by Kathy Parks
“Viktor? Can you hear me?” Lyubov pleads.
Dan cranes his neck around to Sergei. “Can’t you stop the boat?”
“I’m trying!” Even Sergei sounds scared.
After what seems like forever, the river widens and Sergei finds some calm shallows, and we pole to the shore, tie the boat, lift out Viktor, and set him on the ground. We gather around him. The cloth on his head is darkened with scarlet blotches.
“Get me my flashlight,” Dan orders. I find it and hand it to him. Gently he opens one of Viktor’s eyes with his fingertips and shines the light on his pupil, which contracts down to a pinprick.
“Well, he’s alive, at least,” he mutters. Lyubov fetches a blanket roll and puts it under Viktor’s head. Dan switches out the bloody compresses for a clean one.
“He’s going to be all right, isn’t he?” I ask.
Dan doesn’t answer. There is no answer. I have the sudden feeling that this is what Siberia is all about. It’s trees and water and birdsong and sudden disaster. It will strike you when you least suspect it, when you’re feeling safe and calm. I’m not sure I want to be here anymore. As much as I want this article and understand what it could mean to my future career as a journalist, I’m beginning to think the risk just isn’t worth it. Dan believes in the Osinovs enough to be here, but I do not disbelieve in them enough to be here. My disbelief is not as ferocious and sudden and strong as the world around me. I want to go home.
We kneel around Viktor. His bleeding has slowed. His chest rises and falls. Lyubov strokes his face as the river rumbles behind us and the birds call. The wind blows a faint licorice scent. My knees hold down crushed ferns. Dan bows his head.
“Come on, please, come on,” he murmurs.
An eternity passes before Viktor stirs and moans.
Lyubov leans down to him. “Viktor?”
His eyelids flutter.
“Chyort,” he whispers, which I know is a mild Russian curse word. It is good the curse words are coming back. Where curse words are, the rest of Viktor is sure to be found.
His eyes open. He studies us as though we are part of a landscape that is camouflaged, like lizards on trees, and we must be inspected closely to be identified. A wave of relief sweeps through our group. Our collective breath escapes.
“Are you okay?” Dan asks.
Viktor says, “My head is motherfucking hurt.”
Dan holds up three fingers. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Three.”
“Who is the president?”
Viktor blinks slowly. “Kermit the Frog.”
Lyubov snorts in relief.
We help Viktor sit up.
“Oh my God,” Lyubov says, kissing the side of his face. “Never scare me like that again.”
“Are you saying you love me?” he asks. “Because I love you too and I will be your husband except you scare me.”
“Oh, shut up.”
Dan eyes his satellite radio.
Viktor reads his thoughts. “No,” he says. “No emergency calling. My head is good.”
“Just stay here and rest for a while,” Dan says.
“The schedule . . .”
“Eff the schedule.” Dan can’t bring himself to say the full curse word, but we’re all shocked that he’s even tried, and we laugh. We have a late lunch on the riverbank. Viktor has a headache but is speaking rationally and is even using better diction. I’m starting to wonder if Lyubov has a crush on Viktor, the way she’s so tenderly looking after him.
Sergei goes off to pee behind a tree and then comes back, standing by himself, looking out at the river. I come up next to him.
“I should have been more careful,” he murmurs. “My father says never let your guard down. I let my guard down.”
“You can’t see everything coming.”
He doesn’t respond. I’ve never seen him so intense and troubled. He has a slight red streak on his face and I realize it’s a bit of Viktor’s blood.
“There’s blood on your face,” I tell him, pointing it out.
He moves to the edge of the river and leans down to gather water and splash it on his cheek. He rubs vigorously. Red tinged water rolls down his neck.
“It’s gone,” I say.
He puts his hands in his pockets and looks up at a squirrel chattering away like it couldn’t care less who gets bear-eaten or conked on the head or God knows what else. The river will keep on flowing; the squirrel will keep on chattering; Siberia will remain Siberia.
“About your dad,” I say.
“What about him?”
“The girl in the tent.”
“Yes.”
“I saw her too.”
He looks at me sideways as if to see if I’m joking.
“Did she say anything?” he asks.
“She said, ‘I see you.’”
“That’s all?”
“Yes.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know what to think of that.”
I don’t know what to think of it either. “Can I ask you something, Sergei? If your father was so afraid of going on this trip, why did you take the job?”
“Because I needed the money. And I am not superstitious, usually. But with that bear waiting for us by the water and this, I’m not sure what to believe.”
“What are you going to do?”
He wipes his face with the palm of his hand. “Keep going,” he says at last. “I don’t want to quit. It would ruin your father’s trip. And besides, I gave my word.” We stand facing the river together, listening to the water. He takes my hand and I shoot a look back at the others, who are still gathered around Viktor, talking to him. I’m not sure what the hand-holding means, if it’s attraction or just one new friend holding on to another, but I like it, so much that if I could, I’d take out my recorder and say:
The macho Russian has revealed a new and vulnerable side, and I find that somewhat hot. He might have to accidentally kill someone before he lets me see him cry.
* * *
I’ve been up that river. And the thought of two people traveling that far in a simple canoe—it does boggle the rational mind. Of all the arguments against the existence of the Osinovs, the navigation of the river gave me the most pause.
Dr. Daniel Westin
New York Times article.
* * *
Seven
The dangers have passed—for now, at least—and we are finally making good time. The rapids finally fade into gentler currents, and Dan decides to stop for the night and make camp. Almost unconsciously I reach toward my knapsack for my iPhone. I have to laugh at myself. Old habits die hard. The world that I know—my mother, Margot, my other friends—had seemed to exist with me in a bubble made of air, magic in the way they could be invoked with a tap of my thumb, and their faces and their thoughts and their voices and their dumb jokes could instantly appear. Now they are inaccessible, as though they are the lights whose cable the power company just cut. We are alone out here as the sun goes down.
The mood seems lighter now that we’re on the bank and setting up for the night. Of course anything, including near death, is an excuse to drag out the whiskey bottle. Lyubov takes a couple of healthy gulps and passes it around.
“To life,” she says.
Viktor smiles. “To life.” He drinks and hands the bottle to Sergei, who throws his head back and really goes for it, a lump in his throat moving up and down as Lyubov and Viktor cheer him on and Dan looks on stone-faced. Sergei finally lowers the bottle. “I needed that,” he says.
“You did a good job today,” Lyubov assures him.
Sergei holds the bottle out to me, but I hold up a hand. “I’m good,” I say. I’ve learned my lesson. Besides, I have quite a tale to share with my recorder tonight and I want to be clearheaded.
Dan gathers some kindling and starts building the fire. We open our rations as the Russians trade the bottle back and forth.
“How will we know whether you’re getting d
runk or a concussion is kicking in?” I ask Viktor.
He considers this as he drinks. “Well,” he says, “if I die, branch is problem. If I make love to Lyubov, whiskey is problem.”
She says something under her breath in Russian and smiles at him. I think she might be saying the whiskey is no problem, then. Or fuck me, Christian, or some other sinful phrase. Ah yes, Siberia. Tinder of the tundra.
The Russians laugh and argue over the quality of the whiskey. Dan moves over to me. “How are you doing?” he asks. His voice is gentle, attentive. It’s nice to hear him concerned about his own family rather than the one he’s been chasing around.
“I’m good,” I say. But I wonder if it’s true.
“Our last two expeditions were fairly uneventful,” he continues. “I got some kind of hives, and Lyubov jammed her thumb trying to set up a tripod, but other than that, there were no surprises.”
I realize, suddenly, that he’s apologizing.
“Are you sorry you came?” he asks.
“Of course not. This is the trip of a lifetime.” I’m not sure if I mean it anymore. Because, truth be told, I’m not sure I don’t believe, just a little bit, in the Osinovs. Back in America, on local and solid earth, I would never have thought that. But the things that have happened, mystical and otherwise, are starting to make me wonder just what’s possible out here in this wilderness.
“Maybe I underestimated the dangers. The current is much stronger this time, and I’m not sure”—he glances at the Russians and lowers his voice—“if Sergei is the guide his father was.”
“But it wasn’t his fault that—”
“I know, Adrienne.” His voice has an edge to it. “His father was just steadier, that’s all. And he didn’t drink. And you know what? Lyubov barely drank on the last two trips. Now she’s drinking like a fish, and so’s Viktor.”
“They’re just blowing off steam.”
“You don’t blow off steam in Siberia. You stay alert.” He finishes his freeze-dried meal and goes to check the footage from the cameras. I get up and wander down the bank to find a place to pee. I walk into the trees but don’t go too far; I still remember the bear. And the girl. The shadows fall over me; I finish quickly. Nothing is going on out here, I tell myself. This is just like any woods. It feels dark and spooky, but it’s a bunch of trees with all the lights out. A few birds calling here and there. And crickets. Russian crickets.
I’m about to head back to the campsite, but then I change my mind. I’m safe here. A few steps and I’ll be back in the circle of light. But for now, I have a little privacy, and I’m dying to report on the day’s events. I rest my back against a tree, pull out my recorder, and switch it on. I’m down to one device: the dream of every parent of a teenager.
Today was insane. The rapids were worse than anyone thought. Sergei was going too fast, and Viktor got smacked by a tree. And I thought he was dead for a minute. That life could be running through you one second and then just stop. I know I should have known this before, but this time it was right in front of—
A rustling in the brush. Footsteps moving toward me. I catch my breath, then release it in relief.
“Sergei, don’t scare me like that!”
His face is dark in the shadows. “A man has to pee, too.”
“Well, pee somewhere else. I have marked this territory and I declare it Adrienne Land.”
He laughs. “You are funny. I need funny tonight. I need to forget things. What’s in your hand?” he asks, nodding at my recorder. Before I can answer he adds, “Ah, the reporter is at it again,” and grabs the device from me.
“Hey! That’s private. Give it back.” I swoop for the recorder, but he giggles and holds it away from me, batting away my attempts to recover it.
“Let’s see what you’ve been saying.” He presses some buttons, and my voice fills our tiny perimeter.
“The rapids were worse than anyone thought. Sergei was going too fast and Viktor got smacked by a tree. . . .”
Sergei’s smile fades. “So that’s what you really think. That I was going too fast.”
“No, that’s not what I meant.”
“Well, that’s what you said.” He hands the recorder back to me, and I stuff it in my pocket. I don’t really like the direction this is going. Something about his tone warns me.
“You know what else you said?” he adds. “You said you had a boyfriend. But you kissed me. You held my hand today. You flirted with me. Can you explain that?”
He leans in close, his breath smelling of whiskey and chili, a combination that should be banned in all parts of the world.
“I gotta go back to camp.”
I duck my head, trying to move past him, but he blocks my way and pushes me backward against a tree.
I try to keep my voice calm. “Sergei.” He’s holding me by the arms and his grip is hard.
“Come on,” he says. “Stop going back and forth. You like me, you don’t like me. You talk to me, you ignore me.”
“I’m not ignoring you.”
“Kiss me.”
His hands are strong and insistent. He kisses me, hard, and I jerk my head away, thumping it painfully against the back of the tree.
“Stop it!” I manage, but he holds me tighter, pressing himself against me.
He’s still kissing me. The weeds we’re standing in thrash as we struggle. My arms hurt where he holds me. A feeling of panic is beginning to take over. My thoughts are jumbled up, and I have the sensation of being held underwater.
I twist and writhe, managing to free an arm long enough to reach up and rake my nails down his face. He gasps and lets go of me. I try to run past him, but he catches me again and slams me against the tree. It’s so dark that I can barely see his face.
“You bitch,” he whispers.
Suddenly he wrenches away from me, and I can’t understand what just happened until I see that Dan has arrived on the scene.
“You get your goddamn hands off my daughter!” he shouts.
“It’s nothing, really,” Sergei is trying to say. “It’s a joke, that’s all. . . .”
My body floods with relief and embarrassment and the shock of hearing Dan swear for the first time ever. I reach down and fumble for the flashlight as Dan marches Sergei back to the campground. Sergei’s in much better shape, but Dan has sobriety and rage on his side.
I follow them back to camp, my heart still thudding wildly. My mouth hurts from the angry, mean kiss. Dan pushes Sergei down in front of the fire, where Lyubov and Viktor look up dazed and drunk, trying to follow the action but confused by the scene. Somehow a branch came up and whacked their good time while they were looking the other way. Viktor sets down the bottle and tries to stand.
“Come on,” he says. He staggers forward, falls to his knees. His arms are spread wide. “We are all friends! All cut from the same blanket!”
“Shut up,” Dan tells him. “And stay out of this.”
Sergei picks himself up. By the firelight I can see the red scrapes my nails left on his face. I feel sick. “She teased me!” he tells Dan. “All she wants is information for her stupid story!”
Dan gets in his face, his fist clenched. “There’s no excuse! My daughter told you no. Did you hear her say no? I heard her from ten yards away!”
“You’re blaming me. You’re blaming me for everything.”
Sergei is angry now, pushing Dan.
Dan pushes him back.
I jump between them.
“Stop it. This isn’t helping anything!” My voice sounds high and shrill in the cooling night air. Lyubov and Viktor have their heads bowed, saying nothing. They might be drunk, but they still know how to stay out of a fight.
“Go to your tent,” Dan tells me quietly.
I obey him, shocked and humiliated about the way the night has turned on me. I sit alone, my recorder hovering close to my lips, but I can’t speak into it without crying. I turn it off and pull my knees to my chest, hugging them close, listening to the
argument outside turn to Russian, the language of strong opinions. Of all the things I thought I’d run into here in Siberia, a situation like this would be dead last. Not threatened by a grizzly or the weather or a wolf or a family of monsters but some drama with a guy. Maybe Sergei was right. Maybe I did lead him on.
It was shocking how much more you were punished in Siberia. Try to take a photo, you get screamed at. Look down, and a branch hits you. Flirt with someone, and an expedition falls apart.
Not like in Boulder, where you can kill someone and get off scot-free.
I wait as the argument finally fades. The flap of my tent opens. Dan’s red face appears. He’s breathing heavily. I’m not sure whether he’s mad at me or Sergei or both of us.
“Adrienne?” I’m surprised at the way he says my name. Not angry after all but gentle. Concerned.
“Yeah?” I try to keep my voice flat, but I’m still shaking.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Can I come in?”
“Sure.”
He crawls in and crouches beside me. He smells sweaty from our day on the river, or maybe from his fight with Sergei.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him.
“It’s okay.”
“He was right. I flirted with him. I kissed him at the bar at the hotel.”
He shakes his head slowly. “That doesn’t give him the right to insist you kiss him again. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
He sighs. The tent is silent. I remember how strong and ferocious his voice sounded. You get your goddamn hands off my daughter!
Daughter. No “step” before that word. No distancing himself from me the way I do with him.
“What’s going on out there?” I ask.
“Believe it or not, they’re all drinking again.”
“Russians,” I say.
“That’s a cultural stereotype,” he warns me. Then adds, “But in this case, I kind of see it.”
We both snicker together, a rare moment indeed.
