Notes from My Captivity(10)

“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 na?veté; 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.





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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



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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.