Notes From My Captivity

by Kathy Parks

  She and Viktor order shots. Dan’s still nursing his seltzer. I’m done with my beer. Their film equipment crowds the bar space. Dan has been through two expeditions with them, and yet his body language remains that of an acquaintance at best. I know the feeling. I want to record my immediate impressions of Viktor and especially Lyubov into my Dictaphone, but it seems awkward and a bit rude with them drinking right next to me. I order another beer, and Dan gives me a warning look.

  “Oh, come on,” Lyubov says. “She’s a grown-up woman.”

  “Not quite,” Dan counters. “She’s seventeen.”

  “Seventeen is the age when you see the world and it is turned inside out like a . . . like a . . .” Viktor flounders in a mud pit of English grammar and washes himself clean with a stream of effortless Russian.

  Lyubov sighs. “I would love to be seventeen again! Before I married the bastard. I wore no bra and didn’t listen to shit from anyone.”

  Dan’s not big on swearing. He looks uncomfortable. The bartender comes back with two dark shots for the crew. They look like Jägermeister but smell a bit like cleaning fluid. The odor of a pristine bathroom floor that you’re vomiting on because you just drank whatever the hell that is. Dan gives an awkward toast.

  “One more time up the mountain, folks!” he exclaims.

  What a dork.

  I clink my empty glass against the others and give Dan a look. Toasting with an empty glass will never be anything but sad. Lyubov throws back her head and downs her shot in one gulp. I watch it move in a lump down her long throat. No doubt the gears of her body now hum smoother. I’m already in love. After this journey is over, after I’ve published my article, I plan on sending it to her. I have a feeling she won’t take offense. She’ll see the humor in the whole thing, laughing about it as she wrestles bears for drinking money. I can’t wait until I can get her alone and ask her what she really thinks of all this Osinov nonsense. Is she just in it for the money, or has she seen something that keeps her believing in them?

  “Where’s Yuri?” Viktor asks playfully of Dan’s discredited source. “Is he off lying? Yuri the rebel, ha-ha! Not true! Pants on fire, right? They say in America?”

  “Maybe he’s with bigfoot,” I say helpfully, a bit affected by my beer. “I hear they are pals and try to get together in the summers.”

  The Russians find this amusing, but Dan scowls.

  “JK,” I add.

  “JK?” asks Viktor.

  “‘Just kidding.’ Just a bit of English internet shorthand.”

  “Having Yuri Androv exposed as liar is definitely a setback,” Dan says tensely, and a wet blanket made of anti-humor descends over the group. “And Sydney Declay was obviously out for blood.”

  Sydney Declay. I’ve just checked her twitter feed. #traitor.

  “But I know the family’s out there,” Dan continues. His voice has suddenly switched to the same tone as the preachers on TV who say, I know Jesus is alive because He is here in my heart. “We just didn’t go far enough north. That was our mistake. We’ll find them this time, I’m sure of it!”

  The bartender has already slid Lyubov another shot, and she makes quick work of this, then tells Dan what they really need to find is some travka.

  “Travka?” Dan asks quizzically, then speaks to them in Russian. “Ya ne znayu slovo.” I think that means, “I am a dork.”

  Lyubov rubs the tips of her fingers together. “Weed,” she says.

  This is getting interesting. I start typing into the notes app of my iPhone. Lyubov wants weed.

  Dan sets down his drink. “Weed?” Heartbreakingly, my stepfather from Colorado is momentarily confused by the term.

  “Marikhuana,” Viktor says. He mimics the gesture of taking a hit off a joint, and Dan’s eyes go flat.

  “Or mushrooms,” Lyubov chimes in. “Someone told me last week there are magic mushrooms in that forest.”

  “Imagine the colors to see!” Viktor exclaims. “Explosions! Boom! Blue! Maybe even purple! Like fireworks or Lady Gaga!!” His English reminds me of the music a cat makes while running across a piano.

  My thumbs are busy. Russians guides are partyers. Dan unamused.

  Dan looks at his watch. “Let’s head to the gate.” He pauses over the bill, trying to figure out the tip. Finally writes down a number in his strict, tiny handwriting.

  Lyubov and Viktor trail us on the way to our gate. Dan sidles up next to me, touches my arm, and murmurs in a low voice: “Lyubov seems to have gone a bit wild since her divorce, and she’s influencing Viktor. They’d drink on the expeditions, sure, they’re Russians, but they’ve never talked about drugs before.” He sounds worried.

  “It’s okay, Dan,” I tell him. “I’ve seen their film. They’re great at what they do.” I have, in fact, seen a lot of footage of their Siberian outings. The beautiful river, the stunning pine forests, the foreboding and beautiful cliffs, evidence of a crude tool at the ruins of a campsite, the sole of the shoe, the charred remains of the Linnaeus biography—everything you’d want from such a film except for what Dan’s looking for: a shot, even from far away, of the family itself.

  We pass a clothing store whose front window display features a blond, no-nonsense Russian mannequin with a leather skirt up to her thigh. Viktor throws himself against the storefront, kissing the glass.

  “I love you, beautiful lady!” Viktor moans. “Beat me up!”

  “Come here, Viktor! Save your kisses for the bears,” Lyubov calls.

  She sits next to me on the flight to Abakan. She’s reading a book intently. I glance at it. “You are kidding me,” I tell her. “You’re reading Fifty Shades of Grey?”

  “Yes, it is very— What do you say? Hot.”

  “I’ve read a few pages,” I admit. I’ve read the whole thing. I might be a studious girl who’s never had a boyfriend, but I’m not made of stone.

  “These handcuffs,” Lyubov says. “I have not tried them. I just pin them down with my knee.”

  “That works, too, I guess.” I try to imagine the man who could take on Lyubov. I picture him in a bar, proudly lifting his shirt to show off the kneecap-size bruise on his chest that proves they had sex. I can already tell Lyubov will figure heavily in my article.

  She snickers. “I’m learning some interesting American phrases.” She leans over to me and whispers, “‘My inner goddess is prostrate,’” and we burst into laughter. Dan whips his head around from the seat across the aisle. There’s kind of a haunted look on his face, like maybe we’re laughing at him. I’m sure that will come later.

  “I had to look up ‘prostrate,’” she confides. “It’s a gland in your ass.”

  “No, that’s ‘prostate.’” I have to admit parts of that book are pretty hot. And I already love Lyubov, and if she wasn’t sitting right next to me, I would whisper my girl crush into the recorder. I have a feeling this is a new Lyubov, a liberated Lyubov, because a Lyubov this fun would have never been invited back. Viktor’s fun, too. Good, good times in Russia.

  I glance at Dan. For the most part.

  We land in Abakan, where an SUV has been arranged to take us to the hotel. In the hotel bar we meet up with Sergei, the guide who is supposed to take us four hundred fifty kilometers up the river, which, given the recent flooding, is a three- or four-day journey. Sergei doesn’t look like much of a guide. He is young, and his high, sharp cheeks are clean-shaven. He could be a student or the kind of frat boy they decide should be treasurer. His muscles, though, are hard as a rock. I know because he immediately invites me to feel his bicep when I tell him he doesn’t look how I expected him to.

  “Impressive,” I say, not mentioning that Lyubov could probably break him in half and eat him on a large sandwich made with dark Russian bread.

  He shakes hands with the others. Dan has already explained that Sergei’s father was his first choice. But the man didn’t want to go a third time, said he was getting too old to go up the river. Dan starts speaking intently to Lyubov and Viktor ab
out exactly what he wants filmed for the next day. He’s so absorbed in his conversation that he doesn’t notice me ordering another beer. I don’t really want one, but I’m a reporter, after all. Reporters drink. At least the ones in movies.

  I sit on the end of the bar, next to Sergei. I ask him about his father. Sergei shakes his head. “He’s an old man, very stubborn. Doesn’t like to guide as much anymore. Likes to hunt.”

  “And you?”

  “Not so much. I like to fish. I caught a salmon this big last week.” He spreads his hands wide. It’s nice, here on the other side of the world, to have a guy try to impress you with a fishing story instead of a dick pic.

  I nod approvingly and sip at the beer, which is darker than the one at the airport. I change the subject and ask him what the beer is called.

  “Bochkarev Svetloye.”

  “Wow, that’s about as Russian-sounding as you can get.”

  “Tell me something that sounds American,” he says.

  “Taylor Swift.”

  Dan is showing the crew an old surveyor’s map and it looks quaint, like a newspaper or a lava lamp. Lyubov is already done with her drink and interrupts Dan to order another round. Sergei orders another one for me, even though I’m only halfway through my first.

  “Are you trying to get me drunk?” I ask.

  He smiles. “Maybe.”

  “I have a boyfriend.”

  “Where?”

  “In America.”

  “That is very far from here.”

  I pull out my phone. “I can text him right now.” I hope he doesn’t call me on the dare. Most boyfriends aren’t named Margot or Mom.

  “Text him, then,” Sergei says, and then stares at the bottles of vodka that line the back of the bar as though he’s bored with me. I finish my beer and then slide it away and move the second one toward me, quickly, so that when Dan looks up he’ll think I’m still on my first. The truth is, I’m dying to talk to Sergei. Someone like him will be essential to my article. He knows things about the river and its legends that the others do not. Dan says he grew up around and apprenticed under his dad, learning all his secrets. And I want his angle. I want to know if he’s a believer in the Osinovs, an agnostic, or a plain atheist, and why.

  I can’t mumble into my recorder, not while he’s sitting there, so I type: Russian guide is boyish and flirtatious, then lean in to him and say the word I’ve been hearing about for the last seven years, ever since a younger, fresher-faced Dan appeared at our dinner table one night, courting my mother with the story of the family and his fascination with its mystery.

  “Osinov.”

  Sergei’s still looking at the row of vodka bottles, but he nods.

  “Do you believe in them?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Do I believe in God? No, I’ve never seen God; yes, I think maybe He exists. Same with this family.”

  “I brought extra salt for them.” I reach into my knapsack and pull out a handful of little Morton packets. “I stole these from the school cafeteria.”

  The truth is, I brought the salt packets along because I like salt on everything. Sure, it’s a bad habit. Sure, it will make my ankles swell in old age But whatever. Gotta live now. “You’ve heard about the word on the jar, haven’t you?”

  “Of course I have. Ever since I was a boy. But there are rumors that the word was something else.”

  “And what was that?” The beer seems familiar somehow. Like I had drunk it all my life, since I was a little blond toddler stumbling through the streets.

  He leans closer.

  “Blood.”

  The word shocks me, and he smiles, evidently enjoying the effect on me.

  “Bullshit,” I say. Just on the outside of my hearing, I hear Dan continue to detail the journey. I take a gulp of beer. I’m drinking it faster now. It feels warm and makes Russia seem as familiar as my family’s basement. “If you ask me, it wasn’t blood or salt. I don’t believe in rumors and superstitions. Magic stories. I used to, but I don’t anymore.”

  “I’m just telling you what the people who live on the river say,” Sergei tells me. “Down by the farthest settlement, where they found the jar.” He shrugs. “Of course, who knows? But what if we find the family, and they are dangerous? They are murderers? Cannibals? Then what? You are going to need a strong man.”

  “Save me. I’m terrified.”

  He ignores my sarcasm. “Also, there are bears. If the Osinovs don’t get you, maybe the bears will.”

  I imagine Lyubov jumping in the air, kicking the bear in the throat, then sitting down under a tree with her copy of Fifty Shades of Grey to read about spanking.

  “You’re trying to scare me.” I’m surprised when I giggle. My head feels light. It’s fun, this flirting thing. My speech is slurred a bit. “Tell me something in Russian.”

  “You’ve heard Russian. Your stepfather speaks it fluently.”

  “I don’t mean nerd Russian.” I say this a bit too loudly, then correct myself. “I mean real Russian. From a real Russian man, like yourself.” My idol always says to find a common ground with your interview subject. I think my interview subject is cute. And he evidently thinks I am cute.

  My phone dings. It’s a text from Mom. Are you at the hotel?

  I turn it to “vibrate.” Sergei sets down his empty beer and wipes his mouth on a napkin. He takes my hand.

  “Ya khochu tebya trukhnut,” he purrs. Okay, well, I don’t know exactly what he said, but I know from the slang section of my English/Russian travel guide that one of those words isn’t so nice to say to a girl.

  Suddenly Lyubov, sitting on the other side of him, grabs him by the arm. The knuckles stand out on her hand, she’s gripping him so hard. A grimace of pain spreads over his face.

  “Zatknis,’” she snarls at him. “Ei semnadstat’ let!”

  “Ya poshutil!” he protests.

  I have no idea what they just said. Maybe Lyubov said: “Leave the girl for me! I’m divorced! I want to try a three-way!” And Sergei said, “I will join you!”

  I might be a little drunk.

  I glance over at Dan and Viktor, who seem so deep in conversation they haven’t noticed the scuffle. Finally Lyubov removes her death grip, and Sergei rubs his arm ruefully.

  “Byd’ dzhentl’menom,” she warns, then calmly signals the bartender for another shot.

  “Damn it,” Sergei mutters.

  “What happened?” I ask. “What did you say to me that made Lyubov so mad?”

  He looks annoyed and flushes red. “Never mind. I was joking. I will not joke with you anymore.”

  “Oh, come on.” I bat my eyes. “You can joke with me a little.” I’m done with my beer now. I feel my own face flush. My liver is no doubt working overtime, wondering what the hell is going on.

  Flrting wth sergee, I type into my phone. Spelling is the first to go, right before judgment, caution, and ability to apply mascara.

  Sergei’s good mood seems to have faded. He might have a bruise on that arm tomorrow. “You seem like a nice American girl, so I will tell you the truth. My father didn’t refuse the job because he thinks the whole thing is bullshit. My father is afraid. And he’s not afraid of anything.”

  “What is he afraid of?”

  “You shouldn’t be here,” he says, not quite answering me. He pushes a thumb toward Lyubov, who is now engaged in the conversation between Dan and Viktor. “Maybe she doesn’t believe I’m a gentleman, but I am, and I want you to be safe. If I told your stepfather what I know, he would not allow you to come with us. Maybe I should tell him. I do not want to be responsible if something happens to you.”

  I am not sure whether to believe him or not, about anything: whether the bear warning is true or the family is true. But even in my drunken state, I’m afraid that he’ll tell my stepfather not to take me, and I’ll be left behind at the hotel. Maybe Sergei’s kidding or just playing on my naïveté; maybe Dan would take me anyway. But I can’t afford the chance. I haven’t done
anything special in my whole life except grow up and try to say the right things and do the right things and make good grades and get into the right college.

  I want to tell this story of a professor who will go to any lengths to find his imaginary family.

  I want to make my father proud, wherever he is.

  My lids feel heavy. I sway a bit on the chair. I move closer to Sergei. He says nothing. I close the distance, kissing him on the mouth.

  “Don’t tell him,” I say.

  * * *

  Are the Osinovs monsters? Are they cannibals? Witches? Or are they simply something much more common: the wishful thinking of humans who sit in groups and dream of stories that scare and intrigue them?

  Sydney Declay

  Washington Post article

  * * *

  Four

  I wake up in my hotel room, the light all wrong for my body clock. I don’t remember much of last night, except that I kissed Sergei. What else did I do? Ah, now I remember Dan’s hand on my arm, his voice angry in my ear. “Adrienne, are you drunk?” Two beers don’t seem like a lot, but I’m not a big girl, and these beers must have had evil and magic ingredients. Toadstools, hemlock, wolfsbane. Crushed Vicodin. Here I was trying to show Dan I was old enough to go on this trip, and the first thing I do when I reach foreign soil is get wasted and make out with the guide.

  Great, Adrienne. Way to win a Pulitzer.

  My head is pounding. The room turns very slowly. I blink and concentrate until it stops, then glance at the clock.

  It’s six fifteen. We are all supposed to be packed and ready to go and down at the restaurant at six thirty. Time to jump up and take a shower in a stall that is cramped and a brick-red color that doesn’t help or hurt my hangover. The shower head comes up to my chin. The water is only warm, not hot, and smells faintly like spoiled wine.

  I throw up in my first Russian shower. Maybe easy on the beer from now on, I think, on my hands and knees. I’ve never really been big on beer or any other liquor, considering what it took away from me. So why start now? I’ll be more careful.