by Kathy Parks
After some final, tearful instructions, Mom takes off and we breathe a sigh of relief.
“I’m glad that’s over with,” Dan mutters. “For a minute there I thought she wasn’t going to let you go.”
“Thanks for helping me calm her down,” I reply, trying to keep the guilt out of my voice. He wouldn’t have been so eager to help me if he’d known the working title of the article I’m writing: “Wild-Goose Chase.” Intriguing subtitle: “Crazy stepdad drags long-suffering girl into the Siberian wilderness in pursuit of the legendary hermit family.” What journalism program could resist me?
Speaking of journalism . . .
“What did the little girl look like?” I ask.
“Little girl?”
“You know. The one in the road.”
He shrugs. “It happened so fast. Maybe it was, I don’t know . . .” He searches for the words, two fingers of his right hand spinning as though turning the wheel of his brain. “I barely slept last night, and the malaria pills gave me nightmares.”
“Makes sense,” I say. Dan does have a habit of believing in things that aren’t there. He takes off for the ticket counter, and I hurry to catch up with him. I checked in this morning on my phone, but Dan is back in the twentieth century when paper tickets were all you used. I stand in line behind him as he fumbles for his itinerary. He’s rising on his toes again. Kind of a perilous habit when you’re wearing Birkenstocks. I’m hoping he doesn’t topple over. I’m excited too, because I really feel that this last doomed trip of his obsessive quest will make a good story. Maybe even a great story. Maybe even a story featured in the New York Times.
Sydney Declay once said: “A great reporter can really feel a story in the air, know it before they even meet it. It’s this intuitive response to what will be fantastic on the written page that distinguishes the pros from the amateurs.”
And I’m going to be one of the pros.
My phone buzzes. It’s a text from my best friend, Margot. Good luck finding that family. I’ve located the daddy. A picture of bigfoot appears on-screen. My thumb, which holds much of my sarcasm, locates a photo of Jim Morrison on the internet. Not the early Jim Morrison but the late version, hairy and bearded and wild-looking. I text Margot back.
No, this is the daddy. He was last seen doing heroin in Paris.
Just before we get on the plane, I make one more phone call.
“You’ve reached William Cahill,” the voice says. “Please leave your message at the sound of the beep.” I loved the way my father said his own name. He used to take me to his law offices when I was a little girl and he’d answer the phone: William Cahill. So authoritative and calm. My mother got rid of his clothes and his books after he died, but she let me keep his phone, paid the fee every month to keep it going even though money was tight. I’ve got to give her that.
This is my first trip ever out of the US. My first trip out of Boulder. My father would have been the first to cheer me on.
Dan glances at me. “Who was that?” he asks.
I click my phone off.
“No one.”
Ten hours later, our Boeing 747 still has a way to go before we land in Moscow. From there we will fly to Abakan and then drive to a tiny settlement, pile into a boat, and travel up the river into remote Siberia. We’re meeting the crew in Moscow. There are two of them. A man and a woman, both Russians. Dan has gone to Siberia twice before with them. I’ve heard all about this crack crew: Lyubov and Viktor. How smart and dedicated and knowledgeable they are, and how close they all thought they’d come the last expedition, until bad weather had slowed them down and their supplies had dwindled and they’d had to return. Lyubov, the woman, especially intrigues me. She sounds completely badass. I wonder if she and Viktor really believe in the quest or if they’re just doing it for money or adventure. I figure I’ll have plenty of time to ask them.
Dan thoughtfully got us seats side by side, so I can’t use my trusty digital recorder. I’ve spent the last hours studying my English-Russian travel guide. I’ve been learning words and phrases the past couple of months and can now ask, “How much for salted herring?” or say, “I think I missed the bus.” Essential communication in the Siberian wilderness. And if I am kidnapped by the Osinovs, I can say: “Please don’t eat me. I am from Boulder and my flesh is inferior.” Well, not that eloquently, but I can get the point across.
I close the travel guide, tired of learning, and look out the window. The cloud bank stretches out below us; pure blue sky is all I see above it. It’s June, but up here, it’s nothing. No time, no seasons. I suppose Sydney Declay would be already writing her article, and so wearily I open my laptop. “Even before I enter a foreign environment, I begin to put words on a page,” Sydney once wrote. “Thoughts, feelings, bursts of conversation around me. Although I have no idea how an article will shape itself, I know that a story is like a tourist in a foreign land. Every bit of direction that you can give it is appreciated.”
Since there are not a lot of newsworthy events here on the plane—NEWSBREAK: the baby in the seat behind us just let out a screech that I feel up and down my spine—I start typing my thoughts.
Those crazy Osinovs. Peaceful hunter-gatherers? Cannibals? Sorcerers? Fairy tale? Depends on who you ask. Five years ago, the family supposedly kidnapped Yuri Androv, a reporter from Kiev, Dan’s most trusted source, and according to Sydney Declay, a liar and a drunk. The story he told seemed to confirm all the pieces my stepfather had put together—that somehow this young, extremely religious married couple had fled Moscow thirty years before, had journeyed up the Erinat River, and had a family of their own—one that grew up with no known contact with any civilization. Dan’s breathless recounting of Yuri’s wild tale seemed hyperbolic even to me—a mere tween at the time I read it. But the colorful Russian’s account of the ordeal was so detailed, so passionate, that I could understand how someone as dedicated to the story as my stepfather could believe it—minus the kidnapping theatrics. But what I don’t understand is, after what Sydney Declay dug up, why does Dan still believe it today?
It’s time for a little investigative journalism. I pause, close the laptop, glance at Dan, who is busily going over some notes, making little scribbles in the margins.
“What are you doing?” I ask him.
He puts down his pen. “Just checking a few things. Want to make sure I get the crew up to speed first thing. Lots of moving parts on this trip. The weather should be good, but you never know. You’ll like them, Adrienne, those two. And I couldn’t get the guide I wanted this time, but I got the next best thing, his son. He’s supposed to be great!”
There it is, the patter of Dan’s speech getting faster. He’s supercharged, so confident. I don’t want to kill his good mood so that he clams up, so I’m very careful when I introduce the subject.
“I can’t wait to meet Lyubov,” I begin. “She must be so interesting.”
“She is! Just got divorced over the spring. I never met the husband, but I can’t imagine anyone wanting to divorce such a fascinating person.” His fingers are spread out, jabbing at the air, underscoring how dumb the ex-husband must have been.
“So Yuri Androv’s invitation must have gotten lost in the mail.”
A look of annoyance crosses Dan’s face. His fingers fold up and drop into his lap. “What invitation?” he asks.
“You know, to go on the trip. Didn’t he go on the last trip?”
Dan seems to deflate a little. “Yes, he did,” he says guardedly. “But I haven’t been in touch with him since . . .”
“Sydney Declay’s article came out?” I ask. Despite Dan’s apparent enthusiasm to discuss all things Osinov, he has never discussed the article with me. His eyebrows go up.
“You read the article?” he asks.
Of course I did. About fifty times. “Yeah,” I say.
He’s silent for a moment. He rips open a tiny bag of pretzels. “What did you think?” he asks, and then dives in with his own opinion before
I can even answer. “It was a total hatchet job. She came into it with an agenda and it was evident in every sentence. She’s always promoted herself on the backs of dedicated researchers. Just remember, Adrienne”—he shakes the pretzel at me like a lecture ruler—“being a skeptic is easy. It’s belief that’s hard, and her article did nothing to shake my belief in that family.”
“But what about the part where Yuri made up that other story out of thin air?”
Dan bites the pretzel, chews, and swallows before he answers. “The one where he took enemy fire with a group of Chechen rebels?”
“Right. She proved he was in Kiev at the time.”
He shrugs. “So, yes, he can tell a tall tale. I don’t believe every single story he slung at me while getting drunk on vodka. The man thinks he’s bigger than life. That doesn’t mean he lied about the Osinovs.”
“No, but I can understand that if you find out someone lied about one thing, it’s harder to believe them from then on. He’s lost credibility. My dad used to talk about that a lot when he’d put a witness on the stand.”
Dan crumples the pretzel bag and stuffs it in the seat pocket in front of him. Maybe I shouldn’t have brought my dad up and how awesome he was. “I still believe Yuri,” he says, a bit defensively. “There are too many things that match the accounts of Grigoriy Osinov’s cousin in Moscow. Physical descriptions, items that were missing from the original apartment, books and tools . . .”
“She explains how Yuri could have faked all that by tracking down original source material.”
“I know, but the campsite I found, the shoe, the book for God’s sake . . .”
“But that book—”
He cuts me off with a look as frozen as the tundra. I’ve gone too far and I know it. Because the most damning thing Sydney Declay wrote in her article was her theory that my stepfather, desperate to hold on to his academic credibility, had planted that charred book in the old campsite.
That was the shot heard round the world. An attack not only on Dan’s theories but his character, as well.
I should have been outraged on his behalf. But I have to admit, I couldn’t say for sure that he hadn’t faked the evidence he claimed to find. He seemed like a generally honest guy. But he’d been so obsessed with the Osinovs, so increasingly desperate for others to believe what he did—was it possible?
Dan has stopped talking to me. His knuckles stand out as he scribbles in the margins of his notebook. His annoyance, at me or the situation, has made his handwriting a little wilder so I can’t really read it. Probably: stepdaughter, traitor.
“Hey, Dan,” I say placatingly. “I’m a reporter. I have to look at things from all angles.”
He doesn’t answer me. I think he’s gone radio silent, which is rare from Dan. But suddenly he drops his pen, pipes up again. “Wait and see. I’m this close”—he moves his thumb and forefinger an inch apart—“to finding their live campsite. And when I do, I’m not only going to write another article for the New York Times, I’m gonna write a book about it. It’s going to be called: Hiding in Siberia: The Story of the Osinovs. And I’m going to sell the film as a documentary to the Discovery Channel. Won’t that be remarkable?”
The religious tone is back in his voice.
“Remarkable,” I say, trying to keep my own voice sincere.
Hiding in Siberia. “Wild-Goose Chase.” Our expectations, outcomes, plans, and articles are completely at odds with one another. If my dad had believed in this family, if he was taking me to Russia, I would have been all in. I had faith back then. Faith in him, faith in magic. Faith in everything. All that went away the night he died.
“You’re going to be proud of your dad,” Dan suddenly declares.
I’m momentarily confused. Then I realize he’s talking about himself.
I fold my arms. Stepdad, I think.
Finally we land in Moscow. The plane bumps hard. A startled gasp from the passengers as we feel a lighter bump and then the smooth runway. The passengers applaud.
I turn on my phone, wait for the connection, and text my mother.
Alive so far.
* * *
Relatives of the Osinovs—of whom there are many, although few are inclined to speak of them—are divided on the subject of whether Grigoriy Osinov was truly a victim of persecution or only imagined he was before he fled with his wife and infant son up the Erinat River in a dugout canoe. Rumors among hunters and fishermen persisted for years, of sightings of not just the Osinov family but of several more children. One local man claimed to have, but could not produce, the jar that, fifteen years ago, was supposedly discovered floating in the river. The label on the jar was a brand of sauerkraut that was discontinued in 1992. In the jar was a single piece of birch bark. And on that birch bark, one word had been scratched. Salt.
Dr. Daniel Westin
New York Times article
* * *
Three
We’re in the airport in Moscow, sitting in a bar waiting for the crew to get in and meet us. I’m a little disappointed so far. My surroundings remind me of Denver: big shiny corridors, stores everywhere, girls dressed like supermodels. Gate numbers and store names are written in English and Russian. Even what looks like Burger King is helpfully translated into something I could never hope to pronounce.
Dan’s talking to me again in his patter: They should be here any minute, look for a young guy with dark hair, was kind of longish last time but maybe he’s cut it, and Lyubov has shoulders like a pro wrestler, she’s an extreme skier too, did I tell you that? I’ve decided to shut my yapper about Yuri, for the next little while and possibly for the remainder of my trip. At least with Dan. I can always hit up one of the crew and see what they think.
The bartender comes over. He’s big, with a black, thick beard, and looks like the kind of Russian man I’d expect to see. Dan orders, in fluent Russian, something that I know must be nonalcoholic, because Dan doesn’t drink. I don’t drink much either, but I’ve decided that I need to stretch my comfort zone, and after quickly perusing the menu, I order French fries and one of the Russian beers on tap. I order in part English, part Russian, with just a touch of millennial slang. Hardly the universal language, but the bartender seems to make sense of it all. He takes out a glass and starts drawing a light brew from the tap.
Dan raises an eyebrow at me. “Beer?” he asks. “Since when do you drink beer, Adrienne?”
“I drink beer from time to time,” I fire back. “I’m an adult.”
“You’re seventeen.”
“Almost eighteen. Come on, Dan, I’m a reporter. I need a beer and a cool hat.”
“That’s not what makes a good reporter.” He taps his head. “Keeping your wits makes you a good reporter.”
“Sure, Dan,” I say. The bartender comes over with our drinks. I take a sip. It tastes warm and mysterious. The froth sticks to my upper lip. I dab it off with a napkin while Dan nurses a seltzer water with a single lime.
He looks at his watch. “Where are they?” he asks to no one in particular.
“Jeez, Dan, they’re five minutes late.” He gives me the eye. Dan’s obsessions with time and schedules are just another reason he’s the life of any party, even a Russian one.
I look around and drink my beer. No one looks remotely interesting. There’s a tired-looking young couple—American or otherwise, I don’t know—and an old man in a business suit muttering something in French into a cell phone.
“Did you text your mother?” Dan reminds me.
“Right when we landed.”
“Easy on that beer.”
“I’m fine.” Jeez, the man is a nag. If he ever did run into the Osinovs, he’d probably harp on them for not getting in touch with him in all these years, and they’d rue the day they were ever discovered.
The beer is unusual and easy to drink. I’m already halfway through when Lyubov and Viktor arrive a few minutes later. Dan lets out a long, relieved breath and stands to greet them.
; Lyubov, what a woman. Looks about midtwenties; dark red hair; almost black eyes; bushy, untamed brows; and a body to kill for. Or to run from, depending. She’s got on a tight sweater and I can see the bulge of her biceps. Her jutting boobs look firm enough to hypnotize any man, even one who’s been hiding in the woods for thirty years. She could crush me with a hug. Her handshake is a vise. I wonder if she threw discus as a child and pushed around baby oxen in an enormous doll carriage.
Viktor looks more typical. Young guy, scruffy beard, playful eyes, an earring through one lobe, and hair that reaches his shoulders. The Russian equivalent of Bob Dylan must play on his iPod, which sticks out of the front pocket of his faded jeans.
Dan makes the introductions. “This is Adrienne, my daughter,” he says proudly.
“Stepdaughter,” I say before I can help myself.
Dan doesn’t miss a beat, though. He’s up on his toes. “She’s the one who wants to be a reporter!” he exclaims, sweeping a hand toward me. If Dan only knew my real mission, he wouldn’t have shared his frequent flier miles so readily.
“Great!” Lyubov enthuses. “I am so tired of the men.”
“Well, now there’s one man you don’t have to put up with anymore,” Viktor says with brotherly affection.
“Your husband?” I ask her.
“Ex-husband,” she answers. “He is no more. I— How do you say it in English? Ditched him.”
“Sometimes we also say ‘punted.’” I shoot my foot out like I’m kicking a football.
“I should have punted him in the ass,” she says. “Always telling me what to do. Lyubov, do this. Lyubov, do that. Now I am free, and I can do what I want.”
“Bastard man,” Viktor enthuses. “Did not like him.” He grabs my shoulder and shakes it. “So happy you are hopping here from the world outside; we are deep-woods friends soon!” Viktor has a degree in English from WTF University. I like him immediately.