Notes from My Captivity(21)

“Viktor? Can you hear me?” Lyubov pleads.

Dan cranes his neck around to Sergei. “Can’t you stop the boat?”

“I’m trying!” Even Sergei sounds scared.

After what seems like forever, the river widens and Sergei finds some calm shallows, and we pole to the shore, tie the boat, lift out Viktor, and set him on the ground. We gather around him. The cloth on his head is darkened with scarlet blotches.

“Get me my flashlight,” Dan orders. I find it and hand it to him. Gently he opens one of Viktor’s eyes with his fingertips and shines the light on his pupil, which contracts down to a pinprick.

“Well, he’s alive, at least,” he mutters. Lyubov fetches a blanket roll and puts it under Viktor’s head. Dan switches out the bloody compresses for a clean one.

“He’s going to be all right, isn’t he?” I ask.

Dan doesn’t answer. There is no answer. I have the sudden feeling that this is what Siberia is all about. It’s trees and water and birdsong and sudden disaster. It will strike you when you least suspect it, when you’re feeling safe and calm. I’m not sure I want to be here anymore. As much as I want this article and understand what it could mean to my future career as a journalist, I’m beginning to think the risk just isn’t worth it. Dan believes in the Osinovs enough to be here, but I do not disbelieve in them enough to be here. My disbelief is not as ferocious and sudden and strong as the world around me. I want to go home.

We kneel around Viktor. His bleeding has slowed. His chest rises and falls. Lyubov strokes his face as the river rumbles behind us and the birds call. The wind blows a faint licorice scent. My knees hold down crushed ferns. Dan bows his head.

“Come on, please, come on,” he murmurs.

An eternity passes before Viktor stirs and moans.

Lyubov leans down to him. “Viktor?”

His eyelids flutter.

“Chyort,” he whispers, which I know is a mild Russian curse word. It is good the curse words are coming back. Where curse words are, the rest of Viktor is sure to be found.

His eyes open. He studies us as though we are part of a landscape that is camouflaged, like lizards on trees, and we must be inspected closely to be identified. A wave of relief sweeps through our group. Our collective breath escapes.

“Are you okay?” Dan asks.

Viktor says, “My head is motherfucking hurt.”

Dan holds up three fingers. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Three.”

“Who is the president?”

Viktor blinks slowly. “Kermit the Frog.”

Lyubov snorts in relief.

We help Viktor sit up.

“Oh my God,” Lyubov says, kissing the side of his face. “Never scare me like that again.”

“Are you saying you love me?” he asks. “Because I love you too and I will be your husband except you scare me.”

“Oh, shut up.”

Dan eyes his satellite radio.

Viktor reads his thoughts. “No,” he says. “No emergency calling. My head is good.”

“Just stay here and rest for a while,” Dan says.

“The schedule . . .”

“Eff the schedule.” Dan can’t bring himself to say the full curse word, but we’re all shocked that he’s even tried, and we laugh. We have a late lunch on the riverbank. Viktor has a headache but is speaking rationally and is even using better diction. I’m starting to wonder if Lyubov has a crush on Viktor, the way she’s so tenderly looking after him.

Sergei goes off to pee behind a tree and then comes back, standing by himself, looking out at the river. I come up next to him.

“I should have been more careful,” he murmurs. “My father says never let your guard down. I let my guard down.”

“You can’t see everything coming.”

He doesn’t respond. I’ve never seen him so intense and troubled. He has a slight red streak on his face and I realize it’s a bit of Viktor’s blood.

“There’s blood on your face,” I tell him, pointing it out.

He moves to the edge of the river and leans down to gather water and splash it on his cheek. He rubs vigorously. Red tinged water rolls down his neck.

“It’s gone,” I say.

He puts his hands in his pockets and looks up at a squirrel chattering away like it couldn’t care less who gets bear-eaten or conked on the head or God knows what else. The river will keep on flowing; the squirrel will keep on chattering; Siberia will remain Siberia.

“About your dad,” I say.

“What about him?”

“The girl in the tent.”

“Yes.”

“I saw her too.”

He looks at me sideways as if to see if I’m joking.

“Did she say anything?” he asks.

“She said, ‘I see you.’”

“That’s all?”

“Yes.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know what to think of that.”

I don’t know what to think of it either. “Can I ask you something, Sergei? If your father was so afraid of going on this trip, why did you take the job?”

“Because I needed the money. And I am not superstitious, usually. But with that bear waiting for us by the water and this, I’m not sure what to believe.”