(February 1968)

 I called you "querido" in the middle of the street and no one got it.  No one but you. You looked at me with those wise blue eyes and you understood every syllable, and all the hidden meanings underneath.

 You plunge fearlessly into death traps, you gouge and kick your way out of danger, you haul me out, too, when the chips are down.  Pretty scrappy for a bantam weight Russian who hasn't even learned to swear in English yet.

 You saw me with my gun in hand, blasting my way out of one mess after another, and you saw the gleam in my eye. You knew I loved it.  The rush, the adrenalin, the charge of absolute power, holding people's lives in my hands and deciding with a flick of the wrist who lives and who dies.

 Too bad I have a conscience.  Too bad that little voice nags at me to be good, to have mercy, to let the son of a bitch go.  Mother Fear said it was my weakness, caring for you, coming back for you, worrying about you.  She was wrong.  You're not my weakness, you're my strength. You keep me from going over the edge.  Because if I give in to the adrenalin urges, if I cross the line too far, if I surrender to the dark side of my nature, I'll lose your respect.  And that would mean the end of everything.

 We've never fought each other.  We've sparred, we've wrestled, we've roughed each other up when we had too much to drink because it was the only way we could touch each other in "polite" society.  But we've never really taken each other on.  And we never will.  That's been clear from the start.  We measured each other up the first day, and every day after that, for a long time.  And we both came to the same conclusion, didn't we?  Even match.  No point.  We'd both either have to admit defeat or kill each other.  And that is not in the game plan.

 You're the best there is. And so am I.  That's why we're so good together.  We keep coming back.  The Old Man gripes about the expense account, and he gripes about the suits, and he gripes about my reputation.  But we keep coming back, and we keep getting the job done, and that's what it's all about, isn't it?

 He doesn't care what we do when we're alone.  He never wants to know.  He doesn't want to know how human we are, how close we come to breaking, how many nights we spend drinking ourselves into oblivion.  He doesn't want to know who we lie down with or what we do.  All he wants to know is that the job gets done.

 You count the scars on my body.  You touch them with your fingertips and your lips, and you count them out loud sometimes, in Russian.  And we remember where I got them.  I do the same for yours, and we remember those wounds, too.  It pulls us together, it binds us in ways normal people can't understand.  The invisible thread of life sewing us one to the other, stitching into my wound and out, into your wound and out, back and forth, until we are wound up together, inextricably woven into the same tapestry of remembered suffering.

 We drink a toast to living, because we have seen how quickly a life can be snuffed out. We have ended many lives, and spared many more.  We are white-collar warriors, clean and tidy soldiers in a dirty struggle, where only the bad guys are allowed to take revenge, and to remain the good guys we have to wear hairshirts of guilt and remorse.

 But soldiers cannot feel remorse and keep on fighting.  We shove it behind us, we shove it inside us, we swallow it, deny it, and call it different names.  Anything we have to do to keep on fighting.

 And when it's over, we huddle in the dark, curled around our guns, and we sleep with the lights on so we can see the enemy coming.  And we never tell anyone about the nightmares, or the bellyaches, or the alcoholic stupors.  That's our secret.  Don't let them see your scars.  They'll know you're human.

 **************

 You called me "querido" in the street, in the middle of a mission.  You play with it, this feeling between us. But I'm not worried.  You play with everything.  It's your way.  Toy with it, minimalize it, whittle it down to a size you can deal with.

 At first I thought you were just a brash, self-centered American with no more depth than one of those game show hosts.  That was so long ago, it feels like a memory of someone else's first impression.  Whenever I wonder how a stranger can be taken in by you, I remember how thoroughly I was convinced that you were nothing more than what you wanted me to think you were.

 But you were full of surprises.  First, you spoke Russian.  Not very well, in the beginning.  But you spoke it all the time when we were off duty.  "Even Steven," you said.  English on the job, Russian off.  I can't express what a difference that made in my life here.  To know I could be myself with someone, somewhere.  To know that if I slipped or forgot a word, you would still know what I meant.  And you got better, didn't you?  Now you are very fluent, and your accent is no more than a faint reminder of the extra effort you made to get this good. All my Russian acquaintances thought you were French or Spanish, they could not place your accent.

 Your American playboy act peeled away, layer after layer, as you interrupted your plans to come to my rescue, or visit me in the hospital, or just keep me company for an afternoon.  Your childhood in Canada shows in your soccer game, my friend.  Don't let Thrush see you chase a soccer ball, they will know everything.

 They think you are steel and ice in the field, a walking legend.  The rookies make room for you to pass in the corridor.  And after a mission, when you work out on the track, all the agents who owe you their lives fall in step behind you and say thank you by running with you.  And because of you, they do it for me, too.  Fallout.  You said I deserve it.  At first, I thought, no, I do not deserve such a tribute.  But now I know what you meant, because I have seen your ice melt and your steel bow beneath the weight of the job.  You meant, if you deserve it, I deserve it, too.  Tak.  Okay, I accept that.

 We are good, you and I.  Separately, we are the best at what we do, and together we are unbeatable.  You taught me that.  It is not in my nature to tempt fate with such self-aggrandizing claims, but you taught me to believe that there is always a way out.  And someday, when there isn't, it won't matter, will it?  Because we'll be dead before we are forced to accept the reality that maybe we are not unbeatable.

 Together, we are alive.  Together, we have eyes in the back of our heads.  Together, we balance on the beam that separates the soldier from the murderer.  It is a balancing act that becomes more difficult to maintain as the years go by.  I struggle to hang onto the belief that what we do is worthwhile.  You seemed so sure of it, in the beginning.  But now sometimes you wonder, too.  Being around me is rubbing off on you.  My pessimism is tarnishing the shine on your optimism.  But so far we have managed to keep each other on the beam.

 I see the scars on your body, and they remind me that you are just a man, just flesh and blood.  They force me to realize that no matter how focussed you are in the field, a single bullet can bring you down. No matter how legendary your luck, That of Which We Never Speak, you are still mortal.  And so am I.  A sobering thought, one best left for after the mission.

 My life is so different than I ever thought it would be.  Instead of one small room, I live in an apartment large enough for three Russian families.  Instead of wondering will there be bread today, I have to keep track of Wonder bread and French bread and Raisin Rye. Back home I used to hide my icons in the armoire so casual visitors would not know I was verayooshii, a believer.  Then I came to America and hid them in the closet so no one would think this card-carrying Communist is too religious.  How do people function in this society?  It demands a facade of faith but belittles anyone who demonstrates it in public.  Sometimes I long for the simplicity of home.

 You saw my icons.  I waited for the jokes, the teasing, the raised eyebrow.  Instead you winked at me and tossed me a little white case you were carrying in your pocket.  Rosary beads.  And you crossed yourself in front of my Lady of Vladimir. Then you put a finger to your lips.  Not a word.  We keep our secrets.

 You know all of mine, even my darkest, most worrisome secret. But nothing could deter you from being my friend.  I don't understand how this can happen, two men from different worlds, and we find the other half of our soul in each other.  They say we have a chemistry.  That must be it.  I believe in chemistry.  And physics.  Quantam mechanics.  The more we learn about hard science, the closer it gets to metaphysics.  Wouldn't it be amusing if all our scientific efforts led to the verification of the existence of God?  A brooding Russian question we will save for later, moi droog, over Glenlivet and Stolychnaya, when the alcohol dulls the ache of the sore muscles and we can unclench our teeth and ramble on in the sweet syllables of my motherland.

 Meanwhile, we do what they expect of us.  And what they do not expect.  We keep coming back.  And they wonder how you tolerate your moody Russian partner. And they wonder why I put up with your flippant cockiness.  All they see is the surface image, like the color of the sky reflecting off the water.  It's just as well.  If they looked more closely, they might see what we don't want them to see.  Like tonight, in the dark, the American dancing with the homesick Russian to balalaika music on the stereo, eating potatoes and cabbage and black bread with me so I will have something in my stomach to soak up the vodka.

 Don't worry, milii moi, they will never see my worst scars, because they are invisible.

 End