Notes from My Captivity(14)

I am the one closest to Sergei, so I riddle him with questions.

“What else have you heard about the Osinovs?”

“What kind of fish are in the river?”

“That bird? What is that?”

I ask about the flowers growing from the edge of the forest in beautiful pink clumps. “They are called zontiki,” he says authoritatively.

Lyubov laughs and tells me, “He’s lying. Zontiki means umbrellas.”

“Don’t tell her,” Sergei warns her. “Or she will not be impressed with me.”

“Oh, I am impressed with you.” I pipe down until we pass a larch forest where the trees don’t grow straight but sway together crazily. “What’s that?”

Sergei follows my pointing finger. “That’s a drunken forest.”

“A drunken forest?” I snap some photos.

With one hand, Sergei guides the tiller. With his other he gestures. “The ground was hard, and the roots grew shallow. Now the ground is melting, and the roots have nothing to hang on to. So the trees fall.”

“What will happen to them?”

He shrugs. “The same that will happen to us all, one day.”

“Global warming,” I say.

“Yes, global warming,” he says. “Siberia is part of the globe, and the globe is melting, yes.”

“Are you worried?”

His eyes are heavy lidded, his lips closed. His gaze scans the shore, then the water ahead.

“I have other things to worry about.”





* * *



Yes, it invites skepticism and outright disbelief: How could a family keep themselves alive in winters that plunge to -30 degrees Fahrenheit?

How could they eat, farm, clothe themselves?

How could they navigate a wild river, with a small child, in a dugout canoe to begin with?

And yet, I am convinced that this family not only made it to this remote wilderness in Northern Siberia. I believe that their relatives are telling the truth when they describe the route the parents took up the river. I believe that the artifacts we uncovered— tools, rotted shoes, belts, and dishes—belonged to the Osinovs.

And I believe Yuri Androv.

Dr. Daniel Westin

New York Times article



* * *





Five


Lyubov and Viktor set up to do some filming of my stepfather. Viktor wipes the lens. Dan speaks into the camera. He’s got his professor’s hat on, so his gestures are more contained, his voice less excitable.

“This is our third river trip in eight years on the trail of the Osinovs. We plan to go farther into Siberia than we ever have before. We know that they can’t live far from the river or its tributaries, as it would be difficult to have to hike to a water source every day for their vital needs. . . .”

I am trying to get down as many details about the magical landscape as I can to add color to my article. Gray and towering cliffs. The trees are enormous, reaching the sky, where their spreading foliage darkens my face. An eagle soars out of the clouds and swoops down low above us. I speak softly into my recorder: This place is like the Boulder mountains on steroids. Even in the summer, there’s a certain ominous— “Adrienne!” Dan’s voice cuts through me, and I look over, startled. The crew has stopped filming. Dan looks impatient. “Adrienne, can you please not speak when I am speaking? We’re trying to film a documentary here.”

“Sorry,” I say, embarrassed. I put away my recorder. Sergei shoots me a glance, puts a finger to his lips, and smiles.

“Oh, shut up.” I hit him in the arm.

Dan begins again. “The river is stronger this time. The currents more unpredictable. It amazes me, every time I travel this river, to think of the Osinovs negotiating it up here, so long ago, in what their cousin has claimed was a dugout canoe. Of course, that was thirty years ago, and a river changes over time. . . .”

I gaze out into the trees. Dan is so boring. I thought he was going to mention the good stuff: how rumors have circulated that the Osinovs are cannibals, sorcerers, murderers. My article needs some danger. A little atmosphere and tension so I can get the reader to actually think maybe the family exists before, like Dan, they find it was all an illusion.

“Sergei.” I say his name softly, so that I won’t disturb Dan’s fascinating commentary. “Did you ever hear of anyone eaten by bears out here?”

“Of course,” Sergei says. “Bears eat meat, and humans are meat.”

“Stop coming on to me and answer the question.”

He looks at me quizzically.

“That was a joke,” I say.

“Ah.”

“The bears,” I prompt, holding out my Dictaphone.

“Yes. Well, there was a moose hunter from the settlement of Qualiq whose wife ran away with another man. He said he no longer wanted to live. He was going to offer himself to the bears. He walked into the forest and never came out again. They found only his shoes with his feet still in them.”

“That showed her,” I said.

“Bears are no laughing matter. They are terrifying.”

“I saw a black bear once. I was camping with my father.”

At the word father, Sergei glances at Dan.

“No,” I say. “My real father.”