Notes from My Captivity(22)

“What are you going to do?”

He wipes his face with the palm of his hand. “Keep going,” he says at last. “I don’t want to quit. It would ruin your father’s trip. And besides, I gave my word.” We stand facing the river together, listening to the water. He takes my hand and I shoot a look back at the others, who are still gathered around Viktor, talking to him. I’m not sure what the hand-holding means, if it’s attraction or just one new friend holding on to another, but I like it, so much that if I could, I’d take out my recorder and say: The macho Russian has revealed a new and vulnerable side, and I find that somewhat hot. He might have to accidentally kill someone before he lets me see him cry.





* * *



I’ve been up that river. And the thought of two people traveling that far in a simple canoe—it does boggle the rational mind. Of all the arguments against the existence of the Osinovs, the navigation of the river gave me the most pause.

Dr. Daniel Westin

New York Times article.



* * *





Seven


The dangers have passed—for now, at least—and we are finally making good time. The rapids finally fade into gentler currents, and Dan decides to stop for the night and make camp. Almost unconsciously I reach toward my knapsack for my iPhone. I have to laugh at myself. Old habits die hard. The world that I know—my mother, Margot, my other friends—had seemed to exist with me in a bubble made of air, magic in the way they could be invoked with a tap of my thumb, and their faces and their thoughts and their voices and their dumb jokes could instantly appear. Now they are inaccessible, as though they are the lights whose cable the power company just cut. We are alone out here as the sun goes down.

The mood seems lighter now that we’re on the bank and setting up for the night. Of course anything, including near death, is an excuse to drag out the whiskey bottle. Lyubov takes a couple of healthy gulps and passes it around.

“To life,” she says.

Viktor smiles. “To life.” He drinks and hands the bottle to Sergei, who throws his head back and really goes for it, a lump in his throat moving up and down as Lyubov and Viktor cheer him on and Dan looks on stone-faced. Sergei finally lowers the bottle. “I needed that,” he says.

“You did a good job today,” Lyubov assures him.

Sergei holds the bottle out to me, but I hold up a hand. “I’m good,” I say. I’ve learned my lesson. Besides, I have quite a tale to share with my recorder tonight and I want to be clearheaded.

Dan gathers some kindling and starts building the fire. We open our rations as the Russians trade the bottle back and forth.

“How will we know whether you’re getting drunk or a concussion is kicking in?” I ask Viktor.

He considers this as he drinks. “Well,” he says, “if I die, branch is problem. If I make love to Lyubov, whiskey is problem.”

She says something under her breath in Russian and smiles at him. I think she might be saying the whiskey is no problem, then. Or fuck me, Christian, or some other sinful phrase. Ah yes, Siberia. Tinder of the tundra.

The Russians laugh and argue over the quality of the whiskey. Dan moves over to me. “How are you doing?” he asks. His voice is gentle, attentive. It’s nice to hear him concerned about his own family rather than the one he’s been chasing around.

“I’m good,” I say. But I wonder if it’s true.

“Our last two expeditions were fairly uneventful,” he continues. “I got some kind of hives, and Lyubov jammed her thumb trying to set up a tripod, but other than that, there were no surprises.”

I realize, suddenly, that he’s apologizing.

“Are you sorry you came?” he asks.

“Of course not. This is the trip of a lifetime.” I’m not sure if I mean it anymore. Because, truth be told, I’m not sure I don’t believe, just a little bit, in the Osinovs. Back in America, on local and solid earth, I would never have thought that. But the things that have happened, mystical and otherwise, are starting to make me wonder just what’s possible out here in this wilderness.

“Maybe I underestimated the dangers. The current is much stronger this time, and I’m not sure”—he glances at the Russians and lowers his voice—“if Sergei is the guide his father was.”

“But it wasn’t his fault that—”

“I know, Adrienne.” His voice has an edge to it. “His father was just steadier, that’s all. And he didn’t drink. And you know what? Lyubov barely drank on the last two trips. Now she’s drinking like a fish, and so’s Viktor.”

“They’re just blowing off steam.”

“You don’t blow off steam in Siberia. You stay alert.” He finishes his freeze-dried meal and goes to check the footage from the cameras. I get up and wander down the bank to find a place to pee. I walk into the trees but don’t go too far; I still remember the bear. And the girl. The shadows fall over me; I finish quickly. Nothing is going on out here, I tell myself. This is just like any woods. It feels dark and spooky, but it’s a bunch of trees with all the lights out. A few birds calling here and there. And crickets. Russian crickets.

I’m about to head back to the campsite, but then I change my mind. I’m safe here. A few steps and I’ll be back in the circle of light. But for now, I have a little privacy, and I’m dying to report on the day’s events. I rest my back against a tree, pull out my recorder, and switch it on. I’m down to one device: the dream of every parent of a teenager.