by Cai Emmons
Bronwyn, ravenous, spoons her stew quickly, as if to fortify herself for a long hibernation, her limbs coming alive with metabolizing stew and bread and cheese, even as she begins to crave sleep. They have off-loaded their coats and sweaters and sit side-by-side at the table, bare-armed, their bodies exchanging heat. She knows Matt wishes she would speak more, but he isn’t pressing her to do so. She remembers how they worked together at the second fire in LA, renting the ATV and traveling into the hills, his first experience watching her work. She could have done it without him, but she liked having him there. How excited he was, how amazed. He’s a born collaborator, not a man who insists on his own will. Here on the tundra will it work the same way? What a strange position he’s in, plunked squarely between her and Diane. She wishes she could explain herself to him more fully, this feeling of imminence that has overcome her of late, the sense of her atoms slowly reassembling themselves, on the verge of joining other entities, preparing her to do the work. It is too hard to put into words without sounding like a fool. She would if she could.
He lays down his spoon and finds her idle hand and squeezes it, as if he’s heard her thoughts. “Tomorrow?” he says.
This is the question that has been hanging before them since they returned from the weather station. She is about to say something when they hear footsteps on the stairs. Seconds later Diane bursts in, huffing, stony-faced. “A disaster!” she says, disappearing into the bedroom without stopping.
They wait. Nothing.
“There’s food out here,” Matt calls. “Lubov brought us food.”
Tension pops through the room like static. It rips Bronwyn’s concentration. She retreats to the bedroom, closes the door, hoping Matt will understand. How foolish to think she can extricate herself from Diane so easily. She is too entangled. Diane has come out to the living room and is clearly furious, a fury erected on top of the morning’s fury, compounded and elaborated into a veritable mountain of madness. Bronwyn would like to block her ears but, even when she crawls into bed and pulls the quilt over her head, she hears Diane’s penetrating voice. She is talking about Retivov, how she saw him and he stonewalled her. So much worse than she expected. Now, Diane says, they need to figure out what to do next. “I can’t let you two go out under these circumstances. I’ve canceled the helicopter. We have to be strategic. You agree with me, Matt, don’t you? If we allow her to do an intervention now we won’t have any proof . . .”
Bronwyn sails through the bedroom door, inflamed, made large with indignation. She can’t let Diane solicit Matt as her ally—what a low thing to do. She charges up to the table where Matt sits, holding an inert piece of bread, and positions herself opposite Diane. Their eyes joust, their egos are butting bulls. This is a moment Bronwyn never imagined would come to pass. No, maybe more recently she did begin to imagine it, but she has done everything she could to avoid it, fearing Diane’s force.
“You don’t really believe I can do what I say I can, do you?”
“Of course I do. I wouldn’t have brought you all this way if I didn’t believe in you.”
“But you’re not a hundred percent sure. You still want this fucking data as proof.”
“Not for me, for the scientific community. For the world. So I can show people exactly what you’re capable of. You’re one in a million, Bronwyn. We can’t let your talent go to waste.”
“They don’t need to know whatever I do was done by me. Why can’t it stay under the radar? I’m not out for glory. It’s your style to go public, not mine. I’m not you, and I don’t belong to you—I’m not—I’m . . .”
She hears herself yelling and stops, short of breath, reaching for more rational words. Diane is shaking her head dismissively, as if Bronwyn is an undergraduate imbecile again, a motherless girl from working class New Jersey never exposed to anything smart. Diane is still a superior force, still capable of out-arguing, outsmarting, outstaring Bronwyn, reducing her to timidity and ignorance. Bronwyn’s head throbs. The ugly sound of her own voice, shouting in such desperation, still reverberates in her head. She has never raised her voice at Diane before, and now her voice is used up, her will to confront exhausted. How can her will be such a powerful force in the natural world, but be so negligible in influencing people. She turns away, shrinking, avoiding Matt’s gaze, and returns to the bedroom. She slides under the covers again, closing eyes and ears, shoving the world away, trying to take hold of the other Bronwyn, the one who knows her own strength.
She is wide awake before dawn. She slides delicately out of bed, careful not to awaken Matt. Dressing quickly, she scrawls a note. Out for a walk. B.
She navigates her way to the harbor mostly by instinct, assisted by only a few streetlights, and she stands where she and Matt stood the previous evening. Tiny waves lap the gravel beach. A gull skims past, strangely silent, and disappears into the darkness—an act of faith. Or corporeal intelligence.
Something moves across the water, more felt than seen. Singing accompanies the movement, a tuneless soprano. A light comes into view, that gradually reveals itself as a headlamp. Emerging from the darkness is a girl, standing upright on a small wooden raft, paddling like a gondolier. She makes a graceful, nimble landing, and hops onto the gravel beach. Her raft is a few planks nailed together into a flat pallet, more found than made.
“Hey,” says Bronwyn as the girl approaches her. She wears knee-high yellow rubber boots, a puffy pale blue jacket, a purple wool hat with ear flaps. She cannot be more than nine or ten, too young to be alone on the water in the dark and cold. And too lightly dressed. Her cheeks are flushed and a tangle of wheat-colored hair splays from the under her cap. Toting her paddle and humming, she makes her way up the beach to Bronwyn.
“You speak English?” she says.
“Yes. How did you know?”
“I see you yesterday. American?”
“Yes.”
“Hollywood?”
“No.”
“New York?”
“No.”
“You see cowboys?”
Bronwyn laughs. What a forward little girl. “Not too many cowboys. You speak English well.”
“We learn in school. You have childrens?”
“No.”
“You have husband?”
“No.”
“What do you have?”
Bronwyn laughs again. What do I have? she wonders. Anger, she thinks, maybe some hope. The girl reaches into her pocket and pulls out two wrapped candies that look as if they might have been in her pocket for a long time. She takes off a mitten and her tiny red fingers unwrap the cellophane. She pops one in her mouth and hands the other to Bronwyn who lays it hesitantly on her tongue. A strong lemon flavor, both sour and sweet. They suck in silence, the girl assessing Bronwyn.
“Why are you out here in the dark?” Bronwyn says. “It’s so early.”
“In dark I am king of town. All mine.” She looks around. “Where your boyfriend? I see you yesterday with boyfriend.”
“Oh, he’s not my boyfriend. He’s just a friend.”
The girls laughs. “Itchy lips.” She kisses the air and crunches the last of her candy.
“Do you like living here in Tiksi?”
“Oh yes. Tiksi is beautiful world. Most beautiful world.” She points to her raft. “I have boat. I have friends. I talk with friends. Tiksi is good home.” She pats the top of her hat. “Tiksi is world head. Best place.”
Bronwyn nods. The shadowy masts sway in and out of darkness. The cold air releases sudden scents of mingled salt, wet wood, oil. The ice floes clink, chime-like. Best place. Most beautiful world. The girl’s eyes are a pellucid glass-green. Bronwyn looks into them at herself.
“Oh,” says the girl. “I tell you. You must know.” She leans into Bronwyn as if to deliver a secret. “Your boyfriend has coat. I help him get coat. When you have evil eye on you, you do like this—take off coat, put other arm first. Okay? You tell boyfriend.”
“Okay, I will.” What makes
the girl say this?
“Bye-bye America lady.” She drags her raft higher onto the beach then heads up the gravel road, waving at Bronwyn before being absorbed into the still-dark streets of Tiksi.
Bronwyn finds Lubov in the kitchen, hands plunged in soapy dishwater.
“Taxi?” Bronwyn says. “Airport?”
“Taxi,” Lubov echoes. Her attention turns back to the sink, soap bubbles taking flight as she re-submerges her hands. Has she understood?
“Taxi,” Bronwyn says more firmly. “Now,” elongating the word. She glances to the door, on the lookout for Matt and Diane. “Please,” she adds, not wanting to be rude, but aware urgency is making her harsh.
Lubov wipes her hands on her apron and lumbers across the kitchen to a phone on the wall. She makes the call, watching Bronwyn with what feels like suspicion.
59
Matt finds Bronwyn’s note on the living room table, saying she’s gone out on a walk. He can’t believe he didn’t notice her leaving, but yesterday was a long, exhausting day, and he slept unusually soundly.
Steam billows from the bathroom’s open door where he hears splashing.
“Is that you, Bronwyn?” Diane calls.
“It’s me, Matt. Bronwyn went out for a walk.”
“Can you come in here, please. I have to talk to you.”
Go in? While she’s in the tub?
“Come on in. I’m not going to attack you.”
He feels strangely prudish. He has never even seen his own mother naked. The silence weighs on him. He clears his throat. “Are you still in there?” he calls.
“No, I’m taking a walk. Where else would I be. Come in already.”
He marches in, glancing at her so quickly he sees nothing—nothing describable anyway, beyond a human being in a bathtub. The mirror over the sink is fogged. He wipes a patch clear and looks at himself.
Diane laughs. “You look terrified.” She sighs. “I suppose I am scary.” She readjusts herself, and he glimpses the top of her salt-and-pepper hair moving in the mirror. He perches on the side of the toilet, staring at the floor.
“Oh, come on, you can look. I don’t mind. We’re practically family now. Anyway, I’m mostly underwater. I just need to talk and it’s awkward shouting through the door.”
He lifts his eyes tentatively. She is, as promised, mostly submerged, her legs a shadowy presence under the gray water, a single knee breaching the surface. His gaze skims quickly past her breasts which bob like smooth pink, nipple-tipped buoys. He finds her face and raises his eyebrows sheepishly, feeling like a small boy.
“I’m not really that terrifying, am I? Well, the thing is, maybe I am. Dmitry Retivov called me a missile. I’m sure Bronwyn would agree.” She shakes her head. “Is that really how I come across?”
“Heck no. I wouldn’t say a missile.” He laughs and runs his fingers through his hair which hasn’t been combed for several days.
“But you’d say something like that, right? A bulldozer? A tank? A truncheon? What word would you use?”
“I only just met you a short time ago.”
“I’m sure you have impressions. Go ahead. My feelings aren’t easily hurt. Do you think I exploit people?”
“You’re honest. You don’t pull any punches. Some people don’t like that I guess. But I’m not one of them.”
“You’re such a diplomat. Oh my god, he’s a terrible man, Retivov. I don’t trust him a bit.” She raises herself higher, sloshing water over the tub’s edge, exposing her breasts fully, suddenly formidable and rife with purpose. “Okay, I’ve made up my mind. We’re going to the weather station now. I don’t want to wait a minute longer.” She stands, reaches for a towel.
“What about Bronwyn?”
“We can’t wait. She can join us after her walk.”
“I won’t be much use to you.”
“Moral support. Besides, we’re in this together.” She leans on his shoulder and steps out of the tub.
60
The taxi smells of smoke, but Bronwyn is so relieved to be off without having run into Diane and Matt she doesn’t care. The driver speeds along the rutted road through the brightening dawn as if they’re fugitives—in fact, she is a fugitive. A layer of new snow came down last night and it has white-washed everything. Tiny silvery ice crystals—diamond dust—glint and slide through the air so haloes spring up around signposts and abandoned shacks. The motion is electrifying, imparting the feeling she’s at the center of a shaken snow globe. Tiksi’s exotic ephemeral beauty has tiptoed to the surface. She holds her breath to prolong the sight, grasp it, remember. Best place. Most beautiful world.
At the airport she thrusts bills at the cabbie and ignores his reproachful grunts. The terminal is tiny, as is the helicopter outfit, and she’s relieved to find that the woman behind the desk speaks English. Yes, they can take Bronwyn out, though she’ll have to wait for the party that precedes her. Bronwyn takes a seat feeling accomplished, almost elated.
The terminal is mostly deserted, but for three men sitting opposite her, all wearing heavy olive green jackets and pants that make them look vaguely like members of the U.S. Army. They’re speaking Russian and wearing fur-lined caps and sipping from flasks. Each has a duffel bag. Hunters, she thinks. She knows the helicopter service routinely transports people to the tundra to shoot wolves, bear, caribou.
One of the men calls out to her.
“I don’t speak Russian,” she calls back.
They laugh and make what she is quite sure are lewd comments. She looks away.
“Good. Men,” shouts the same man, more loudly. “We—good—men.”
She nods. They break out food and one of them holds up what looks to be some kind of meat pie, offering it to her. She demurs. “But thanks.” Her suspicion of them ebbs, but there is no reason to get too chummy either.
After eating the men doze. In Bronwyn’s current hopped-up state sleep is unimaginable. There is nothing to do but wait, trust. She closes her eyes and sees the girl’s quizzical face, her green eyes and cat-like body. A bold girl. Transfixing. Bronwyn wonders if you always recognize the evil eye when you see it. She has never believed in superstitions, but sometimes she has honored them, just in case.
A racket jolts her, makes her realize she was falling asleep. A helicopter descends on the other side of the glass not far from where they sit. The men cheer, gather their things. Bronwyn stands to watch with them as the helicopter sways to a landing with the dubious grace of a portly man.
61
The weather station evinces a stoic silence. Diane pauses on the front step and inhales deeply of the brisk air to fortify herself. If she is a missile, so be it, she will behave like one.
“Go for it,” Matt says. Hunkered in the rancid bear coat that expands his mass by a factor of at least three, he smiles at her, and she forces a cheerful smile back.
Inside Tim Thom is talking to one of the masked administrators. He turns his attention to them and strides over to greet them. “Dr. Fenwick, what a surprise.” His mien is more forceful than it was yesterday, less obsequious. Diane makes the introductions.
“Matt is helping me out in various ways.”
“You have a slew of helpers?” Thom observes.
Diane laughs. “I try.”
“I didn’t expect you’d be back,” Thom says. “At least not so soon. I see our illness hasn’t deterred you.”
What is it about the English that makes them seem so upright, so correct—it must be more than the accent, she thinks. “I spoke to Retivov,” she says. “And he told me to come out here and have a look at the data myself.”
Thom squints. “He said that?”
She elongates herself, making a rocket of her spine. “Yes.” She doesn’t retract her gaze.
“Really?” Pain clouds Thom’s face. Physical or social discomfort, she can’t tell. Matt is nodding, she’s not sure why.
“Yes, really. He expects to be bedridden for quite a while, so it seemed to be the only
solution given our limited time here.”
Thom peers back at the masked woman who has not stopped staring at them since they walked in. The sight of her irritates Diane, and she wonders if this woman wields any power. She can’t rule that out.
Thom sighs. “Alright then.” He sighs again. “Come.”
They follow him down a long corridor past a series of nondescript offices equipped with desks and computers, but nothing else. There isn’t a soul in sight. “You’re the only one here?” Diane asks.
“Me and the woman at the front desk, Svetlana.”
“They’re all sick?”
“Sadly, yes. It really isn’t wise for you two to be here.”
She looks at Matt. She shouldn’t subject him to this. “If you’d rather not do this you can step outside and wait for me. You probably should. Or you could taxi back to Lubov’s.”
“Of course not.” He pats his coat. “I’m tough.”
She touches his arm and squeezes it. What a mensch.
At the end of the hall they enter a room with a large desk in one quadrant and, flanking two walls, six computers with large monitors. A few framed photos of children stand on the desk, but otherwise the office is devoid of personal effects.
“Retivov’s office,” Thom says. “Have at it.”
He retreats back in the direction they came from, his footsteps echoing officiously throughout the building. He stops abruptly, then no other sound. She imagines him listening, and would like to close the door, but that would seem incriminating. She avoids looking at Matt who awaits her next move.
How can it be that she is here, on the verge of doing the very kind of thing that has always repulsed her in others? Well, she isn’t altering data, but she is trespassing to get it. Though is it really trespassing if it is rightfully hers?
The computers are all off. Are they all connected to the same server? She assumes so, but maybe not. The first step is to turn them on. She presses the power button on one of the computers. Matt is poised over another.
