Notes from My Captivity(42)

“Marat,” she says, pointing. I don’t understand at first, but she points at herself—“Clara”—then back at him. “Marat.”

“Marat.” I repeat it several times. It sounds slightly menacing, the name of a killer who hunts by night. I guess I was hoping for Bobby or something equally tame.

Then it’s Vanya’s face I see, perfectly rendered. It’s as though he’s staring at me from the birch bark canvas, and I stare back at it a long time. Yes, his beard is slightly thicker on the jawline. Yes, the front of his hair does curl that way. Yes, his eyebrows have that slant, and yes, that stare is open and that smile is polite and embarrassed. There’s a certain hopefulness about his expression that is hard to put into words, but his sister has captured it with ashes and bark. I give it one last look before handing the drawing to her, nodding my approval.

“Vanya,” I say before she can speak.

Her eyes widen in wonder. How can she have known he’s already introduced himself? She nods. “Vanya.”

Then it is time for the drawing of her mother captured in her quiet and mysterious stateliness. It is just as detailed and meticulous but reveals nothing new. Even her mystery is captured by the girl who must know her so well, or maybe her mother confounds her, too. I can’t get her actual name; Clara keeps calling her Mama, the closest thing to English I’ve heard since I’ve been out in the wilderness.

“I can’t call her that,” I say in English.

“Maaaaa-maaaa.” She draws out the word in case I’m not following.

I shake my head, frustrated, then say the Russian word for Madam.

“Gospozha.”

Clara stares at me as though she’s never heard this term in her life, and that makes sense. It’s not like she’s probably ever met any woman outside her family. At any rate, I decide that a little formality couldn’t hurt around the older woman. Gospozha it will be.

Finally she recovers enough to show me the next drawing. It’s of an older man, wearing a tall fur hat. He looks nice. He must be the father that Yuri described, the dreamy and kind one. Unless he lives in a tree, he must be dead or missing.

“Papa,” she says sadly. Then she hands me one more drawing.

I gasp.

It’s the girl. The one who appeared in my tent and, later, in the woods. That sweet little girl with the tiny body and the knowing smile.

“Zoya.”

I look at Clara. “I saw her,” I say, too excited to think through translating the words into Russian. “She talked to me.”

Clara looks at me intently, then shakes her head. Of course she doesn’t understand me.

I point to the pictures of the older man, then the girl.

“Gde?” I ask.

Where are they?

Clara gathers up the drawings in a loose pile, takes me by the hand, and urges me to my feet. She leads me to a place, high in the meadow, that is sheltered by young birch trees growing in a circle, as though planted that way. Inside the circle are two graves. Upon each grave is a six-sided wooden cross, upon which each name has been carved.

Zoya. Grigoriy.

“Chto sluchilos?” I ask.

What happened?

The light leaves Clara’s face. She tries to smile, but just as suddenly, the smile crumples and her eyes fill with tears. Suddenly I feel like crying myself. I never had a sister, but I had a dad.

“Prosti,” I tell her.

I’m sorry.

Just then Vanya approaches. He doesn’t look happy. He and Clara argue for a moment in rapid Russian, his voice getting louder, her voice getting softer until she’s quiet. Whatever the argument, Vanya has won.

He glares at me, gestures me away from the grave.

“Idi!” he orders.

I know what that means.

Go.

The tips on seduction I’ve read on the internet never warned me not to approach the sacred graves of my crush’s family. Apparently I’ve offended Vanya, because he doesn’t speak to me or even look at me the rest of the morning. But later in the afternoon, he catches my eye and smiles.

So perhaps I’m forgiven.

I’m still amazed at Clara’s drawings.

How could it possibly be that this girl—Zoya—appeared to me in my tent and was as real and alive as any other person I’d ever met but at the same time was dead and in the ground? And had Zoya been the one whose apparition appeared to Sergei’s father? It was a wonder, this land where the living and the dead mixed so easily. And yet I was totally, completely unable to share the miracle.

No internet. No phone. No mail. No texts or Twitter or Instagram. Here the air is completely clear of any kind of voice that could add to the discussion of what is real and what is a dream. I have to get out and share this story with the world. Make them believe me. Make them understand that I had met the strangest family in the universe, alive and dead, primitive and polite, considerate and terrifying. Make them understand that my stepfather, Dr. Dan Westin, was not only strong and brave and protective but was right all along, and those who doubted him should be ashamed of themselves.

I should be ashamed of myself.

Later that day, I try out the names. Vanya. Marat. Gospozha.

Vanya smiles, and Marat snarls at me. Saying his name is like stroking a bushy dog’s pelt the wrong way, tail to head, and I retreat as fast I can with my legs tied like that.