Notes from My Captivity(7)

He looks at his watch. “Where are they?” he asks to no one in particular.

“Jeez, Dan, they’re five minutes late.” He gives me the eye. Dan’s obsessions with time and schedules are just another reason he’s the life of any party, even a Russian one.

I look around and drink my beer. No one looks remotely interesting. There’s a tired-looking young couple—American or otherwise, I don’t know—and an old man in a business suit muttering something in French into a cell phone.

“Did you text your mother?” Dan reminds me.

“Right when we landed.”

“Easy on that beer.”

“I’m fine.” Jeez, the man is a nag. If he ever did run into the Osinovs, he’d probably harp on them for not getting in touch with him in all these years, and they’d rue the day they were ever discovered.

The beer is unusual and easy to drink. I’m already halfway through when Lyubov and Viktor arrive a few minutes later. Dan lets out a long, relieved breath and stands to greet them.

Lyubov, what a woman. Looks about midtwenties; dark red hair; almost black eyes; bushy, untamed brows; and a body to kill for. Or to run from, depending. She’s got on a tight sweater and I can see the bulge of her biceps. Her jutting boobs look firm enough to hypnotize any man, even one who’s been hiding in the woods for thirty years. She could crush me with a hug. Her handshake is a vise. I wonder if she threw discus as a child and pushed around baby oxen in an enormous doll carriage.

Viktor looks more typical. Young guy, scruffy beard, playful eyes, an earring through one lobe, and hair that reaches his shoulders. The Russian equivalent of Bob Dylan must play on his iPod, which sticks out of the front pocket of his faded jeans.

Dan makes the introductions. “This is Adrienne, my daughter,” he says proudly.

“Stepdaughter,” I say before I can help myself.

Dan doesn’t miss a beat, though. He’s up on his toes. “She’s the one who wants to be a reporter!” he exclaims, sweeping a hand toward me. If Dan only knew my real mission, he wouldn’t have shared his frequent flier miles so readily.

“Great!” Lyubov enthuses. “I am so tired of the men.”

“Well, now there’s one man you don’t have to put up with anymore,” Viktor says with brotherly affection.

“Your husband?” I ask her.

“Ex-husband,” she answers. “He is no more. I— How do you say it in English? Ditched him.”

“Sometimes we also say ‘punted.’” I shoot my foot out like I’m kicking a football.

“I should have punted him in the ass,” she says. “Always telling me what to do. Lyubov, do this. Lyubov, do that. Now I am free, and I can do what I want.”

“Bastard man,” Viktor enthuses. “Did not like him.” He grabs my shoulder and shakes it. “So happy you are hopping here from the world outside; we are deep-woods friends soon!” Viktor has a degree in English from WTF University. I like him immediately.

She and Viktor order shots. Dan’s still nursing his seltzer. I’m done with my beer. Their film equipment crowds the bar space. Dan has been through two expeditions with them, and yet his body language remains that of an acquaintance at best. I know the feeling. I want to record my immediate impressions of Viktor and especially Lyubov into my Dictaphone, but it seems awkward and a bit rude with them drinking right next to me. I order another beer, and Dan gives me a warning look.

“Oh, come on,” Lyubov says. “She’s a grown-up woman.”

“Not quite,” Dan counters. “She’s seventeen.”

“Seventeen is the age when you see the world and it is turned inside out like a . . . like a . . .” Viktor flounders in a mud pit of English grammar and washes himself clean with a stream of effortless Russian.

Lyubov sighs. “I would love to be seventeen again! Before I married the bastard. I wore no bra and didn’t listen to shit from anyone.”

Dan’s not big on swearing. He looks uncomfortable. The bartender comes back with two dark shots for the crew. They look like J?germeister but smell a bit like cleaning fluid. The odor of a pristine bathroom floor that you’re vomiting on because you just drank whatever the hell that is. Dan gives an awkward toast.

“One more time up the mountain, folks!” he exclaims.

What a dork.

I clink my empty glass against the others and give Dan a look. Toasting with an empty glass will never be anything but sad. Lyubov throws back her head and downs her shot in one gulp. I watch it move in a lump down her long throat. No doubt the gears of her body now hum smoother. I’m already in love. After this journey is over, after I’ve published my article, I plan on sending it to her. I have a feeling she won’t take offense. She’ll see the humor in the whole thing, laughing about it as she wrestles bears for drinking money. I can’t wait until I can get her alone and ask her what she really thinks of all this Osinov nonsense. Is she just in it for the money, or has she seen something that keeps her believing in them?

“Where’s Yuri?” Viktor asks playfully of Dan’s discredited source. “Is he off lying? Yuri the rebel, ha-ha! Not true! Pants on fire, right? They say in America?”

“Maybe he’s with bigfoot,” I say helpfully, a bit affected by my beer. “I hear they are pals and try to get together in the summers.”