Notes from My Captivity(12)

Viktor’s driving. We race down the highway. The words on the signs are so strange. The letters are in unfamiliar shapes, turned the wrong way. There’s some kind of Russian ska music on the radio that Viktor turns way up. I can tell it annoys Dan, and it pounds against my hangover, but Sergei sings along in Russian and the crew joins in.

We pass miles and miles of wet green fields bordered by fence line. Here and there, groups of cattle graze. It could be a rainy day on the plains of Colorado, except for the unfamiliar signs. I’m a bit disappointed by how ordinary it looks. But I’ve seen the films. I know that once we get into Siberia, everything will change. I can’t wait to see the forests, the ghostly bluffs. Ride that seemingly endless river. I want things to be foreign, exotic. I want to lose my bearings. I want to be shaken out of something, what I don’t know.

I turn on my phone and immediately it begins to vibrate with texts. One from my mother: Are you okay?

Yes! We’re headed to Siberia! I answer. Everything is great. Don’t rent out my room.

Margo: Did you make it?

Yes! Leaving cell reception shortly. I’ll bring you back a human skull.

Sergei has heard the pings. He glances at me.

“All from your boyfriend?” he asks.

“Yes, he is already desperate without me. He might even commit suicide.”

Sergei laughs. “Any man who would kill himself over a woman is no man at all.”

“I think it’s sweet.”

Another text from Margot. A group of zombies photoshopped on top of a mountain. She’s thoughtfully put them all in Uggs.

“How many men have you destroyed?” Sergei asks me.

“Thirteen,” I reply. “Except for one who could not kill himself because he was a vampire. His name was Edward.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

The bars on my phone have dwindled down to one. I make the call and listen.

You’ve reached William Cahill. Please leave your message at the sound of the beep.

My throat closes up. My eyes water. He actually sounds closer, here on the other side of the world. He’s the one who once called me his “little reporter” because of my habit of asking questions about everything. Now that my phone’s about to go out, his voice will be lost for eight days, and somehow that’s worse than my mom’s voice being unavailable for the same length of time. I put my phone away, then take out my camera and shoot some photos through the passenger window. If I’m to document this trip, not the trip Dan is taking but the trip that will get me into Emerson College, I need some kind of context. The story before the story starts. Wet fields before treacherous river. Grazing cattle before menacing bears. A paved road before a spooky, atmospheric path in the forest. I’m not sure where it will all fit into the final article, but Sydney Declay said this: “Document everything. Listen and look. You never know when the story comes alive.”

The ska music station, mercifully, has also faded away, and Sergei twists the dials until he lands on a clear song, which happens to be “Ruby Tuesday” by the Stones. Sergei and the crew immediately begin singing along. To my surprise, Dan joins them. I stare at him. I’ve never heard him sing, let alone a cool, classic rock song. “Ruby Tuesday” was my dad’s favorite song, and though I can’t expect the group in the car to know this, I honor him by my silence.

Goodbye, Ruby Tuesday

Who could hang a name on you?

There’s a truck up ahead pulled to the side of the road. A man changes the rear tire. A black bird sits on a post, flying off as we pass, and I turn and watch Dan sing. I’m kind of surprised he knows the words, but he does. It’s the closest I’ve seen him to really being part of the group, and I feel a sudden pang for him. There’s something so awkward about him, and I wonder if that’s why he’s so obsessed with the Osinovs. They are the ultimate outsiders.

The song ends and “Gimme Shelter” comes on, and I join in on this one, until the next song comes on, which nobody knows. Viktor turns off the radio, and he and Lyubov and my stepdad start talking about how far they’re going to get upriver today. It gives me a chance to talk to Sergei. There’s something on my mind.

“Can I ask you something?”

“About my first time to make love?”

“Yes, that’s exactly the question I was going to ask. No, I’m kidding. I wanted to ask you about your father.”

“What about him?”

I keep my voice low. “You said he was afraid.”

“Yes.”

“Of what?”

Sergei doesn’t smile. “If I tell you, you have to promise not to laugh. Because it’s not funny.”

“I promise.”

“Well, on the last trip with your father, the weather turned bad, remember? Cold, rains came. My father woke up in his tent. A little girl was sitting there. She said to my father, ‘Leave and never come back, or you will all die.’”

“Little girl?” I ask. I have a sudden flash of Dan leaning on the wheel. There was a little girl standing in the road. “Who was she?” I ask Sergei.

He shakes his head. “I don’t know. My father said he blinked and she disappeared.”

Finally we reach the little village that borders the river. I’ve been feeling uneasy ever since Sergei told me the story of his father and the little girl. Not that I believe it—it’s probably bullshit—but nevertheless it has stayed on my mind. It’s kind of like when you watch a horror movie. You know it’s not real, but it still creeps you out a little. The sight of the river, calm and blue, makes me feel less anxious. Maybe Sergei’s just messing with me. He seems like that type.