April 20, 1980
Moscow, Russia, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
Jack stopped halfway across the small bridge in Gorky Park to watch the small girl playing quietly nearby. Her hair fell from a little bun in ringlets, and she cradled a doll in her arms. When she glanced up at him and his companion, she smiled shyly.
He said, "You have a beautiful daughter, Oleg."
"I do. Bronya is the sweetest girl in the world," Oleg bragged without the slightest embarrassment. "And your daughter -"
"Watch me!" the shout came, and Jack stared as his daughter leapt from a nearby bench, grabbed onto the end of a tree branch and swung in a wide arc. She gave a screech that he could only consider a battle cry, then let go, plummeting to the ground. The grin on her face suggested that, despite all appearances, that was precisely what she'd meant to do.
Oleg stroked his reddish-brown beard. "Your daughter is very - lively."
"Valentina is a lot like her mother." Jack watched with pride as his wild girl took off, ready to make another swing from the tree branch. He'd long since learned that there was no stifling Valentina's boundless energy; it was better by far to simply watch her closely and be ready to intervene if and when her ambition outstripped her abilities. He did intend to draw the line at her latest project, a scheme to travel down their buildng's fire escape, though even there he expected a battle. Valentina shared her mother's determination as well as her daring.
In the past year, Jack and Oleg had fallen into the habit of picking up their daughters from preschool in the afternoons, once they were done at the university. Valentina and Bronya were not great friends - Bronya was a little lady, and Valentina, thankfully, was something else entirely - but their fathers were. So the girls played side-by-side, if not together, while their fathers walked and talked about anything in the world.
"As I was saying -- one month to opening curtain, and do any of them know their lines?" Oleg held out his arms and looked upward, as if asking the skies to answer. "Why is it such a burden, asking theater students to read 'The Cherry Orchard'? If you haven't read it before university, you have no right even studying theater, that's what I think. I ask you, did I ever allow myself to be so unprepared?"
"You knew all your lines," Jack replied dutifully. "I knew all the others."
Oleg chuckled. "I'm sure you miss your days as Lady Macbeth desperately. Sometimes I hope against hope that you acquired some dramatic flair during our rehearsals, so that you don't bore your poor students to death."
"The laws of aerodynamics do that for me. Saves time."
Though it was nearly May Day, the temperatures in Moscow were still chilly; this was the latest spring Jack could remember in his eight years in the Soviet Union. He wore his heavy coat and gloves, and Oleg's curly hair foamed out from beneath an enormous woolen hat. As Valentina ran in a crazy figure-eight around two trees, her brilliant red scarf trailed behind her like a Japanese war banner. Nonetheless, something of spring was in the air, promising warmth and change. Jack had a flash of déjà vu - he'd known a moment like this once, with someone, somewhere - but it vanished in an instant.
"Bronya and I should go soon," Oleg said, judging the time from a glance at the sky. "She's got her dance lessons soon, and Galine will have my head if I bring her late again."
Although Oleg did not speak loudly, Jack could see Valentina's steps falter; her smile faded, and she didn't seem to know quite what to do. The sight of her, uncertain and unhappy, cut him to the quick. Jack had once been a master of controlling his emotions, and his reactions to others' feelings, but he'd long since learned that his defenses did not apply to his daughter.
Oleg saw something in Jack's reaction and frowned. "What's wrong?"
Valentina, her face now utterly determined, took off for another leap at the tree branch. Once she was distracted, Jack answered Oleg: "Valentina very much wants to take ballet lessons, and she doesn't understand why she can't."
"Haven't you explained? You're tall as a tree, and Irina can almost look you in the eye. Valentina will certainly be too big to be a ballerina. Even now, she's a head taller than Bronya."
"Of course we've told her that," Jack said. "But she doesn't understand. She's a child." After a few more steps, and a few moments of Oleg's searching stare, Jack sighed. "I don't understand either. She should be able to take classes even if she couldn't be a professional dancer."
A pat on Jack's shoulder signaled Oleg's sympathy. "There are plenty of good reasons, of course. For grace, for coordination, for fitness -"
"Not for any of that. Just because she wants to."
After a few moments of silence, Oleg raised a subject he had only brought up on a handful of occasions in all the years they had known each other: "You still miss America, I think."
"I'm happy here," Jack said, and it was the truth. But sometimes, the contrast between the life they led and the life he might have given them in the United States was painful to consider. He could imagine Valentina in dance lessons, karate lessons, school musicals and piano recitals - anything she wanted. Everything she wanted. A house that belonged to them and them alone, where Valentina could have her own bedroom instead of sleeping in the kitchen, and he and Irina wouldn't have to share three absurdly tiny rooms with Babushka and Katya. Meals that included as much meat and vegetables and spices and sugar as you wanted, not just whatever you'd been able to grow for yourself, or find at market after standing in a long line.
And Irina - what couldn't he have given Irina? She wasn't a materialistic woman by nature, but if she didn't dream of grander presents and greater luxuries for herself, he dreamed of them for her. Irina could have beautiful clothes, instead of sewing and mending her own things; she could drink champagne instead of rotgut vodka; she could take that trip to the desert she'd always dreamed of. He imagined her in the brilliant New Mexico sun, her arms bare in the sweltering heat, her face lit up in a smile of sheer delight -
"You're thinking about Irina," Oleg said. "Your face only looks like that when you're thinking about her."
"You've learned to read me too well." It seemed as though that ought to worry him, for some reason.
"Does Irina ever talk about America?"
"Sometimes. Less often than she used to." Jack watched as Bronya tried to create a bed of clover and grass for her doll; Valentina was using the little pile of green as a hurdle to leap over. "These days, the subject only comes up when I get another letter from Aunt Claudette."
Oleg laughed. "That old bird. Is she still nagging you?"
"She'll never stop." Jack tried to smile, as if in affection, but the truth was, his aunt's endless whining about his decision to live in the Soviet Union irritated him sorely. He had explained, again and again, how much he loved Irina, how his daughter only knew life in Moscow, how he had no desire to return. But the old woman never stopped wheedling him to move back to the U.S., or demanding yet more explanations of his feelings. If she hadn't been so kind to him when he was young -
Wait, he thought. Aunt Claudette isn't real.
Fact broke through fiction, shattering it - and Jack's state of mind - into a thousand shards. Here and there, he could see images of the life he remembered and loved: waking up in the morning beside Irina, walking Valentina home from school, finding ways of encouraging his students when they worked through a difficult problem. But other images flashed through his mind as well, images that didn't fit with this life but with another:
Using Irina's key to enter her office and make tracings of Rambaldi documents.
Dropping superficial reports in the park, important reports in forgotten library texts.
Systematically sabotaging more and more of the KGB's work on Rambaldi with every passing year.
In his pocket was a strip of magnetically charged metal; he could see himself planting it in Irina's things tonight, just as easily as he could see himself kissing her goodbye before she walked away with it tomorrow.
The images were all real -- but how could they all be real?
He turned to watch the girls, so that Oleg couldn't see his face or his confusion. How long had it been since the last time he thought about this - the fact that Aunt Claudette was an invention, and that he wasn't actually a man named John Leary? Weeks? Months? Too long.
He breathed in and out deeply, calming himself. Jack knew that internalizing his own cover was important, even necessary; moments like this were to be expected. But they'd become very rare, especially since Valentina's birth. In some ways, Jack Bristow, the CIA agent, was a far more alien creature now than John Leary, the émigré professor.
The problem, of course, was that he was glad about that -
"You know what?" Oleg said, startling Jack back to the here and now. "You should bring your aunt over here. I'm serious! Let her see that the Soviet Union isn't the den of hells she's imagined it to be."
"I don't think so."
Oleg cackled. "Consider it! I'll be her tour guide. I will explain to her all the layers of Communist society." He began stacking his mittened hands, one on top of the other. "A layer of Communists, a layer of lime, a layer of Communists, a layer of lime -"
"You'd finish her off, with that one." Jack couldn't stop himself from smiling just a little at another of Oleg's terrible jokes. "Aunt Claudette's a very old woman. I don't think international travel is in her future." He realized that, for plausibility's sake, she ought to die fairly soon; this would also remove the need for him to read the begging letters or write his replies. Perhaps he should pointedly ask about her health in the next note. If anybody at the CIA was actually reading Jack's letters home - which he doubted, from the monotonous quality of the messages he received in return - they might catch the hint.
"It's too bad." At Jack's skeptical glance, Oleg grinned. "No, I don't long for the pleasure of your Aunt Claudette's company. But all the same, she's important to you, and it's a pity she can't see how well you've done for yourself here: a position at the university, a daughter who could stand in for the entire American Olympic team, as long as they're not coming, and a wife who may be the most beautiful woman in the world. Your aunt would understand everything if she just took one look at Irina."
"Maybe," Jack said quietly. He remembered the way Irina's face had looked when he left her that morning, still and sad. "Maybe not."
Then Oleg smacked his forehead and swore. "Dance lessons! Galine will be furious. Bronya, lastochka, come along! We're late!"
Bronya gave Valentina a little wave, which was returned just as weakly. Then she hurried to catch up with her father. "Goodbye, Mr. Leary," she said politely.
"Goodbye, Bronya. I'll see you tomorrow, Oleg."
"As ever." Oleg thumped Jack on his shoulder by way of farewell, then hurriedly led his daughter away through the park.
"Goodbye, Mr. Petrukhin. Bye, Bronya." Valentina watched them go to the dance lessons with visible envy, but as soon as Jack turned his face to her, she smiled brightly. His daughter had her pride. "Do we have to go home now?"
"You can play for a while longer, if you want to."
The smile was more genuine now. "Yes, please, Daddy."
He'd taught her to call him that instead of Papa; it was one of the few elements of American life that still felt more real to him than the Russian version. Besides, he appreciated being able to pick her name for him out of the shouts of a hundred other children. He was the only Daddy, and he liked it that way. Nothing in his life - not his acceptance into intelligence work, his academic successes, even his friendships - had given Jack anything like the satisfaction, much less the joy, of being a father and a husband.
No wonder he had trouble connecting his life now to his life before. His life before was so - meaningless - by comparison.
You served your country, he reminded himself. You're still serving your country.
The words shouldn't have sounded so hollow. The disconnect between then and now, between real and false, welled up again; Jack leaned against the stone wall of the footbridge and forced himself to watch Valentina as she played. If nothing else in the world made sense, his daughter did -- in a manner of speaking.
"This is my fort," she explained as she crawled beneath the footbridge, pale green grass flattening beneath her hands. Jack considered pointing out that she would get muddy, before realizing that would probably be incentive for her to stay longer. "And that stream is my moat. That keeps the bad guys out."
"What bad guys?" Jack asked, smiling a little.
"ALL of them."
Finally, when Valentina was exhausted and hungry, she allowed herself to be walked back home. She slipped her hand into his almost shyly.
"Daddy?" Her wide eyes were uncertain. "Can I ask a question?"
"Yes. What are you thinking about?"
"Mama." The simplicity of the answer, and the suddenly knowing expression on her face, startled him. "Something's wrong with her. Something's making her sad."
Jack had long ago realized that children were more perceptive than adults liked to believe, but his daughter's question still caught him off-guard. He kept his face impassive. "Why do you say that?"
"I just know." Her little hand tensed in his. "Is Mama sick?"
"Oh, malishka, no." Jack dropped any pretense of misunderstanding and knelt beside his daughter. He took her shoulders in his hands. "Mama's fine. She's not sick at all."
She sniffled once. "Then did we make her sad?"
"Of course not. Valentina, you could never make your mother sad. She loves you very much. You haven't done anything wrong."
He hugged his daughter, and her tiny arms squeezed his neck so fiercely he almost couldn't breathe. As they embraced, he whispered, "Mama had a good friend at her work who died. Do you remember Professor Kovalenko? He was kind to your mother, and he helped her with many important things. Now he's gone, and your mother misses him very much." Jack hoped this would be enough to reassure Valentina; there was no way he could explain the full truth.
How did you tell a five-year-old child that her mother had spent the better part of a decade bearing the weight of a prophecy on her shoulders - and that now, nobody was left to believe her? That her father was secretly working to make sure nobody would ever believe her again? Jack was no longer certain he understood it himself.
Valentina stepped back from his embrace, her round face now as determined as an adult's. "Then Mama needs us at home. That way she won't be lonely." When he failed to move instantly, she stomped her foot. "Now, Daddy!"
"Now," he agreed, and they hurried home as fast as she could drag him. Despite his worries about his wife, he couldn't help smiling at Valentina's confidence. His daughter believed she could move the whole world, if only given a place to stand.
They went up in the cranky old elevator, its cage-frame rattling as they rose jerkily to their story. Jack let Valentina bound ahead to thump on the door. "Mama! Mama! We're home!"
He heard the door open, and Valentina's happy squeal. Then he finally reached the door himself and saw Irina bending over to hug her daughter close. The apartment's cramped size struck him in a way it hadn't in years; he was still seeing through an American's eyes. How had he ended up living with five people in an apartment scarcely big enough for one? Why did his daughter sleep on a small bed in the kitchen? Part of his mind - the part that was used to life in the Soviet Union - accepted this as ordinary, even more luxurious than most homes. But in another part it looked small and squalid and depressing.
Then Irina lifted her head to look up at him; her thick, dark hair fell across her cheek, as she softly said, "Welcome home." That was all it took - in that moment, the past was forgotten, and Jack was back where he belonged.
Jack picked up Valentina and hugged her and Irina both; their daughter giggled and snuggled her face between theirs. Her lips were soft against Jack's cheek as she said, "Mama, we came home to tell you how much we love you."
"I already know. But I like you to tell me." Irina kissed Valentina soundly and then deposited her back on the floor. "Did you bring me a picture today?"
Valentina brightened, remembering. "I did! It's a walrus. Wait, I'll get it." She tugged open her bookbag.
Irina turned back to Jack and placed her hands on his chest. "A walrus?" One eyebrow was raised, and he could see how hard she was trying to be in good spirits; the attempt pierced his composure, and he had to work to keep smiling.
"I'm sure we'll hear the whole explanation." He pulled her close and kissed her forehead, each of her cheeks and finally her mouth, long and slow, as if they were alone. After a few moments, Irina relaxed in his arms and responded; his hands, against her back, felt the tight muscles loosen slightly. "I love you," he murmured. She simply nodded and lay her head against his shoulder. Giggling and little arms around his legs reminded him that Valentina didn't want to be left out.
Valentina thought they'd fixed everything. Jack embraced his wife and tried to pretend, at least for a moment, that they really had.
**
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