Notes from My Captivity(43)

When I address the older woman simply as Gospozha, she looks at me in surprise and then flashes a grin that fades so fast I think I imagined it, and I can’t figure out whether I’d mispronounced the term or she’s found it funny in its formality, hearing it for the first time in thirty years or so. At any rate, I am happy that at least I’m serving as some kind of amusement and decide to call her that from now on.

I wait for a chance to be near Vanya, to talk to him, smile at him, flip my hair with my good hand, ask with interest how he skins a deer: do all the things you’re supposed to do to make your magic on the opposite sex—though I’ll admit to being only an apprentice sorcerer. After all, my mother never took me aside and said, By the way, you’ll have to make a boyfriend really quick before you starve or freeze to death someday when you’re being held captive in Siberia.

Late in the afternoon, I see Vanya and Marat chopping wood on a large stump in the back area of the cabin. Vanya holds the logs while Marat splits them. I hobble closer, watch from a short distance. Try to catch Vanya’s eye. Finally he looks at me. I smile my best I’m-not-interested-in-survival-just-you kind of smile. He blinks, looks away, then back at me. Just then Marat swings. Vanya’s hand jerks and the unchopped wood goes flying.

Marat screams a long string of words at Vanya, so harsh and run together I don’t understand a thing. Then he turns on me.

“Ukhodi, ukhodi!”

Go away, go away!

I stumble backward, fall into a nest of thistles. He’s still screaming at me so I crawl away through the weeds as fast as I can with my broken arm and hobbled legs.

There is no lovelorn advice Tumblr that I know of on the web that describes what to do when a boy’s possibly murderous hermit brother cock-blocks you.

Back to the drawing board, I guess.

Before dinner, when the women are peeling potatoes and chopping onions and green herbs on a plank of wood, I approach them, make gestures that I can chop up things as well. Chopping exists in Boulder, Africa, Thailand, Antarctica, and possibly Mars. Chopping is as universal as smiling.

Clara looks surprised and turns to Gospozha, who regards me skeptically but finally nods.

I’m actually good at chopping potatoes. I mean, not a master of the art like they are, but I can hold my own. Usually. Except when I have a broken arm. I try to hold the potato with one hand and steady the knife with the other. The knife slides off. I try again and gouge the potato in the time it takes Clara to expertly chop a whole one. Gospozha rolls her eyes. I didn’t know the eye-roll was the universal sign for You are lame, but here it is, in deepest Russia. Clara tries to help me, steadying my hand, but Gospozha interrupts her with a burst of Russian that sounds like, Indulge the idiot American girl and we won’t eat tonight. Just accept that she is utterly useless. Finally she sends Clara and me outside to the cellar to fetch some kind of strange vegetable I can’t identify. The cellar is dark and cold, just basically a hole in the ground we crawl into. I can’t wait to get out of there, but I manage to gather some of the strange, twisted shapes and follow Clara to the stream, where she quickly washes hers. I’m washing vegetables one-handed when I sense a presence on the other side of the stream. It’s Vanya, spear in hand. I’m not sure whether he’s returned from target practice or an unsuccessful hunt, since he doesn’t have anything dead draped over his shoulder.

I drop the wet, clean vegetables in the bucket and stand. Vanya and I look at each other across the stream.

Clara pulls on my arm. “Poshli.”

Come.

“Podozhdite!” Vanya calls.

Wait.

Clara looks startled, and slightly annoyed. She calls to Vanya in singsong Russian but he ignores her, wading across the stream until he is close to me. He looks into my bucket.

“Ya moyu,” I say.

I wash.

He nods. I nod. We both stare at the wet vegetable whose name I don’t know. Clara grabs my hand and tugs on it impatiently. Coos something in dove talk, yanks harder. Reluctantly I hobble after her to the hut. I wonder if I made any progress with Vanya. At least he crossed the stream to talk to me. That must mean something.

I’m not invited to the table at dinner, although they do share some precious salt with me. They go outside, leaving the door open so I can see them sitting on the circle of stones under the stars. There are two empty stones. It’s not as if there’s no room for me. And yet no one calls me over.

It’s weird. I’m not sure what I mean to this family. No banishment. No acceptance, either, just some kind of uneasy peace in which I am somewhere between guest and captive, enemy and pet.

Later that night, we bed down on the floor. The breathing steadies around me. The family is asleep. But I am not leaving tonight. I’m biding my time. Becoming familiar to them, harmless, even helpful, all the while seducing their son and brother behind their backs until the hour and the moment come when they turn around and I’m gone, and they will wonder if I ever existed at all.

The next day, I renew my efforts to try and contribute to the family. After all, Vanya is obviously a family man, so getting close to him means getting close to them. I hobble after Clara into the woods and help gather firewood. With my bad arm and tied legs, I’m not as fast as they are, but I do a pretty good job, and Clara rewards me with a smile. I have to admit, this morning is glorious. Butterflies are everywhere, mostly yellow but also orange and blue, different colors and shapes like the patches on the women’s dresses. Purple flowers grow from the base of the trees and the air smells of spice. We both collect an armload of wood and start back toward the hut. I stop. In between the garden and the hut, Vanya and Marat are setting up a tent.