Notes from My Captivity(8)

The Russians find this amusing, but Dan scowls.

“JK,” I add.

“JK?” asks Viktor.

“‘Just kidding.’ Just a bit of English internet shorthand.”

“Having Yuri Androv exposed as liar is definitely a setback,” Dan says tensely, and a wet blanket made of anti-humor descends over the group. “And Sydney Declay was obviously out for blood.”

Sydney Declay. I’ve just checked her twitter feed. #traitor.

“But I know the family’s out there,” Dan continues. His voice has suddenly switched to the same tone as the preachers on TV who say, I know Jesus is alive because He is here in my heart. “We just didn’t go far enough north. That was our mistake. We’ll find them this time, I’m sure of it!”

The bartender has already slid Lyubov another shot, and she makes quick work of this, then tells Dan what they really need to find is some travka.

“Travka?” Dan asks quizzically, then speaks to them in Russian. “Ya ne znayu slovo.” I think that means, “I am a dork.”

Lyubov rubs the tips of her fingers together. “Weed,” she says.

This is getting interesting. I start typing into the notes app of my iPhone. Lyubov wants weed.

Dan sets down his drink. “Weed?” Heartbreakingly, my stepfather from Colorado is momentarily confused by the term.

“Marikhuana,” Viktor says. He mimics the gesture of taking a hit off a joint, and Dan’s eyes go flat.

“Or mushrooms,” Lyubov chimes in. “Someone told me last week there are magic mushrooms in that forest.”

“Imagine the colors to see!” Viktor exclaims. “Explosions! Boom! Blue! Maybe even purple! Like fireworks or Lady Gaga!!” His English reminds me of the music a cat makes while running across a piano.

My thumbs are busy. Russians guides are partyers. Dan unamused.

Dan looks at his watch. “Let’s head to the gate.” He pauses over the bill, trying to figure out the tip. Finally writes down a number in his strict, tiny handwriting.

Lyubov and Viktor trail us on the way to our gate. Dan sidles up next to me, touches my arm, and murmurs in a low voice: “Lyubov seems to have gone a bit wild since her divorce, and she’s influencing Viktor. They’d drink on the expeditions, sure, they’re Russians, but they’ve never talked about drugs before.” He sounds worried.

“It’s okay, Dan,” I tell him. “I’ve seen their film. They’re great at what they do.” I have, in fact, seen a lot of footage of their Siberian outings. The beautiful river, the stunning pine forests, the foreboding and beautiful cliffs, evidence of a crude tool at the ruins of a campsite, the sole of the shoe, the charred remains of the Linnaeus biography—everything you’d want from such a film except for what Dan’s looking for: a shot, even from far away, of the family itself.

We pass a clothing store whose front window display features a blond, no-nonsense Russian mannequin with a leather skirt up to her thigh. Viktor throws himself against the storefront, kissing the glass.

“I love you, beautiful lady!” Viktor moans. “Beat me up!”

“Come here, Viktor! Save your kisses for the bears,” Lyubov calls.

She sits next to me on the flight to Abakan. She’s reading a book intently. I glance at it. “You are kidding me,” I tell her. “You’re reading Fifty Shades of Grey?”

“Yes, it is very— What do you say? Hot.”

“I’ve read a few pages,” I admit. I’ve read the whole thing. I might be a studious girl who’s never had a boyfriend, but I’m not made of stone.

“These handcuffs,” Lyubov says. “I have not tried them. I just pin them down with my knee.”

“That works, too, I guess.” I try to imagine the man who could take on Lyubov. I picture him in a bar, proudly lifting his shirt to show off the kneecap-size bruise on his chest that proves they had sex. I can already tell Lyubov will figure heavily in my article.

She snickers. “I’m learning some interesting American phrases.” She leans over to me and whispers, “‘My inner goddess is prostrate,’” and we burst into laughter. Dan whips his head around from the seat across the aisle. There’s kind of a haunted look on his face, like maybe we’re laughing at him. I’m sure that will come later.

“I had to look up ‘prostrate,’” she confides. “It’s a gland in your ass.”

“No, that’s ‘prostate.’” I have to admit parts of that book are pretty hot. And I already love Lyubov, and if she wasn’t sitting right next to me, I would whisper my girl crush into the recorder. I have a feeling this is a new Lyubov, a liberated Lyubov, because a Lyubov this fun would have never been invited back. Viktor’s fun, too. Good, good times in Russia.

I glance at Dan. For the most part.

We land in Abakan, where an SUV has been arranged to take us to the hotel. In the hotel bar we meet up with Sergei, the guide who is supposed to take us four hundred fifty kilometers up the river, which, given the recent flooding, is a three-or four-day journey. Sergei doesn’t look like much of a guide. He is young, and his high, sharp cheeks are clean-shaven. He could be a student or the kind of frat boy they decide should be treasurer. His muscles, though, are hard as a rock. I know because he immediately invites me to feel his bicep when I tell him he doesn’t look how I expected him to.