, spoke contemptuously. He kneed Arman in his groin. Arman bent over but made no sound. He shook his head in pain. Another man approached Arman. His words were plain.
       : “One more should do it, Arman. This will be the third and if this doesn’t finish you off--” He pulled the syringe out of Arman’s arm. “This will,” the young man said.
       : He raised a small revolver and stuck it against Arman’s throat. Ilya winced and turned away. He shook as two shots, close together, and finally a third shot, echoed over the vast western valley. The echoes sounded like more shots. Ilya shook with fear, sobbed and backed slowly down the path. He hurried around the large boulders and crawled into a small cave. He knelt, took off his gloves and put his hands over his face. He cried. He didn’t want the men to hear him.
       : Soon the footsteps of the men got louder as they approached the path past the small cave. Ilya wished Vila were with him so that she could fight to protect him. He took comfort, for her, she wasn’t there. He listened. He had never been so frightened.
       : “Well, where do we go from here?” a shrill voice said in Russian. Ilya understood Russian along with many other languages his father had taught him. Ilya had always enjoyed the subtleties of Russian conversation, especially when it became complex, always omitting verbs. Poor ‘to be’ his father chided as they conversed. Gdyeh Gocpital?--Where is the hospital?” he heard his father say. Arman taught him aristocratic and peasant class Russian conversation.
       : As the footsteps got louder, Ilya heard:
       : ‘Well, Mr. American, important person, is it worth it?”
       : Ilya strained to see the man who spoke. He couldn’t see the face, but he guessed Martine had asked the question rife with sarcasm.
       : Martine must be important to talk that freely. Ilya listened and held his hand tight against his chest to quiet his racing heart.
       : Only shadows of figures moving slowly against the brightening stars passed slowly down the path in the deepening darkness. Ilya couldn’t understand the meaning of their conversation, but he vowed he would never forget the voice of the leader. He spoke both English, with an American accent, and spoke Russian with that strange dialect, not Russian, not even Ukrainian. He listened as the sound of the voices grew fainter. They proceeded back down into the valley.
       : “Is this the first mission of this kind for you?” Bolski shouted. Ilya didn’t like the sound of Bolski’s voice. He’s antagonistic too.
       : “Yes. But y’all know the comrades have rather told me, it is not to be the last test.”
       : Ilya saw the face of the American. He turned as he talked to the group. And he knew it would be a face he would not forget.
       : “Well, comrade, Americanisher, if you are the anointed one, the one who’s going to become the leader of the free world, and that’s laughable, then, ‘ you have to have stomach’, as we Russians say.”
       : “What do y’all mean, stomach, comrade?” Ilya heard a nervousness in the American's laugh; a forced laugh.
       : “For things like this,” Bolski said. The American grunted.
       : “What kind of stuff it that comrade?” the American asked.
       : “Are y’all that way?”
       : Ilya squeezed through the cave opening, out of the cave and stood in front of it. Leader of the free world? What does that mean? He listened to sound he had never heard before coming from the group. He thought they were not proceeding down the path. They had stopped for some reason. He heard laughter and moans and didn’t understand.
       : He would go to his father. His father certainly wasn’t with the men. He knew his father had been shot. He feared he was dead. He moved slowly back up the goat path, but tried to make sense of the men’s conversation as their voices became faint. He didn’t know why. He stopped.
       : “What did you say, Gayeff? What did you say? Leader of what?”
       : As he walked slowly backward, the now strange silence from the men stirred the night air.
       : “Tell me,” the Bolski voice said. “How do you know so much? You’re not even dry behind the ears.”
       : “And other places,” Martine shouted.
       : Laughter.        :
       : Ilya began to breath heavily. Suddenly two shots rang out again and Ilya judged that some of men protested some action. They’re arguing. He didn’t know what had happened. Suddenly he was around the bend beyond the large boulders and through the darkness of the night, saw his father still holding his throat. He’s not dead!
       : Ilya ran to the edge of the goat path as Arman’s body hurtled over the edge. Ilya screamed and began to cry as his father disappeared. There was no sound. He heard only a few boulders and rocks tumbling down the cliff’s side. Ilya screamed in his heart and sat up in bed. Sweat streamed down his neck. He felt his matted hair and brushed it out of his face. He squeezed perspiration out of it. He swiped his body, rolled over and sat up on the edge of the bed. He though of Toulon, Kalij, wished he were ten again and thought about the thirty-five years since he was a boy of ten in the Congo.
       : Ilya walked toward the bathroom, ignored his loose fitting shorts that hung around his hips, and tried not to disturb Mrs. O’Connor. He heard her humming, the tea kettle steaming, the toaster pop toast, as she prepared morning breakfast. The aroma of her coffee was another glimpse of heaven for Ilya.
       : “What’s the matter, John, me darlin’?” she asked. “That same bad dream again, me darling? I heard you a-screaming’ and I wish there was something I could do for you. Best you pull up your galluses up. You’re exposin’...”
       : The change of thirty-five years from the dream to the capital of the United States and his name no longer Ilya, but John Jordan sped through Ilya’s mind. John Jordan. John Jordan, he said over and over. What a corny name.
       : “Uh-huh,” he said as he hoisted his shorts. He felt vital this morning; very b. He pretended he didn’t know the cause of the dream. “You should go to a doctor, me precious,” Aghamora said. She smiled, didn’t look at John and turned over two eggs on the grill. She glanced over her shoulder. “But, I’m not going to press you on this.” She yawned and excused herself. “Go back to bed. Perhaps you’re working too hard at the department. Or, is it time to get up? Do you have a full day?”
John walked up to Aghamora and kissed her cheek. “You are so wonderful to me.” He held her by her shoulders. She smelled of flour dough, cinnamon and an Irish scent that John enjoyed.
       : “Gowan, with yuh,” she said, her brogue pronounced. “You are me son, me darlin’. All’s I have anyway. And I’ll take care of you t’il the day I drop.”
       : John roared at Aghamora’s declaration and loved her for how many times she sounded like his own mother.
       : He closed the door to the large bathroom, stepped in front of the large double sink and supported himself as he leaned forward looking to the long six foot wide mirror. He saw the sadness in his dark blue eyes, thought his age was beginning to take its toll on his face. In the mirror and in the far distance, he saw the crumpled body of his father, saw himself, a boy of seventeen, running down the goat path screaming for his father. He found Arman, covered his body with his own Zebra jacket. Arman’s clothes were wet with his blood. Blood flowed slowly from Arman’s neck wound. “You’re alive, father. Oh, my God!”
       : Arman spoke with blood in his throat. “I knew you would come. I’ve done my best to wait. I hoped it wouldn’t come to this...”
       : “I’ve got to get help father. It’s cold and...”
       : “Ilya, my precious son. Do you remember where the big cave is?”
       : “Yes, father. You told me never to go there.”
       : Arman fought off pain as he grabbed Ilya’s arm. “Listen, son. Go there. There’s gold, a lot of it and there is a log I want you to read. Read it, then perhaps you should destroy it. You are in great danger my son because of not who but what your are. Protect yourself, my Ilya Avenge me, my son. Avenge...”
       : Ilya cringed at his father’s voice. He couldn’t face the thought of his father dying. Suddenly he heard no further sound from his father. His body became still. Steam from the blood and his face rose up quickly and disappeared in the chill of the dark night.
       : His body is still. My father is gone. My father is dead. Ilya bent down and touched his father’s face. I love you, my father. I shall always love you. Go with Mamush now. He sobbed.
       : Finally, he kissed his father’s forehead and wiped the tears and blood from his face. He had blood on his shirt and was certain his face was covered with it. He bent over and moaned the death of his father chanting the death moans of the Russian peasant. He pulled the jacket over Arman’s face, stood and ran without thinking up the goat path to the top of the cliff, around the precipice, past the giant boulders and down once more into the valley of the Nangassa. He cried without trying to be quiet and screamed several times with great agony, swinging at tree trunks as he passed them. If I find those thugs, I will kill them, he said to himself over and over as he ran. “Avenge me, avenge me,” his father’s voice echoed in his mind.
       : He nearly lost control of his speed and continued running taking great leaps to maintain his balance down the narrow mountain path. He would not search for these murderers, he would go to the big cave and read the log. Gold? What gold is there?
       : Ilya caught his foot and fell sprawling across a body. The man moaned with pain. He didn’t speak but looked at Ilya and spoke with his eyes. They widened.
       : “Who are you?” they asked. It took great effort for the man to spit blood. Ilya knelt and looked down. Suddenly he recognized this man as one of the four who had murdered his father. Ilya remained motionless and observed the man’s action.
       : He stiffened and moaned. “You’re him,” he said. “You’re the boy we are searching for.” He coughed. Ilya continued to stare at the man without touching him.
       : “You are Gayeff,” Ilya said and searched the immediate area for a heavy rock. Gayeff hadn’t the strength to answer.
       : “All of this wasted for that American hyena?” Gayeff said with great difficulty. He coughed hard and spit much blood. He was silent, tried to conserve his strength and closed his eyes. The sound of a wolf filled the valley. Ilya knew it was not Vila. The rising moon shone bright on the man’s face. He breathed slower but sat up on one elbow. “That gypsy,” he said. “I should have killed her when she told me I would die at night, in the mountains and wolves would eat my carcass. That old witch. I should have...”
       : American hyena? Ilya thought. “Who is it you think I am?” he asked. His eyes had spied a rock the size he needed to finish off Gayeff.
       : “You are the one chosen to lead the world. Or you were. The only obstacle was that evil country, United States. Now they’ve decided to replace you with an American traitor. That pig! That peasant!” Gayeff said. “The bastard is straight from hell.” His breathing became labored. He couldn’t catch his breath. “Forgive me, young lad,” he said and began coughing. “Future leader of the world. What tragedy. What a comrade. Your father was my friend in the early days of the Revolution.” He moaned and began to shiver. “I beg you forgive my cowardly act. I didn’t not shoot him. That hyena American shot him. He’s not of great intelligence. He’s a peasant. Talks like a peasant, in spite of his admired education. He’s a bastard...”
       : Ilya picked up the rock and held it. “Don’t use a rock for me. Here. A gun. Give my more honor than I gave you father. I will rot in hell. If you don’t know how to use it, you’ll need to know some day...”
       : “I know how to use a small arms revolver,” Ilya said. He took the gun and spun the chamber.
       : “I don’t want the wolves to start dinner before I’m ready, comrade,” Gayeff said. “What a terrible way to die. Make my death more honorable, young lad,” he said. “I plead with you...”
       : The shot echoed throughout the area, sounded like more than one volley, and louder than Ilya had imagined it would be as was the crunch of the bullet into Gayeff’s head. The sounds of two wolves filled the air. They were closer. Ilya imagined they watched him closely.
       : Ilya asked the dead Gayeff to forgive him for his foul act and wished he had asked his father’s Russian friend, if he spoke about the American in the group of men as the hyena. It must have been what Gayeff meant. Yes, it was what Gayeff meant. He knew without any doubt. Ilya decided it was the only alternative. There was only one American in that dastardly group. Only one.
       : The aroma of Aghamora’s coffee caused John to inhale deeply. Magnificent! Wonderful!
       : He stretched the skin on his face pretending it was tight once again. He saw Kalij and her sad face of tears as he left the Nangassa and headed south toward the Congo River when he left The Congo. It went without saying and Magid and Toulon both understood they were caretakers, waiting for the day Ilya would return and once again make their family whole.
       : Ilya and Toulon both cried when Magid and Suisson assured Ilya his father would not be eaten by the wild animals that men were on their way to recover Arman’s body and bring it back home for a Christian and Kimbanquist Christian burial.
       : Ilya heard his words, “...so I turn Nangassa, The Congo and Africa and over to your capable hands, my friend and now my father, Magid Abuto. John knew Magid controlled his emotions well. He hugged Ilya and whispered, “You are my son, you know. You father was kind enough to share you with me,” He paused and added, “my son.” Ilya nodded. He saw the lowered heads of Toulon, Kalij, the parting knapsack from Suisson and a bag of gold coin from Magid. He saw his slim young body leave Nangassa and instead of running south, Ilya ran north to the big cave.
       : Ilya thought about his life, the years since he left the Congo. There were trails of thoughts from his dream and his memory as he spread shaving cream on his face and dipped the razor in one of the sinks half-filled with warm water.
       : He had given his family’s wealth to Toulon’s family and Magid insisted the estate would be managed well, “God willing,” and kept in safe keeping. “You will have it back one day,” Magid’s deep and sincere voice said. Suisson nodded agreement.
       : He heard his voice say, “I’m sorry they beat you Magid. If I could take the blows for you I would--”        :
“Let Toulon go with you,” Magid said. “He’s older now and--”
       : “I’ve grown much wiser in the last few days, my friend. Toulon wants to go with me and I would give everything for him to be with me. He is my personal and best friend, but.... He glanced down at his pet wolf. “Even Vila knows something is not to her liking.” He rubbed her mane and she whined: pleaded. “You know, don’t you my love?”
He looked at his canvas bag and the straps, slung the bag over his shoulder, grabbed the knapsack and said, “I’ve got to go now.” Vila whined anew and became restless. “I’ll be back, Vila. You can’t go this time. I’ll be back. He looked at Magid, Suisson and many house servants with long faces. He didn’t see Kalij or Toulon. “I promise you all. When this nightmare is over, I will be back.” The nodded and began to chant a Congolese hymn of blessing and great journey. “My friends, my family,” Ilya said, turned and ran out of the main living room of the manor house.
       : “You’re dark, tanned, almost as dark as Toulon. But your eyes are not dark.”
       : “Neither are Toulon’s, But, Kalij’s eyes are dark,” Ilya said making conversation with Kalij. He knew she would have trouble talking to him and would speak of other subjects.
       : She looked at him and tried to smile as he stepped out of the large main room onto the veranda. “We are nearly the same age. You are what now, seventeen? I would go if--”
       : “I know you would, Kalij. I love for your fearlessness. Where is Toulon?” Ilya asked anxiously.
       : “He’s waiting for you over there. He wants to be the last one to see you when you leave the valley.” She took Ilya’s hand. He couldn’t look at the tears making their way down her dark face. She couldn’t see Ilya well because of the tears in her eyes. She promised herself she wouldn’t cry. A man, one’s love, is not to see the tears of unhappiness before he is married. She moaned and trembled.
       : “I had hope that maybe someday--” She spoke in an old Congolese dialect. Ilya understood the language of very close, dear friends. He moved closer and their eyes met. They were unashamed of their tears.
       : “Someday,” Ilya said in the dialect. “Someday I shall come back to my Congo home, my Nangassa and I will come for your, my Kalij.” He paused, "...if I can; if I am able to return.”
       : “I don’t know where you go; you must not forget us. I don’t know why our lives are being torn this way. I don’t.... She sniffed. “What have we done to cause this much trouble, my Ilya? What?"
       : Ilya took her hand and pressed it against his chest. “In the ways of the ancient Congolese warriors, I pledge I shall never forget Kalij, my dearest and personal woman friend...”
       : She looked down. She couldn’t bring herself to see Ilya’s tears any longer. She did not want to remember him this way. He may not return. She heard the tears in his voice.
       : He touched her under the chin and raised her head. “Look at me and wish my journey is successful.” Their eyes saw nothing but their faces. “I will always cherish you.” Their lips touched briefly and softly and suddenly Ilya was gone, down the veranda steps across the gravel of the circular driveway and through the gate of the large Nangassa Plantation.
       : “Toulon! Toulon,” Ilya called with his quiet voice of the night He used the sound of the night hunter and warrior to search for Toulon. He was being quiet in the night so that others would not hear him..
       : “Over here,” Toulon said. He cleared his throat and sniffed. “Where have you been? You left the Nangassa over an hour ago.”
       : “To the big cave, Toulon.”
       : “Why?” Toulon asked and shifted onto his other bare foot.
       : “Take care of the plantation, your family and Kalij.” They stood facing each other. They stood close together. “And, stop crying. I’m the one who is leaving. Not...”
       : “I’m going with you and that’s my last word, Ilya.”
       : “You can’t go, Toulon. You can’t. Stop crying, I said.” Ilya pulled Toulon close to him. Their bodies were like one. They trembled and sobbed.
       : “Where will you go? Why must you leave? What will you do?”
       : “I have a little money. Your father gave me more. I don’t know, Toulon. I just don’t know. I really can’t stay here. They’ve murdered my father. They may try to kill me.”
       : “Who? Who? Who?” Toulon’s questions echoed into silence.
       : Scenes from the Congo, the death of his father, leaving the plantation, the Abuto family, faded as Ilya looked at again at mature face in the bathroom mirror. He had nearly finished shaving. He noticed a line or two maybe around his eyes. You haven’t done too badly. He pulled the razor against his cheek and his thoughts returned quickly to his flight through the Congo, rafting down the Congo River, his flight into Rhodesia, the near auto accident, how he used it to gain a job, clerk and interpreter, with the C.I.A., his closeness with a well-placed Rhodesian family, and finally his sojourn into South Africa.
       : He recalled the fear of strange jungles, wild fearful animal sounds at night, and the stares he received in Johannesburg as he entered the outskirts of the city. He thought about his luck when he lied about his age, his landing another clerk’s job with the Afrikaans Government and finally how he worked his way up and into the confidences of the American C.I.A. He chuckled recalling how the C.I.A. fell for his line about tribal warfare, lost records, his dead mother, father, sister and brother at the hands of marauding tribes. How he swore he had relatives in the United States “Well don’t I sound American, for corn sake?” but he couldn’t remember his family's names or his surname. He had been bludgeoned somewhere in the Rhodesian jungle by some drunk Khambachi rogues or maybe the automobile accident caused his memory lapse, but it’s not every day that one is left for dead and remembers only periodic events of his family’s slaughter. Ilya knew he was on top of the situation with the C.I.A. interrogators and enjoyed leading them around by their long leashes. I’ll be gentle, he thought as the C.I.A. officials continued to question him about his past.
       : He laughed aloud wiping his hands and dabbing his face on a hand towel, at the ease with which he convinced several interrogators, seriously frowning and bent on proving him a spy, that he was indeed an American lad, could in spite of his personal and family memory lapse speak many languages including Russian, Ukrainian, French, German, Congolese, and on and on. The head operative at C.I.A. Headquarters in Johannesburg, Jack Jordan, hired Ilya, now known as John Jordan after John gained typing proficiency in less than two days and sped through the agency’s typing test at over eighty words per minute, no mistakes, using and old Underwood typewriter.
       : John giggled at how tight his shrunken short pants felt, shrunken from walking in the latest South African cloudburst, against his front and rearend as he recalled the words of the lady psychiatrist, an English woman with small dark horn- rimmed eyeglasses, when she informed the boss, as she referred to the Chief Agent, that, “the boy isn’t lying. He has no memory and selected the name Jordan because he saw the name on your very own nameplate, right on your desk, liked the sound of it, said it repeatedly to get used to the sound and finally told me it sounded like you were fair, he said that, yes, and adopted it for himself. And those eyes. So blue.”
       : The boss flared his nares, looked at the psychiatrist out of the corners of his eyes and puffed his cheeks. Is she finished? he thought. “All right, all right, what does it matter. He’s a fast typist, obviously a fast learner and if he gets his memory back he may be another Superman for the agency, who knows? He can’t be much danger. Much of a spy. He’s only a child...”
       : “Oh, sir,” Mrs. Blanquist said, pursing her lips. “The lad is a long way from a child. Based on the physical examination I performed, the young man is strikingly and pleasantly an adult male, endowed with...”
       : “I think I get the picture, Mrs. Blanquist. “We must get him other clothes. His slacks are those of a schoolboy, much too tight...”
       : “Do you think so, sir,” she said, her tone chiding, “Chief Agent Jack Jordan?”
       : “He’s to be admired, ma’am,” John said. “I wonder how innocent he is?”
       : John looked closely at his blue eyes and smiled. “Thirty-seven today and doing good,” he hummed. You’ve come a long way, baby, John Jordan said to himself, sobbed, and splashed water over his face. He stepped out of his loose fitting shorts and into the shower. He looked out the long shower window and heard a car screech to a halt. “Wonder who’s looking at the empty house next door?” He glanced at his watch. Eight-thirty, already? Can’t be. He knew is was Saturday morning and time to get some work done in his back yard. He showered quickly, swiped down his body, and pulled on his work shorts, buttoned them and hurried out the back door, out of the bathroom, through the kitchen, through the family room and out the back door. He walked forward to the fence that separated the front of his property from the rear and his large back yard. A real estate woman he had seen showing the property, several times in the recent past, stood in the driveway looking bored. She tapped her foot, looked up, noticed Ilya and greeted him. She waved.
       : “We’ve got a buyer, Mr. Jordan, for this cottage next to your cottage.” she shouted. “Hopefully,” she added lowering her voice. “Finally! Guess you’ll be glad,” she shouted.
       : “I’ll be glad if they can afford to keep it up and not run down the neighborhood,” he said. “Otherwise...”
       : “Well, we’ll see, won’t we?” She glanced at his chest, the blond hair and from the distance noticed his blue eyes were very blue early in the morning. She wished she knew Mr. Jordan much better.
       : He enjoyed her voice. “Is that the party?” Ilya asked.
       : “Oh, no. I’m just showing this house because it’s like the one I want the Farmer family to buy over on Cloud Street, NE. Same floor plan though. You know these cottages are a rare find in D.C.”
       : John thought she had said Farmer family as though he would know whom she meant. He nodded his head toward the stranger. “Yes,” he added, agreeing.        :
“That’s Mr. John Jordan,” the woman said. “He’s with the State Department,” she added touting John.
       : “Howdy,” the man said and smiled at Ilya. John smiled and turned back toward the yard. He walked slowly, thought about how treacherous his life with the C.I.A. had been in South Africa, how hard he had worked, saved his money, worked for the C.I.A. in South Africa, Haiti and The Bahamas and finally got to a high position in the American Government: the State Department.
       : “John Jordan,” he said and laughed. “Even American intelligence couldn’t trace my roots back to The Congo or back to the United States.”
       : John turned as the real estate agent’s car drove away and the paperboy butted his bike up against the concrete brick wall. “Hey, Mr. Jordan,” the youngster cried out and tossed the morning newspaper to him. He caught it. His athletic ability pleased Carl.
       : “Nice shot, Carl,” John shouted. “You’re really a tiger.”
       : “Hey Mr. Jordan,” the boy shouted.
       : “What?” John said as he unfolded the newspaper and checked the headline.
       : “You’ve got great muscles, not big but--”
       : “Yes, Carl. Thanks for the ego boost. And, yes, you can use the weights in the back if it’s OK with your folks.” He glanced at the picture of the U.S. President. Bastard, he thought.
       : He opened the rear entrance door and tossed the paper inside. “Breakfast in about twenty minutes, Johnny, me darlin’,” his housekeeper shouted. She knew he would be exercising first.
       : “Gotcha, Mrs. O’Connor,” he replied. He shut the door and decided to weight exercise before mowing the back lawn. “And I’ve got you in my sites, you bastard.”
       : “There’s something turrible on his mind,” Aghamora thought as she sipped her morning tea. He always calls me Mrs. O’Connor when something hurrible, jes’ hurrible is bothering the lad.

To be continued....Order Albertville today!

This is an unfinished manuscript. The manuscript is in final preparation.“It’s All About Albertville” will be completed by Mr. McBane. Manuscript finalize date is late March of 1998.

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