Notes from My Captivity(18)

“Well,” I say, “maybe you’d notice it if you were taken away from it.”

“I have no reason to leave.”

I’m looking at his face, studying it.

“What are you looking at?” he asks.

“I’m picturing you with an unfortunate face tattoo,” I say. “Like a jellyfish or a Nike logo.”

“‘Just do it,’” he says.

I’m shocked that advertising has come all the way out here. I picture the Osinovs wearing cross-trainers.

Dan watches playbacks. He twirls his finger and nods in a gesture that means, “Let’s see some more.” The Russian crew murmurs to each other, deep in conversation. The river rumbles in the dark.

The bottle they were passing around earlier is empty now. Sergei offers me his flask. I shake my head.

“Why not?” he asks.

“I don’t want to.”

He gives me a look and turns up the corners of his mouth. By firelight I can just see the razor stubble on his cheeks.

“Why?” he asks. “Because drinking makes you want to kiss me?”

“I told you, I have a boyfriend.”

“If he loves you so much, why is he not here with you?”

“Only essential personnel were allowed on this trip.”

“And you consider yourself essential? Or did your stepfather just let you come to shut you up?”

I can’t tell if he’s making fun of me or not. I glare at him.

“I’m joking,” he says. “I’m happy you are here. If not, it would just be one woman—and she’s more like a man.” He grabs another piece of wood and throws it on the fire. I wonder how much we have in common, like basic things. Whether he owns a dog or ever threw a chain on his bike or carved a pumpkin or split a wishbone with someone, or fished out a strand of spaghetti from a boiling pot and threw it against a wall.

“What do you want?” he says.

“Want?”

“Yes, want. From life.”

“I want to tell stories. True stories. There are enough made-up stories in the world.”

“There are stories in America, in your town. Why come all the way to Siberia?”

“Because this is a big story.”

“You mean, this family?”

I only shrug in response. I’m not sure I know Sergei enough to trust him with the truth: that my story will be the lack of this family. It will be the lack of my own, after my father was killed. It will be about living with a man too busy chasing legends around to be a second father to me. It will be about the price of an insane and fruitless quest. And I’ll throw in some jokes. Readers like jokes.

Sergei takes a drink from his flask. “You’ve never told me whether you believe in them.”

“I don’t not believe in them,” I lie. “My mind is open. But I do wonder how a family can survive thirty winters in a place like this, at thirty below zero.”

“Then why are you here if you’re not certain they even exist?” he asks.

“I want my version of this story to be heard.”

He sets down his bowl and swigs from his flask. “That’s the thing about Americans. I have taken them down this river before, into the woods, hunting, exploring. They always want a story. They want to see something dangerous, uncivilized. They want a little change, a little danger. Then they want to run back to civilization, part changed but mostly the same. The trouble is, you can’t control Siberia. It might give you a little danger, or none, or a lot.”

“My father’s dead.” I don’t know why I said it. It just came out.

Sergei raises his eyebrows, glances over at Dan.

“How many times do I have to say it?” My voice has an edge to it. “He’s my stepfather. He’s not my father.”

Dan looks my way, then back into the camera. He’s heard me. The tone in my voice could not have been kind.

“My father,” I say in a lower voice, “was running near our home and was killed by a drunk driver. So don’t talk to me about how dangerous Siberia is. Guess what? Colorado is dangerous. The corner of Harper Street and Green Street is dangerous. A fucking Ford Escape is dangerous. A twenty-two-year-old idiot coming back home from a sorority party when you’re taking a run around the neighborhood is dangerous.”

Sergei looks a bit taken aback. “I’m sorry about your father.”

“I think it was quick. I don’t think he even saw it coming.”





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If true, the tale Yuri told me in his cramped and cluttered apartment is a spectacular one indeed. Kidnapped and bound by a menacing hermit with wild eyes and disheveled hair. The hut in the woods. The young sisters who spoke in not only Russian but also in their own language that sounded like the cooing of doves. The severe older woman and her dreamy, gentle husband, who only asked, with sadness in his voice, “Did the Devil send you?” And the boy, who stood very close and demanded if he had any books, then stole his pen and journal like a monkey stealing food.

Dr. Daniel Westin New York Times article



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Why did an esteemed professor fall for the tale of Yuri Androv? Why do any of us fall for tales, legends, rumors? Because part of us is still a child. Part of us wants to believe.