Notes from My Captivity(47)

So much for that.

And Vanya. What interests him? Seemingly everything. He reads the old books in the cabin voraciously. He makes tools and slingshots. He plays with frogs. He hunts. He fishes. He can even weave baskets out of grass—which is evidently women’s work, the way Marat, from his tone, makes fun of him. I suspect Vanya’s mind is a teeming place, filled with crazy dreams and wild plans and ghosts and monsters and gods. I want to get to know this mind. I need to get to know it if I ever expect to know him. But that’s no easy task. I know only a handful of Russian words, and I need to spend more time with him.

All of a sudden, the chance of that falls in my lap in the most random of ways.

On this day, I’ve helped clear the dishes, and Gospozha is sitting on a bench attempting to thread a needle under the flood of morning light. I watch as she tries again and again. Finally, Clara takes over. Both women squint and hold the needle and thread right up to their eyes, so close I think they’ll puncture themselves. They murmur, as though trying to urge the tip of the thread through the eye. Even Clara gives up in frustration. I’m not sure whether it’s through bad diet or bad genes, but the entire family seems to struggle a bit with their vision. Marat holds his whittle stick close to his face to examine his progress; when Vanya reads, his nose practically touches the page.

And I realize that the Osinovs seem to measure the precious salt grains by feeling them between their thumb and finger, not by sight. But how can Clara make those amazingly detailed drawings?

It’s yet another mystery. Not surprisingly, I have no answers.

I approach Clara. “Mogu li ya pomoch?”

Can I help?

She relents. In two seconds, I thread the needle and hand it back to Clara. She draws the thread taut to show her mother that victory has been achieved, and the two of them chatter excitedly. Apparently, I’ve actually done something right. Who would have known that threading a needle would bring you such praise in this corner of the world? If I read the bottom of an eye chart, they would make me a god.

Gospozha gives an order and Clara bolts from the hut and returns with a small sack in one hand. She empties a quantity of grain out on the flat table. It makes a small hill, which she flattens out with the palm of her hand into the shape and level of a sand painting. The women look at me expectantly. I look back at them, not sure what I’m supposed to do.

Clara coos me an explanation. I stare at her blankly. Finally she gets up and returns with one of the flashlights, shining it on the grains. I stare into them, trying to see whatever they’re talking about. I narrow my eyes. Some of the grains are black. I begin sorting out the black grains from the light brown ones, putting them into their own neat pile.

Apparently I’m doing something right because a delighted murmur rises from the women. When I am finished, Clara scrapes the black grains off the table with the side of her hand, gathering them in her palm and rushing out the door. After she leaves, Gospozha keeps sending me glances of approval. I suppose, in the Russian outback world, separating bad seed from good is like playing a board game by the rules. Family harmony ensues.

When Clara comes back in, the men troop after her. They lean over, inspecting the grain. There is a general family discussion in which they seem to forget I’m even there, but the tone seems happy, excited. As though they are discussing a warm Christmas. Marat goes over to the hearth and bends down beside it, retrieving a small box made of birch bark. It’s grimy and streaked with black from the soot. He carries it to the table and takes out a chunk of flint. Marat looks at me, and it feels strange, watching his rigid face register a glimmer of enthusiastic intensity before it passes and his expression goes blank again. He holds the flint up to the window, turning it so that the stone catches the light in shimmers, studying my face to see if I understand.

I don’t.

It’s a rock, turned to the light. Glinting. I shake my head and turn my palms upward, feeling helpless and frustrated. Moments ago I was a hero. Now I’m an idiot who can’t understand a simple rock language.

Clara has a brainstorm. She takes the flint from Marat, grabs my good hand, and leads me out of the hut, into the clearing by the side of the outside fireplace. She puts the piece of flint down near some stones and then backs up, sweeping her hand over the area and then looking at me expectantly. From a distance, the flint doesn’t look much different from the surrounding rock, but when I move my head I catch the glitters of it. I look at Clara. She looks at me. As though she’s willed it, I finally understand: the Osinovs want me to find flint for them. Evidently it’s a precious resource, the way they keep it in a box and treat it like gold.

I nod, and she whoops and runs back to the hut with the news.

I thought I had trouble understanding my new family in Boulder when Dan and Jason moved in. That family was a walk in the park compared to my new hosts. Still I feel I have achieved some kind of major Viktory.

A few minutes later, Vanya has fetched what looks like a very old pickax, the handle worn and the blade rusty, and the two of us are on a quest. In addition to his other roles, Vanya must be the finder of flint.

I’m overjoyed at my good fortune. In those blogs about how to find a boyfriend, they never say, Have incredibly sharp eyesight. But they should have. Now, amazingly, the family is letting me go off alone with Vanya.

I’m determined to make some progress with him. I need to speed things up on this whole romance. Cold weather is coming. And my empty stomach hurts. I want him to believe I’m hungry for love, but the truth is, I’m just hungry.