Notes from My Captivity(11)

Everyone is eating when I arrive. The crew stops talking when they see me. Sergei plays it cool. My stepfather looks furious. I’m guessing from his expression that he knows I had too much to drink last night, but I wonder if he knows I kissed his guide.

“You’re late” is the first thing he tells me.

I slide into my seat. “Sorry,” I mumble.

Dan signals the waitress over. “She’ll have scrambled eggs and toast,” he says in a tight voice. “And please give me the check.”

She pours coffee in my cup and takes off. The others at the table sense the drama and quiet down. I don’t usually drink coffee, but I’ll try anything. I pour in some cream and sugar and stir.

Dan gets up suddenly. “Come here,” he says, gesturing to me, and takes me to a corner of the room. I’ve seen him mad only a few times, and this is one of them. “You want to be a serious journalist,” he begins.

I nod miserably. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the group at the table looking over at me, and I feel my face flush.

His hand is angry, chopping the air. “You wouldn’t believe how many strings I had to pull to get you on this trip. With your mother, with everyone.”

“I know.”

“You were drunk last night, and all over the Russian.”

“I’m sorry.”

I notice he hasn’t shaved. Dan always shaves. There’s an edge to his voice that I haven’t heard before, and I remember how much this trip means to him. I throw a glance at him. He’s staring back at me. I quickly look away. “It’s just that I’m not used to Russian beer. I just had two beers, Dan.”

“You shouldn’t be drinking at all.”

“I’m sorry,” I say again. And then, “I know you worked really hard to get me here.”

His expression softens. A little bit of permafrost leaves his face. “Just stay out of trouble. Can you do that?”

“Yes.”

I go back to the table and eat fast, my head throbbing dully from the hangover, avoiding Sergei’s eyes. Then it’s time to pack up the gear. Sergei’s rented an SUV and has a friend meet us at the hotel with an old truck to haul the rest of our gear. Dan estimates our river trip will take about two weeks: four days by boat to the remote area where the Osinovs might live, a week to explore and film, four days back.

We all get to work putting gear and supplies in little piles and go through the inventory to make sure everything is accounted for. Beef Stroganoff, vegetable stew, scrambled eggs, spaghetti, salami, cheese, green peas, canned salmon and beef, and rice. All in foil packages. I actually like eating camping food. It reminds me of all the nights my father and I spent in the mountains around Boulder.

I’m thinking of him now as we pack. We used to do this before our camping trips in the mountains. Mom didn’t like to go. Camping was ours alone. I hadn’t camped a single time after he died.

Until now.

We have a Coleman stove, Gore-Tex rain slickers, compressor jackets, hip boots, mountaineering boots, purifiers, insulated socks, hand warmers, plastic fuel canisters for the boat, sun hats, glacier glasses, strike-anywhere matches dipped in wax. . . . The list goes on and on. Also: machetes to hack through the forest and God knows what else. A chainsaw for the fallen trees that, according to Sergei, are sure to block our passage through the river.

We have bear spray. Sergei has a rifle. It signals that this trip really could be dangerous, which gives me a small shiver. And yet, it will be good for the article.

“Can I take a photo of you and your rifle?” I ask.

“Of course.” Sergei immediately strikes a pose, getting on one knee with the rifle over his head.

“Maybe one where you don’t look ridiculous,” I add crossly. “Just stand up and hold the damn thing.”

He gets up, shrugs, and cradles the rifle in his arms. I snap away with my Nikon, crouching and shooting up so that both Sergei and his weapon seem larger, more intimidating.

We also have video and still cameras, recording equipment, and two satellite phones. And, of course, my trusty language guide in case I need to speak Russian.

Hello, how are you?

I’m an American.

Your country is very beautiful.

Are you monsters?

Please don’t kill me.

May I offer you some salt, or blood?

I shiver despite the fleece I’m wearing as we head outside. A June morning is still cold in Siberia. Sergei reports it’s been raining off and on for the past month. The river will be up. A little more dangerous. Dan takes in this information, glances at me, and looks away. I know he’s worried and having second thoughts about bringing me.

“I’m a good swimmer,” I say. “And I’ve got a life jacket.”

“The river is nine degrees below zero Celsius,” Sergei says with a sneer that manages, at the same time, to be flirtatious. “You would freeze to death in the river in ten minutes.”

I use my Nikon to take some pictures of the passing cars, the green pastures in the distance, the wet roads, the reeds in the ditches, then the sky, at the blanket of dark clouds that looms overhead, sprinkling icy rain. There is no trace of sun. My lips are cold.

I take the very back seat in the SUV, and Dan piles in next to me, probably to keep any other male from taking that position. I curse myself for invoking his protective instincts when I should have lain low. But hey, it was my first night in Russia, and I was drunk. What’s a girl to do?