Operation White Birch – Part 1
My first novel, or novella, or long short story. Definitely not a memoir
Hiya, old and new, equally appreciated subscribers! Speaking of whom, since last December, every time I post a new article, I lose between 2 and 6 subscribers at a time. Apparently, it's a normal drop. The number goes up again in the following days and, even more baffling, people subscribe the less I engage.
A plausible explanation for this fascinating phenomenon can be found in this very funny article:
Anyhoo, here I am again, undeterred and determined to entertain you – whether you like it or not – with my first literary Magnum Opus, something I started to write in November 2020, during the second or third lockdown. There wasn't much work to do, it was too cold outside in order to take advantage of the Dutch government's benevolent advice to go out twice a day for about an hour, for groceries and/or exercise, and I had yet to discover the joy of either Substack or Netflix. In the words of the poet Mallarmé, “La chair est triste, hélas ! et j'ai lu tous les livres” (The flesh is sad, alas! and all the books are read). I was hanging out on a web forum for translators, when a colleague challenged me to write something in English. He was writing hilarious James Bond parodies, so I thought I'd go with Austin Powers for inspiration. Lo and behold, I came up with this mouthful of a title – My Brief Stint as an International Woman of Mystery, and wrote 3 small chapters. Then, little by little, the ‘new normal’ gave way to the old normal, and I left my spy story-cum-Bildungsroman to focus on work, and my Japanese language course.
Now I have this newsletter to write, and if anything could motivate me to complete that story, it's you, my cherished audience, we few, we happy few, we band of brothers (and sisters, obvs!). I hereby make a solemn pledge to myself, and especially to you, to write and publish a new chapter at least once a month. I had to change the title to something snappier, and thought of a catchy one, like the label’s caption in the image below, but it rang somewhat familiar, 😉 so I'm going with Operation White Birch.
Here's the first chapter, but it may well become the second or the third one, while this work is in progress. It is a work of fiction, and I rely on my imagination to describe some of the places and institutions in it, which I know zilch, or very little, about. Whether or not you suspend your disbelief, it depends entirely on me, so wish me luck!
Last but not least: this short, incredibly modern-sounding piece of music, composed probably in the first part of the 18th century, is the best introduction I could wish to my story. I hope you enjoy them!
Chapter 1:
Moscow, second half of the Eighties. I had been summoned by my instructor down KGB Lubyanka HQ, after I had more or less successfully completed my training as a ... well, you know what.
I was told Lieutenant Colonel Ivan Baranov was waiting for me the next day, for a drink and a chat, as a traditional send-off for graduates. It was a huge honour, they said, dress appropriately. In my uniform?, I asked. Mmh, no, not really, something more casual, relaxed, that shows a bit of leg, or a bit of cleavage. Actually, showing both would be better.
Tsk tsk, I thought, men! They can't get their pretty little heads around the basic concepts of Chic and Elegance. You cannot show both at the same time, it's fashion sense 101! And why should I show them, anyway? Well, you're the boss, and if I've ever learned something here, it is not to question what the boss says.
I decided to go for a cheeky bit of cleavage. The fact is that – being as short as I am – showing a bit of leg means showing the whole of it, and that would be an overkill. Be subtle, babe, stay classy, I said to myself, studying the overall effect reflected in the mirror.
Wasn't I half surprised when, instead of being greeted by Lt. Col. Baranov in his grand office, I was ushered in what was known as The Alcove, a small room with no particularly interesting architectural features, except for a queen size bed, two chairs, a small table with a samovar on it, two fine bone china cups with matching teapot, and a mahogany tea caddy.
We had become aware of the Alcove existence thanks to our teacher of English Languages & Vernaculars, the poshest toff you could ever imagine, called simply The Brit. We didn't know much about him, except that he'd probably found himself in Moscow with Kim Philby, had a fondness for strong alcoholic beverages and Motown songs.
One afternoon, following a long liquid lunch, The Brit told us that he'd heard it through the grapevine that the HQ recesses hid a room where you could go, whenever you got that feeling and you needed sexual healing. It's a truth universally acknowledged that a day spent torturing and terrorising a whole nation, plus its satellites, puts you in a romantic, naughty mood.
I was quite naive as a young woman, and it took me five long minutes to understand that I was there in order to faire cattleya with Baranov, a huge, handsome man with a cunning smile.
He offered me a drink from his bottle of lukewarm Shampanskoye, which I halfheartedly sipped, then sat on the bed: "Shall we?", he invited me.
And I faced what I had to face.
After a long, vigorous and not entirely unsatisfactory session of rough Russian rogering, he spoke. "Well hun, (he actually said golubushka– little dove – a common term of endearment), you're young, pink and perky enough to appeal to a certain kind of discerning gentleman, but with that pug-ugly mug of yours, you're not exactly honey trap material, are you?"
"Why, thank you arse... sir, I mean, spassibo, comrade Lieutenant Colonel!"
"Hear me out, kiddo: comrade ‘The Brit’ tells me you're good at languages, so we're going to exploit your linguistic skills and flair, your literary prowess, whatever that son of an Albion bitch means! Now make us a brew, treacle, there's a good girl. And don't get dressed just yet, I might be up for a second round, after I'll drink up my cuppa."
Thanks for reading! If you liked this post, you can share it, leave a comment, or buy me a tea. I'd be very grateful to you, I'd appreciate it more than I can express!
Read Part 2:
and Part 3:
These are gems! “It's a truth universally acknowledged that a day spent torturing and terrorising a whole nation, plus its satellites, puts you in a romantic, naughty mood.” And so funny, “showing a bit of leg means showing the whole of it, and that would be an overkill.”
Okay, I am looking forward to the next month’s installment!