by Kathy Parks
Everyone is eating when I arrive. The crew stops talking when they see me. Sergei plays it cool. My stepfather looks furious. I’m guessing from his expression that he knows I had too much to drink last night, but I wonder if he knows I kissed his guide.
“You’re late” is the first thing he tells me.
I slide into my seat. “Sorry,” I mumble.
Dan signals the waitress over. “She’ll have scrambled eggs and toast,” he says in a tight voice. “And please give me the check.”
She pours coffee in my cup and takes off. The others at the table sense the drama and quiet down. I don’t usually drink coffee, but I’ll try anything. I pour in some cream and sugar and stir.
Dan gets up suddenly. “Come here,” he says, gesturing to me, and takes me to a corner of the room. I’ve seen him mad only a few times, and this is one of them. “You want to be a serious journalist,” he begins.
I nod miserably. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the group at the table looking over at me, and I feel my face flush.
His hand is angry, chopping the air. “You wouldn’t believe how many strings I had to pull to get you on this trip. With your mother, with everyone.”
“I know.”
“You were drunk last night, and all over the Russian.”
“I’m sorry.”
I notice he hasn’t shaved. Dan always shaves. There’s an edge to his voice that I haven’t heard before, and I remember how much this trip means to him. I throw a glance at him. He’s staring back at me. I quickly look away. “It’s just that I’m not used to Russian beer. I just had two beers, Dan.”
“You shouldn’t be drinking at all.”
“I’m sorry,” I say again. And then, “I know you worked really hard to get me here.”
His expression softens. A little bit of permafrost leaves his face. “Just stay out of trouble. Can you do that?”
“Yes.”
I go back to the table and eat fast, my head throbbing dully from the hangover, avoiding Sergei’s eyes. Then it’s time to pack up the gear. Sergei’s rented an SUV and has a friend meet us at the hotel with an old truck to haul the rest of our gear. Dan estimates our river trip will take about two weeks: four days by boat to the remote area where the Osinovs might live, a week to explore and film, four days back.
We all get to work putting gear and supplies in little piles and go through the inventory to make sure everything is accounted for. Beef Stroganoff, vegetable stew, scrambled eggs, spaghetti, salami, cheese, green peas, canned salmon and beef, and rice. All in foil packages. I actually like eating camping food. It reminds me of all the nights my father and I spent in the mountains around Boulder.
I’m thinking of him now as we pack. We used to do this before our camping trips in the mountains. Mom didn’t like to go. Camping was ours alone. I hadn’t camped a single time after he died.
Until now.
We have a Coleman stove, Gore-Tex rain slickers, compressor jackets, hip boots, mountaineering boots, purifiers, insulated socks, hand warmers, plastic fuel canisters for the boat, sun hats, glacier glasses, strike-anywhere matches dipped in wax. . . . The list goes on and on. Also: machetes to hack through the forest and God knows what else. A chainsaw for the fallen trees that, according to Sergei, are sure to block our passage through the river.
We have bear spray. Sergei has a rifle. It signals that this trip really could be dangerous, which gives me a small shiver. And yet, it will be good for the article.
“Can I take a photo of you and your rifle?” I ask.
“Of course.” Sergei immediately strikes a pose, getting on one knee with the rifle over his head.
“Maybe one where you don’t look ridiculous,” I add crossly. “Just stand up and hold the damn thing.”
He gets up, shrugs, and cradles the rifle in his arms. I snap away with my Nikon, crouching and shooting up so that both Sergei and his weapon seem larger, more intimidating.
We also have video and still cameras, recording equipment, and two satellite phones. And, of course, my trusty language guide in case I need to speak Russian.
Hello, how are you?
I’m an American.
Your country is very beautiful.
Are you monsters?
Please don’t kill me.
May I offer you some salt, or blood?
I shiver despite the fleece I’m wearing as we head outside. A June morning is still cold in Siberia. Sergei reports it’s been raining off and on for the past month. The river will be up. A little more dangerous. Dan takes in this information, glances at me, and looks away. I know he’s worried and having second thoughts about bringing me.
“I’m a good swimmer,” I say. “And I’ve got a life jacket.”
“The river is nine degrees below zero Celsius,” Sergei says with a sneer that manages, at the same time, to be flirtatious. “You would freeze to death in the river in ten minutes.”
I use my Nikon to take some pictures of the passing cars, the green pastures in the distance, the wet roads, the reeds in the ditches, then the sky, at the blanket of dark clouds that looms overhead, sprinkling icy rain. There is no trace of sun. My lips are cold.
I take the very back seat in the SUV, and Dan piles in next to me, probably to keep any other male from taking that position. I curse myself for invoking his protective instincts when I should have lain low. But hey, it was my first night in Russia, and I was drunk. What’s a girl to do?
Viktor’s driving. We race down the highway. The words on the signs are so strange. The letters are in unfamiliar shapes, turned the wrong way. There’s some kind of Russian ska music on the radio that Viktor turns way up. I can tell it annoys Dan, and it pounds against my hangover, but Sergei sings along in Russian and the crew joins in.
We pass miles and miles of wet green fields bordered by fence line. Here and there, groups of cattle graze. It could be a rainy day on the plains of Colorado, except for the unfamiliar signs. I’m a bit disappointed by how ordinary it looks. But I’ve seen the films. I know that once we get into Siberia, everything will change. I can’t wait to see the forests, the ghostly bluffs. Ride that seemingly endless river. I want things to be foreign, exotic. I want to lose my bearings. I want to be shaken out of something, what I don’t know.
I turn on my phone and immediately it begins to vibrate with texts. One from my mother: Are you okay?
Yes! We’re headed to Siberia! I answer. Everything is great. Don’t rent out my room.
Margo: Did you make it?
Yes! Leaving cell reception shortly. I’ll bring you back a human skull.
Sergei has heard the pings. He glances at me.
“All from your boyfriend?” he asks.
“Yes, he is already desperate without me. He might even commit suicide.”
Sergei laughs. “Any man who would kill himself over a woman is no man at all.”
“I think it’s sweet.”
Another text from Margot. A group of zombies photoshopped on top of a mountain. She’s thoughtfully put them all in Uggs.
“How many men have you destroyed?” Sergei asks me.
“Thirteen,” I reply. “Except for one who could not kill himself because he was a vampire. His name was Edward.”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
The bars on my phone have dwindled down to one. I make the call and listen.
You’ve reached William Cahill. Please leave your message at the sound of the beep.
My throat closes up. My eyes water. He actually sounds closer, here on the other side of the world. He’s the one who once called me his “little reporter” because of my habit of asking questions about everything. Now that my phone’s about to go out, his voice will be lost for eight days, and somehow that’s worse than my mom’s voice being unavailable for the same length of time. I put my phone away, then take out my camera and shoot some photos through the passenger window. If I’m to document this trip, not the trip Dan is taking but the trip
that will get me into Emerson College, I need some kind of context. The story before the story starts. Wet fields before treacherous river. Grazing cattle before menacing bears. A paved road before a spooky, atmospheric path in the forest. I’m not sure where it will all fit into the final article, but Sydney Declay said this: “Document everything. Listen and look. You never know when the story comes alive.”
The ska music station, mercifully, has also faded away, and Sergei twists the dials until he lands on a clear song, which happens to be “Ruby Tuesday” by the Stones. Sergei and the crew immediately begin singing along. To my surprise, Dan joins them. I stare at him. I’ve never heard him sing, let alone a cool, classic rock song. “Ruby Tuesday” was my dad’s favorite song, and though I can’t expect the group in the car to know this, I honor him by my silence.
Goodbye, Ruby Tuesday
Who could hang a name on you?
There’s a truck up ahead pulled to the side of the road. A man changes the rear tire. A black bird sits on a post, flying off as we pass, and I turn and watch Dan sing. I’m kind of surprised he knows the words, but he does. It’s the closest I’ve seen him to really being part of the group, and I feel a sudden pang for him. There’s something so awkward about him, and I wonder if that’s why he’s so obsessed with the Osinovs. They are the ultimate outsiders.
The song ends and “Gimme Shelter” comes on, and I join in on this one, until the next song comes on, which nobody knows. Viktor turns off the radio, and he and Lyubov and my stepdad start talking about how far they’re going to get upriver today. It gives me a chance to talk to Sergei. There’s something on my mind.
“Can I ask you something?”
“About my first time to make love?”
“Yes, that’s exactly the question I was going to ask. No, I’m kidding. I wanted to ask you about your father.”
“What about him?”
I keep my voice low. “You said he was afraid.”
“Yes.”
“Of what?”
Sergei doesn’t smile. “If I tell you, you have to promise not to laugh. Because it’s not funny.”
“I promise.”
“Well, on the last trip with your father, the weather turned bad, remember? Cold, rains came. My father woke up in his tent. A little girl was sitting there. She said to my father, ‘Leave and never come back, or you will all die.’”
“Little girl?” I ask. I have a sudden flash of Dan leaning on the wheel. There was a little girl standing in the road. “Who was she?” I ask Sergei.
He shakes his head. “I don’t know. My father said he blinked and she disappeared.”
Finally we reach the little village that borders the river. I’ve been feeling uneasy ever since Sergei told me the story of his father and the little girl. Not that I believe it—it’s probably bullshit—but nevertheless it has stayed on my mind. It’s kind of like when you watch a horror movie. You know it’s not real, but it still creeps you out a little. The sight of the river, calm and blue, makes me feel less anxious. Maybe Sergei’s just messing with me. He seems like that type.
We get out of the SUV. Small wooden houses huddle around the shore. A dog bounds out of one, sees us, and slinks back. The air has warmed up; my breath no longer makes mist in the air. The mountains are smooth and bald. Raindrops dimple the surface of the water. Some power lines have fallen down in the road. Trees spread out in the distance. From my reading, I know that these are larch and pine.
I say into my Dictaphone: Smooth mountains, larch and pine.
No one’s around, except for an old man walking down the street. Water from the gutter splashes on his shoes and the cuffs of his pants, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s got a knit cap on and wears a long beard and looks very Russian. I take out my camera and snap a photo of him. This seems to make him angry. He comes toward me, shouting in Russian, and I lower my camera, confused. Now he’s just a few feet from me, still screaming, and I stumble backward, afraid. His frosty-blue eyes blaze, and the Russian that pours out of him never pauses for a response.
Sergei rushes up and steps between us. They speak back and forth, rapid fire, then Sergei turns to me. “He doesn’t want his photo taken. He wants you to take out the film and burn it.”
“Burn the film?” I ask, bewildered. “This is a digital camera!”
“Give it to me,” Sergei orders. He holds it up to the old man, showing the image in the screen while I look on from a few feet away. The old man peers at it a moment and then snarls something in Russian. Sergei responds—something gentle and calm—and presses the Delete button, and the old man’s photo disappears. The old man looks confused for a moment, then throws up his hands, shoots me a final look of disgust, and ambles away, his back stooped and the cuffs of his pants wet.
Sergei hands back the camera to me and gives me a wink. “Lucky I came along and am young and brave, or that old man would have beaten you to a pulp.”
Dan rushes up. “What’s going on here?”
“Old man got mad at me for taking his photo,” I explain.
Dan looks annoyed. “Stop taking everyone’s picture. Not everybody likes it. Put the camera away.” He walks back to the others. I shoot him a resentful look and take out my recorder.
Just met an old man who didn’t want his picture taken. The Sean Penn of Siberia.
Sergei stands with his arms crossed, smiling at me. “You are a rebel.” He leans on the word. “Just like James Dean.”
“James Dean?”
“Yes. I like his movies.”
“I remind you of James Dean?” I ask. My voice sounds irritated and clear in the mountain air. Already I feel like the one making all the mistakes, and I renew my determination not to be the weak, dumb, drunken, flirting, camera-happy link. I put the Nikon in my knapsack and throw myself into the task of helping to load the boat, although I can’t even pretend to lift the heavy fuel tanks that go in the back.
“These have got to last for eight days,” Dan says. “Four days down, four days back.”
“That’s if there are no unexpected problems,” Sergei says. I don’t know why Sergei keeps bringing up the dangers—whether he’s trying to be a good guide or just has a flair for the dramatic or for making himself sound important. “You just never know which way the river will turn, and with the rains—”
“We’ve been up this river twice before,” Dan interrupts.
“How many years has it been?” Sergei asks.
“Four.”
“Well, it’s different now. Stronger. Last month, we lost two fishermen on this river. Their boat hit a fallen tree branch and overturned. They drowned.”
Dan makes a face. Sergei is just a wealth of good news, and this is good news for my story. The more drama, the better. Sergei is a gold mine.
A family comes out of their house and silently watches us pack the boat. A little boy runs past his father’s grasping arms toward us.
“He wants to go with us!” Sergei announces.
“Come with us!” Viktor shouts. “We need strong men like you! Come help us find the Osinovs!”
The boy stops dead, staring at Viktor. His eyes widen. He turns and runs back to his father to loud laughter from the Russians.
“Ha! That stopped him!” Lyubov whoops.
Sergei nods and says to me, “When I was a little boy, my relatives used to scare me, too, with stories of the Osinovs.”
Sergei watches as the father picks up the little boy and says something in Russian that makes the crew break into loud, quick laughter. Dan’s fellow travelers seem to be getting along well. I guess Sergei has forgiven Lyubov for grabbing his arm in her meaty paw the night before.
I have to admit, Sergei is an attractive man, with that smooth-skinned face and blue eyes and high cheekbones, and after all, a boy’s swagger has a way of attracting a girl in the hallways of a high school or among the mountains of a savage land. I smile at Sergei. He smiles at me. It feels like just the right amount of danger.
&n
bsp; Five hours in the boat. Water swifter here but fine. The rain has stopped and the sun is shining. I’ve got my camera and my Dictaphone out, mumbling my observances into it.
Siberia. It’s still unbelievable that I am here. It’s an intimidating place. I’ve been on rivers, and I’ve camped in forests. The elements are the same: a river of water, mountains of rock, clouds in the sky, trees, a gravel bank. But it’s all arranged in a way that I can only call bigger than life. Among the bird cries there is one that sounds so much like a baby I want to put my hands over my ears. I don’t know if the cry is for hunger or companionship or just to hear its own echo among the craggy mountains. . . .
I am the one closest to Sergei, so I riddle him with questions.
“What else have you heard about the Osinovs?”
“What kind of fish are in the river?”
“That bird? What is that?”
I ask about the flowers growing from the edge of the forest in beautiful pink clumps. “They are called zontiki,” he says authoritatively.
Lyubov laughs and tells me, “He’s lying. Zontiki means umbrellas.”
“Don’t tell her,” Sergei warns her. “Or she will not be impressed with me.”
“Oh, I am impressed with you.” I pipe down until we pass a larch forest where the trees don’t grow straight but sway together crazily. “What’s that?”
Sergei follows my pointing finger. “That’s a drunken forest.”
“A drunken forest?” I snap some photos.
With one hand, Sergei guides the tiller. With his other he gestures. “The ground was hard, and the roots grew shallow. Now the ground is melting, and the roots have nothing to hang on to. So the trees fall.”
“What will happen to them?”
He shrugs. “The same that will happen to us all, one day.”
“Global warming,” I say.
“Yes, global warming,” he says. “Siberia is part of the globe, and the globe is melting, yes.”
“Are you worried?”
His eyes are heavy lidded, his lips closed. His gaze scans the shore, then the water ahead.
“I have other things to worry about.”
