Notes from My Captivity(57)

We wake up face-to-face in the morning, our arms around each other, our lips very close, but we do not kiss. The spell of night and stars is broken. Back in the morning light, I see him again for what he is: a way out of this world. Maybe I should kiss him, get this going, because I probably have only a few weeks before the first frost comes, but something tells me not to spook him, to be a little more patient. It was only yesterday that I tried to ditch him for the rescue copter. I have to reel him back in slowly.

Don’t get too eager, said Cosmo. Men are hunters. Let them come to you.

When we finally get back to the homesite, there is a big uproar as the family spills out, yelling at us in Russian. Even Clara seems agitated, hopping up and down and flapping her arms. Most agitated of all, to my astonishment, is Gospozha. The old woman rushes right past her son and makes a beeline for me. She reaches me, puts her hands out, and holds either side of my face. I look at her and I see fear.

“Ty v poryadke?” she demands.

Are you okay?

It was me she’s been frantically worrying about.

I’m so startled that I don’t answer her at first, and she asks again, in a louder voice, her hands cold against the sides of my face.

“Ya v poryadke.”

I’m all right.

She looks at me for another few moments before the fear leaves her face, and her hands fall to her sides. She looks at Vanya.

“Durak,” she snaps. I’m not sure of the translation, but the tone is unmistakable. Vanya’s in trouble for keeping me out in the woods overnight, beyond her protection.

I’m still reeling at the thought that Gospozha would worry about me. Strangely touched by it. This same mothering has been given to me thousands of miles away from a far different mother. And yet, it feels the same. A bit frosty, a bit strict, but the same.

Vanya’s trying to give his mother what must be lame explanations, but she’s not having them. I stand off to the side, my hands clasped behind my back, being as quiet as possible.

Vanya talks back rapidly so that I catch only a word here and there—fire and grave and girl—but mostly I read his tone, at first pleading, then defiant, and then back to pleading. I have to admit, he is a bit cute when he gets worked up about something. His eyes get bright, and the part of his face I can see that’s not covered with beard flushes red.

Guys flush around the world. Families argue. Sides are taken. It feels curiously comforting. My stepbrother has made these same gestures, flushed this same color, when attempting to get the latest version of Call of Duty.

Clara has calmed down. She comes up and leans against me. I put my arm around her shoulders.

Marat is also quiet, though still seething. I have noticed his lips turn pale when he is angry, and he tightens his fists as though he’s about to get blood drawn from both arms at once. He glances over at me and meets my eyes, then looks away, and suddenly I wonder if maybe Marat is jealous. Marat must be lonely, too. Marat has no scowly version of himself to hold at night or hump against a tree. He has no one. All of them are alone together.

Finally Gospozha brings the argument to a screeching halt with a single hand in the air. She’s done with this. Her son and the strange and possibly trampy girl are back and uneaten, and around these parts, that’s a pretty good day. Or at least her expression seems to imply.

That afternoon, when I’m finished digging potatoes and have just washed my hands in the stream, wiping them on the dirty towel my shirt makes, Clara approaches me shyly. I start to get up but she gestures for me to stay seated on the grassy bank. She hides something behind her back and that, too, is a universal gesture. She has a surprise for me, a gift.

“So you’re not mad at me, Clara, for running off with your brother?” I ask in English.

She smiles, because the sound of English always delights her.

“What is it?” I ask in Russian.

She shakes her head, laughs.

“Ya dolzhna dogadatsya?”

Want me to guess?

She nods.

I have some Russian words I learned randomly that I still haven’t found a use for out here. I use them now.

“Zmeya?”

A snake?

More laughter. The gap in her front teeth would have been closed with clear braces had she lived in America, but I think it’s charming and even pretty.

“Oleniy rog?”

An antler?

A head shake and a giggle.

“A Taylor Swift CD?”

She cocks her head.

I spread my hands. “Ya ne znayu.”

I give up.

Her smile spreads bigger. Her whole body trembles. The Siberian winters evidently preserved her love of surprises. With a great flourish, she whips out some birch drawings and sets the first one down on my lap. It’s Vanya, a new portrait that shows his longer hair. The details are amazing. It’s as though her hands didn’t need her nearsighted eyes and had their own internal guidance system. I look away from Vanya’s face. Look back again. A shiver runs through me that I choose to ignore.

“It’s beautiful!” I tell her.

She beams. She has another drawing. She leans down, places it in my lap.

I look down at it. All my breath leaves me. My heart stops.

It’s my father.





Twenty-One


Clara walks away through the forest. I follow her, the drawing of my father in my hand. In my shock and bewilderment, I’ve left Vanya’s behind on the bank, but I’m not going back for it. I want answers, and the faster I walk, the faster Clara walks. It’s a game to her. I break into a run and she shrieks with laughter and begins to run as well. But it’s not a game to me.