Nik

Untitled, 1950’s, Hans W. Silvester. Swiss, born in 1938.

I didn't have anything I wanted to post for Throwback Thursday, and then this photo popped up on my Pinterest feed, and I was arrested. Every inch of this photo screams "Nikita" to me. From the dark, tousled hair, to that bit of his expression we can see; the hand to his mouth; the emotion, the misery, the inner conflict; the heavy dark coat, as much costume as it is warming comfort; down to the cigarette held beneath the table, the vice that never calms him, but which he can't kick out of vain hope that one day it will. It could only be more perfect if it was a tumbler of vodka, rather than a pint of beer, sitting in front of him. 

The caption says it was taken in the fifties, and in canon, Nik and Sasha were living in LA in the fifties. Nikita was working for a gangster, and pining, and brooding, and all the charms of palm trees and warm nights and raucous clubs were lost on him. He belonged somewhere cold. Somewhere where the outer landscape reflected his inner landscape. 

On New Year's Day, 2017, I dragged my pneumonia-ridden self to my desk chair, and I wrote a scene about a man in a blood-splashed black coat striding down the halls of the Kremlin. I've written dozens of characters, and I'll write dozens more, but Nik was special from the first. I knew him, from the first sentence. I knew all his deepest fears, and his darkest secrets. I'm not the most patient of writers, so it's been an exercise in extreme patience taking him from that moment, to the hard-earned moments we see in Golden Eagle. I'm so happy for him. So proud of him. 

I can't wait to share the next chapter of his journey with you all in a few weeks.