by Jeremy Bates
And perhaps when he read it, or looked at it on his shelf, he would think of her?
Zina’s heart beat quickly as she thought of the kiss he had planted on her in front of everyone. Right on the lips! He should be ashamed. It was completely inappropriate—but she had enjoyed it.
She tried not to dwell on this. She was already confused enough by her feelings for Doroshenko and Igor and Zolotaryov. The last thing she needed was another man in the mix.
She loved Doroshenko for his quiet strength and his big heart, Igor for his sharp intellect and his overreaching ambition. Zolotaryov—well, she didn’t love him, of course—but she was attracted to his confidence and charm, his mysterious nature. Yet even his charm didn’t compare to that of Beard’s. The man was a genuine Casanova!
Would she see him again on the return trip? she wondered a moment before bumping into the back of Igor. He had stopped skiing and was looking back at her.
Zina flushed guiltily, fearing Igor had somehow read her solicitous thoughts. But then she realized he wasn’t looking at her, but past her.
“What’s wrong?” she asked him.
“We should take another break.”
“But we just took a break.”
“So Yuri can catch up.”
Zina looked back too. Doroshenko and Zolotaryov were right behind her, followed by Lyuda and Grandpa Slava in his sleigh, a few of the others—and then way, way behind, so far she could barely make him out in the gathering dark, a lone shape, Yuri Yudin.
“He’s not going to be able to continue tomorrow, is he?” she said.
Igor shook his head. “He must know.”
“What if he insists on coming?”
“Then I will have a talk with him.”
The others caught up and gathered around the sleigh until several minutes later Yuri Yudin reached them. Zina could see the pain etched in his face, the stiffness in his stride.
“It should not be much longer,” Igor said loudly to everyone, though the announcement was for Yuri Yudin’s benefit. “We may as well finish the last of the bread. Lyuda?”
Lyuda shrugged off her rucksack and withdrew the last loaf of bread they had brought from Sector 41. She broke off a piece for herself and passed the loaf to Zolotaryov.
A noise sounded in the nearby trees, a rustling of branches.
Everyone turned to look. Zina couldn’t see anything except the nearest trunks and the darkness beyond them.
“What was that?” she whispered.
“An animal,” Igor said.
“An animal?” Zina said. “What kind of animal?”
“A fox most likely.”
“A fox?” Georgy said. “It sounded big.”
“Then a deer.”
“A deer so close to us?” Rustem said.
Another sound, to the left.
Zina grabbed Igor’s arm.
“Let go of me, Zina!” he said.
“What was that?”
And then another sound. Georgy’s laughter.
“Quiet, Georgy!” Igor said.
He continued laughing.
“What’s wrong with him?” Kolya asked.
“Georgy?” Igor said.
“I think he’s lost his mind,” Zina said.
Georgy fell to his knees, still laughing. Then he scooped up a handful of snow, packed it into a snowball, and threw it into the trees. It made the same sound they’d heard a few moments ago.
“Georgy!” Zina reprimanded him. “That wasn’t funny!”
“Yes…” he said, trying to get hold of himself. “Yes…”
“Not funny,” Igor said.
“Yes, it was—”
A snowball struck the side of his head. He immediately stopped laughing. Only now Rustem, who had thrown it, was laughing in place. Lyuda joined in, then Zolotaryov, then all ten hikers were laughing loudly and freely, their merriment filling the clear, cool night.
⁂
Between the picket of spruce and pine and fir, Igor spotted a shadowy cluster of snow-covered cabins in the distance. He picked up his pace, and soon an entire village materialized in the icy moonlight, spreading away for as far as he could see.
He led the way down the main street, pioneering a trail over the blanket of undisturbed snow. No candles burned in any cabins they passed, no fire in any hearth; the village had been abandoned years before. In fact, many windows were broken. Doors hung open on splintered hinges. A number of roofs had collapsed beneath the weight of the snow.
“It’s like a ghost town,” Zina said from behind him, her voice loud in the still air.
“It is a ghost town, Zina,” Rustem replied.
“There’s still furniture in some of the houses,” Kolya said.
“It’s like they just ran off,” Georgy said.
“But why?” Zina asked. “Why would they leave so quickly they wouldn’t take their furniture?”
“Maybe they didn’t leave,” Georgy said. “Maybe the village was overrun with escaped convicts, and they slaughtered everyone.”
Grandpa Slava snorted in amusement.
“Seriously,” Georgy said. “I bet some of these houses still have bodies inside, right where they fell.”
“Why don’t you go check, Georgy?” Rustem said.
“Okay.”
“Please don’t, Georgy,” Zina said.
“Are you scared?”
“The houses aren’t stable,” Igor said. “A roof might fall on your head.”
“I’ve changed my mind,” Zina said. “Please go check, Georgy.”
A little further on they stopped before a cabin that resembled all the others, though the door and windows remained intact. Beard had described it to them back in Sector 41, assuring them it was structurally sound and contained a stove.
Igor removed his skis and entered first. He and Zolotaryov went to work prying wood from the walls to burn, and soon they had a fire roaring in the potbellied stove. The room warmed quickly, the swamp moss between the pine logs keeping the heat from seeping out into the night, and everyone took off their jackets and boots. Zina and Lyuda settled into the two beds, while the rest of them stretched out on the floor.
They bantered about the pros and cons of Communism for a while—Lyuda, naturally, was the most stalwart advocate, while Rustem expertly pressed all her buttons—but by three a.m., exhausted from the day’s hike, they had all fallen into such deep sleeps that even Grandpa Slava’s ghastly snoring couldn’t wake them.
⁂
As soon as Yuri Yudin opened his eyes in the morning he knew his journey had come to an end. He had been holding out hope that the symptoms of his rheumatism would relent, but his back and legs throbbed so painfully he could barely sit up. Once he was moving about the pain wouldn’t be quite as bad, but that would be little comfort. Today the real hiking began, and there was no way he could keep up with the others.
With a heavy heart, he glanced around the cabin at his sleeping comrades, his eyes lingering on Lyuda, her peaceful face, her hair fanning around her head. Then he pushed himself to his feet and quietly left the cabin. The cold air, redolent with the clean scent of snow and pine needles, struck him like a fist, making him prematurely nostalgic about his departure.
For the next hour he wandered the abandoned geological settlement, collecting as many minerals as he could to take back as souvenirs. Some he would keep for himself, but others would make prized gifts for his fellow geology students.
When he returned to the cabin, everyone was awake and packing their gear, while Grandpa Slava was loading his sleigh with iron pipes. Yudin emptied his pockets of the minerals he’d collected—mostly pyrite and quartz—into the sled, and then, with a brave face, told his comrades that he would not be continuing with them. They were saddened by the news but they all seemed to have expected as much. And so they hugged, said their goodbyes.
Lyuda followed him to the sled so they could speak in private. She was smiling but tears smarted in her pale eyes, and all he could
think about was how she took his hand beneath the tarpaulin on the ride from Vizhay to Sector 41. He had been thinking about that a lot lately.
“It’s so sad you have to leave us,” she said, the timbre of her voice uncharacteristically maudlin.
“I wish I didn’t have to,” he said. “But—”
“It’s okay. I understand. We all do.” She paused before adding, “Maybe we can see each other back at school?”
“Of course we can,” he said. “We’re in the same dormitory—”
“I mean just us. You and me.”
“Oh,” he said, and he couldn’t stop the smile that spread across his face. “I’d like that.” He took from his pocket a pretty gemstone he had collected and gave it to her. “I found it this morning.”
“It’s lovely. It will be my good luck charm.”
Yudin gave Lyuda a final hug and threw his rucksack into the sleigh. He would have liked to ride on it as well, but the pipes would be too cold to sit on.
Without looking back, he started skiing south toward Sector 41, telling himself to cheer up, his early departure wasn’t the end of the world, he would see Lyuda and the others again in ten days’ time.
Cabin where the Dyatlov group spent the night at the abandoned geological site
Zina saying goodbye to Yuri Yudin with Zolotaryov looking on
Lyuda saying goodbye to Yudin with Igor looking on
CHAPTER 17
Morning light butterscotched the walls of the tent, which I found empty except for me when I woke.
From outside the tent, someone shrieked loudly.
I yanked on my ski gear and boots and scrambled outside. The cold air became colder, exacerbated by a keening wind that iced the skin on my exposed face and hands. The sharp aroma of a French roast—a cup of black coffee sat next to the quietly burning fire—juxtaposed to that of sap and pine and uninhabited nature.
Olivia stood twenty feet away, near a snowdrift, her back to me, naked to the waist. She scooped up a handful of snow, raised an arm, and rubbed the snow beneath her armpit.
“Yieee!” she said.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
She turned so I could see her pert, plump breasts. “What does it look like?”
“Isn’t it cold?”
“Not as bad as you’d think”
Finished with her snow bath, she pulled her long-sleeved thermal top over her head and came toward me, smiling brightly while cinching her bedraggled blonde hair into a ponytail. Braless, her nipples poked at the form-hugging polypropylene fabric.
“Good morning, Corey Smith.”
“What are you doing?”
“Keeping up my hygiene.”
“You could be more discrete.”
“My gallant knight,” she said, and kissed me on the nose.
I nearly shoved her away, and the surge of anger surprised me.
“Did you put something in that tea last night?” I asked her.
She raised her eyebrows. “What?”
“Did you spike the tea?”
“Did you like it?”
“What was in it?”
“It’s called Honeymoon tea,” she said. “It’s a kind of aphrodisiac.”
“You carry aphrodisiacs around with you?”
“It’s just ginseng and some other Chinese medicinal herbs.”
“You didn’t tell me you were giving me a love potion.”
“A love potion, right.” She laughed. “It’s just tea. It helps me sleep. What’s wrong with you, Corey? You’re pricklier than usual.” Her lips pressed together in a clandestine smile. “Is it about last night?”
I shook my head, looking away. I didn’t want to talk about this.
I started to turn. She seized my arm.
“Let go of me,” I said.
“Wait—we’re talking here.”
She held onto me until I looked at her again.
“Okay,” I said. “What do you want to talk about?”
“Last night.”
“What about it?”
“What about it?” She frowned. “That’s all you have to say?”
“I don’t really remember much,” I said. “I was pretty drunk.”
She read between the lines. Surprise lit her face, then a kind of hurt.
“Whatever, Corey.” She released my arm. “Whatever.”
⁂
I descended the snowy bank and crossed the frozen Lozva River. Out in the open, the wind-chill made the morning seem about ten degrees colder. I kept my head down and tried not to lose my balance on the ice.
I had no destination in mind. I just needed some space where I could have a cigarette in peace.
When I reached the far bank, I slumped down in a drift, positioned my back to the wind, and lit up. I took a long drag and recalled the details of the sex the night before. It had been passionate, feisty, and given the fact Olivia and I hadn’t gotten completely naked, I’d torn off her panties, something that would be kinky under other circumstances, but on this trip might be an inconvenience for her, depending on how many pairs she’d packed.
I shook my head imperceptibly. What had I been thinking? Had I really been that drunk? Or was there something to that aphrodisiac she gave me after all?
Probably I’d just been that drunk.
I didn’t have anything against Olivia. I liked her. But that was the problem. I didn’t want to like her. I didn’t want to feel anything for her. Because I knew where that could lead. I could get caught up in something.
And this wasn’t the time for that. One day I’d be ready to move on from Denise, maybe one day soon. But not today. Not on this trip.
I fished the flask from my pocket, unscrewed the top…and hesitated. It wasn’t even seven a.m. yet. Even this was a bit early for me. Then again, what the hell did it really matter if it was seven a.m. or eleven a.m.?
I took a swig that burned all the way down.
Staring off into the dreary distance, I didn’t see the ranks of frosted pine trees or the bone-white landscape, but Denise, her lifeless body pale and blue in her bathtub, the water perfectly still and colored a diffused pink, her head and blood-stained arms hanging over the ceramic lip, as if perhaps she had changed her mind about killing herself and had wanted to crawl out but no longer had the strength.
I couldn’t believe she did this to herself. She had been doing so well. A few days after she left the treatment center, medically detoxified and eager to put her life back together, she wrote to the AART Ethics Committee, detailing the complete and honest truth of what happened the day she collapsed on the floor at Cedars Sinai—but also the journey of recovery she had embarked on since. A paralegal at ARRT got back to her a week after that, delivering the news that the Ethics Committee had recommended no action be taken against her as long as she agreed to a long term monitoring contract which saw her meet with a therapist on an ongoing basis, submit to regular and random drug screens, and attend support group meetings.
Denise agreed to the terms, signed with a new staffing agency, and soon found herself working as a radiologist technician at a new hospital, which, serendipitously, was located only a brisk ten minute walk from her bungalow.
Meanwhile, our relationship flourished. During the nine months she had been clean, we became closer than ever. She practically moved into my place and spent almost all of her free time researching the Dyatlov incident with me. I believe she was genuinely interested in uncovering the mystery of what happened to the nine hikers, but I also believe her dedication to the research served as a kind of distraction, something to keep her mind off the daily struggle to remain sober. Whatever her motivation, we passed countless evenings together reading and rereading everything we could get our hands on pertaining to the ill-fated expedition on the night of February 1, 1959. We became intimately familiar with all of the competing theories that attempted to explain the hikers’ deaths. And in the process we turned my study into a kind of creepy serial-killer lair, the walls covered
not with morbid newspaper clippings but graphs related to the Dyatlov investigation, black-and-white photographs of the hikers, charts, maps, and so forth.
Then, in June of last year, we came across the website of the Dyatlov Memorial Foundation. I got in touch with Vasily Popov via email and privately began mulling the prospect of going to Russia to interview him in person.
I told Denise of my plans over the phone on the morning of June 13, my thirty-eighth birthday. She was on break at work, and we were just about to hang up, when I said, “So I think I’m going to go to Russia.”
Silence. I waited for her to protest, because it wasn’t like I was proposing going to Canada. Russia was a long way from home.
Denise, however, surprised me by replying, “I want to come too.”
“No way,” I told her immediately.
“Why not?”
“You know why not. Officials there have been covering up what happened to the Dyatlov group for the last sixty years. If you get caught digging up classified secrets, you could get arrested.”
“So could you.”
“That’s a risk I’m willing to take. But I’m not going to be responsible for you too.”
“You won’t be. It’s my choice to come.”
“Forget it, Denny,” I said. “Besides, I’m also thinking of organizing a guide to take me up Kholat Syakhl to the spot where the hikers died. It won’t be easy.”
She sighed and said, “We’ll talk about it later.”
“We’ve just talked about it.”
We spoke for a little longer before hanging up. I spent the rest of that afternoon staining the fence around my property, then I showered, shaved, and changed for dinner. I had stopped making a big deal out of my birthdays at number thirty, which was why for this one I had simply booked a table at a well-reviewed Indian restaurant where Denise and I could get a quiet bite to eat.
