Notes from My Captivity(17)

“What do you think of the Osinovs?”

He laughs. “Think? I don’t know, nice family?”

“No, I mean, do you believe in them?”

“Believe? No, I mean yes. Maybe. I don’t know. You see? How do you say it? It is not my job to believe. Dan doesn’t say, ‘Viktor you believe. Here is more money.’ Or ‘Viktor you don’t believe. You’re fired.’ My job lives in here. . . .” He taps his camera. “It does not live in here.” He taps his head. “That is not my job’s address. You see?”

“Right,” I say. Trying to talk to Viktor is giving me a migraine, so I move on.

Lyubov has her tent up before I can get mine unpacked. She’s pounding in a stake with a rock when I approach her.

“Is there nothing you can’t do?” I ask her.

She pauses, ponders this. “I can’t dance worth a shit,” she says.

“I don’t think it’s that important out here. Unless the Osinovs communicate only through the art of dance.”

She laughs. “You’re funny.”

“Thanks. I’ve been trying out my humor all day on Sergei.”

She scowls. “You be careful with him.”

“Why?” I ask.

“You know why. He’s thinks a lot of himself. And he’s a stranger to you. You’re still very young.”

“I can take care of myself,” I assure her.

“This is Siberia. Be more careful of everything than you think you should be.” She finishes pounding the stake and grabs another one, moving toward the next corner of the tent. I crouch down next to her with my Dictaphone.

“Do you believe in the Osinovs?” I ask.

She scowls a bit. “You mean, that there is a family called the Osinovs and they live up the river? Yes, of course I do. Why would I be on this trip if I didn’t believe?”

I admit I’m a bit disappointed. I thought Lyubov was on my side and that we could make fun of Dan together, once I knew her a little better. She reads my look, reaches over, and takes my Dictaphone. She switches it off, then grabs the collar of my shirt and pulls me close to her.

“It’s bullshit,” she whispers in my ear. “I’ve always thought it was. But your stepfather is very nice to us, and he pays very well. If he was looking for Jesus, I’d go with him to find Jesus. That doesn’t mean I think Jesus will be waiting for us.”

She releases my collar.

“I guess I can’t put that in my story?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “That is off the record.”

Well, at least I have my answer. Lyubov is in it for the money. No disrespect for that.

Time to build the fire next.

“I’ll do it,” I say. “I’ve built a fire before, many times.”

“Let Sergei do it,” Dan says.

“I know how to build a fire,” I insist. “I used to go camping with my dad in Colorado all the time.”

“I can build a fire with a flint and a rock and a cotton ball,” Sergei said.

“Well, I can build one with a strike-anywhere match.”

“Will someone please just build the damn fire?” Dan asks wearily. “I’ve got to go over the schedule.”

Of course. Always the schedule.

“Okay,” I tell Sergei. “Build the fire. Just know I can do it too.”

I kind of like this little flirtation we have going. Margot would love to know every detail. Now I find myself grabbing for my phone before realizing it’s not a phone anymore. It’s nothing. It’s a shell with the internet inside, sleeping like a vampire.

Dinner that night: canned beef with rice for us, and macaroni and cheese for Dan, who doesn’t eat meat. The Russians are all washing their food down with something from a bottle they’re passing around, but I’m done with that. I’m here to work.

“You need meat,” Viktor says to Dan, flexing his bicep. “Meat keeps you strong.”

“Elephants are strong,” Dan replies, “and they don’t eat meat.” I can tell by his tone that he means it in a jokey way, but as usual his rhythm is off and they start talking among themselves. I want to apologize for him and tell them that I once had a father who would have fit right in with this crew but that he was taken out and this new man was dropped into his place. But since they’ve worked with him before, they know his joke-telling skills are nonexistent.

The canned beef doesn’t taste too bad. It has enough salt, that’s for sure. The Osinov family would love this food.

It’s now dark, and the stars across the sky burn down on us. I thought I knew stars in the mountains of Colorado, but they seem a world away from these stars, this clear sky. It’s so dazzling that I have to close my eyes every once in a while. When I do, the patterns of the stars stay there, and I stare at a more immediate sky, right beneath my lids.

“What are you doing?” Sergei asks. He’s managed to maneuver closer to me as Dan stares into Viktor’s camera, watching a playback of some of his commentary on the Osinovs from earlier in the day.

“I’m looking at the sky,” I say. “I want to take a photo, but it won’t matter. A photo will never do this sky justice.”

“I grew up with this sky. I don’t notice it much.”