Notes from My Captivity(9)

“Impressive,” I say, not mentioning that Lyubov could probably break him in half and eat him on a large sandwich made with dark Russian bread.

He shakes hands with the others. Dan has already explained that Sergei’s father was his first choice. But the man didn’t want to go a third time, said he was getting too old to go up the river. Dan starts speaking intently to Lyubov and Viktor about exactly what he wants filmed for the next day. He’s so absorbed in his conversation that he doesn’t notice me ordering another beer. I don’t really want one, but I’m a reporter, after all. Reporters drink. At least the ones in movies.

I sit on the end of the bar, next to Sergei. I ask him about his father. Sergei shakes his head. “He’s an old man, very stubborn. Doesn’t like to guide as much anymore. Likes to hunt.”

“And you?”

“Not so much. I like to fish. I caught a salmon this big last week.” He spreads his hands wide. It’s nice, here on the other side of the world, to have a guy try to impress you with a fishing story instead of a dick pic.

I nod approvingly and sip at the beer, which is darker than the one at the airport. I change the subject and ask him what the beer is called.

“Bochkarev Svetloye.”

“Wow, that’s about as Russian-sounding as you can get.”

“Tell me something that sounds American,” he says.

“Taylor Swift.”

Dan is showing the crew an old surveyor’s map and it looks quaint, like a newspaper or a lava lamp. Lyubov is already done with her drink and interrupts Dan to order another round. Sergei orders another one for me, even though I’m only halfway through my first.

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” I ask.

He smiles. “Maybe.”

“I have a boyfriend.”

“Where?”

“In America.”

“That is very far from here.”

I pull out my phone. “I can text him right now.” I hope he doesn’t call me on the dare. Most boyfriends aren’t named Margot or Mom.

“Text him, then,” Sergei says, and then stares at the bottles of vodka that line the back of the bar as though he’s bored with me. I finish my beer and then slide it away and move the second one toward me, quickly, so that when Dan looks up he’ll think I’m still on my first. The truth is, I’m dying to talk to Sergei. Someone like him will be essential to my article. He knows things about the river and its legends that the others do not. Dan says he grew up around and apprenticed under his dad, learning all his secrets. And I want his angle. I want to know if he’s a believer in the Osinovs, an agnostic, or a plain atheist, and why.

I can’t mumble into my recorder, not while he’s sitting there, so I type: Russian guide is boyish and flirtatious, then lean in to him and say the word I’ve been hearing about for the last seven years, ever since a younger, fresher-faced Dan appeared at our dinner table one night, courting my mother with the story of the family and his fascination with its mystery.

“Osinov.”

Sergei’s still looking at the row of vodka bottles, but he nods.

“Do you believe in them?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Do I believe in God? No, I’ve never seen God; yes, I think maybe He exists. Same with this family.”

“I brought extra salt for them.” I reach into my knapsack and pull out a handful of little Morton packets. “I stole these from the school cafeteria.”

The truth is, I brought the salt packets along because I like salt on everything. Sure, it’s a bad habit. Sure, it will make my ankles swell in old age But whatever. Gotta live now. “You’ve heard about the word on the jar, haven’t you?”

“Of course I have. Ever since I was a boy. But there are rumors that the word was something else.”

“And what was that?” The beer seems familiar somehow. Like I had drunk it all my life, since I was a little blond toddler stumbling through the streets.

He leans closer.

“Blood.”

The word shocks me, and he smiles, evidently enjoying the effect on me.

“Bullshit,” I say. Just on the outside of my hearing, I hear Dan continue to detail the journey. I take a gulp of beer. I’m drinking it faster now. It feels warm and makes Russia seem as familiar as my family’s basement. “If you ask me, it wasn’t blood or salt. I don’t believe in rumors and superstitions. Magic stories. I used to, but I don’t anymore.”

“I’m just telling you what the people who live on the river say,” Sergei tells me. “Down by the farthest settlement, where they found the jar.” He shrugs. “Of course, who knows? But what if we find the family, and they are dangerous? They are murderers? Cannibals? Then what? You are going to need a strong man.”

“Save me. I’m terrified.”

He ignores my sarcasm. “Also, there are bears. If the Osinovs don’t get you, maybe the bears will.”

I imagine Lyubov jumping in the air, kicking the bear in the throat, then sitting down under a tree with her copy of Fifty Shades of Grey to read about spanking.

“You’re trying to scare me.” I’m surprised when I giggle. My head feels light. It’s fun, this flirting thing. My speech is slurred a bit. “Tell me something in Russian.”