Belly of the Beast (26 page)

CALIFORNIA

Writing thirty-six chapters about my mother’s life had been like driving on a dark night. I could only see a little way ahead, but I kept thinking the destination would come into view. It never did. I was emotionally thrashed.

I mustered all the energy I had left and reviewed what I knew. I had a relatively clear picture of my mother’s childhood and her relationship with her mother. I understood that she loved me deeply and sacrificed her life to save me. What was missing was exactly how she saved me and exactly what happed to her.

With most of the last notebook ruined, my mother was left on the ice with a container of bone marrow, and the young Russian girl was likely at the bottom of the sea. I wanted answers, but didn’t have much to go on. My father and stepmother were dead, of course, and the phone number my mother had written down for Yuri Kolchak now belonged to Joey’s Pizza. Even with the internet, I couldn’t find a listing for my grandmother or Mr. Kolchak. I had no choice but to drive to San Mateo and try to find Yuri’s boarding house. The description in my mother’s notes was my only clue.

 I had driven most the night, then zigzagged up and down San Mateo streets trying to find a two-story Victorian house on a corner within a few minutes of the Southern Expressway. When I found one with a wide front porch and English primrose along the front walk, I was pretty sure I had the right place. Next to the front door was a back-in-an-hour note taped below a sign that read
Room to Let.

I sat on the steps and tried to relax, not sure who I’d find or what to ask. It had been twelve years since my mother had visited my grandmother.

At least it was warm. Winter had its grip on Durango, but here a warm breeze carried the scent of eucalyptus and a flutter of leaves. Most of the flowering plants were dormant, but the primrose bloomed kaleidoscopically. I watched an old man down the street string Christmas lights on a potted palm, and was proud of myself for sitting still and awake for thirty minutes.

I was thinking how stupid
back-in-an-hour
signs were when I noticed the man wave at a young woman rounding the corner. She smiled in return, a sack of groceries in one and big white flower in the other. She was striking. I realized I must look terrible with three days of beard stubble and clothes that looked like I had slept in them, which I had. I was more self-conscious when I realized she was headed toward me.

“You've come about the room?” she asked.

“Ah, no,” I stammered as I stood up. “I’m looking for Yuri Kolchak.”

“Yuri Kolchak used to live here, but not anymore.”

“Could I ask you some questions about him?”

She studied me a moment, then handed me the sack of groceries. “Come in.”

I followed her to the kitchen. One wall was covered with posters: Shania Twain, Christina Aguilera, and Willie Nelson in concert. “I thought this was sort of an old peoples’ home,” I said.

“Was, till the tenants all checked out, if you know what I mean. Average age now is twenty-something. I take in graduate students to pay for my tuition. They’re all on Christmas vacation.” She stuck the flower in a glass of water.

I put the groceries on a counter. “You run this place by yourself?”

She smiled. “Cooking, cleaning, and house maintenance on top of my studies takes every second of my time, but I can’t afford to hire anyone.”

She saw me staring at a scar that covered one hand and tucked it under her arm. “We all do what I have to do. You’re Alex, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. How’d you know?”

“Yuri told me about you. I’m Katie. He always thought you’d come to see him. What took you so long?”

“I drove two days straight to get here. I never knew who he was until my stepmother died and I found some notebooks in her basement.”

“Sorry about your stepmother.”

I shrugged. “You get used to it. I lost my mother when I was twelve and my father at fifteen. Anyway, the notebooks told me about my mother.” I nervously fingered a cord about my neck and choked up. “Sorry. I never got over her not coming back.”

“I understand.”

“I doubt you really could.” I pulled out the medallion that hung inside my shirt. She stared at it. “For ten years, it’s all I had of my mother. My father gave it to me a few days before his wreck. It’s a Russian ski medal.”

“I see.”

“Mother didn’t go to Russia to ski, so it really didn’t make sense until I read her notebooks.”

Katie turned away and pulled the flower from the water. “I’m glad you got to know her better.”

“It’s a long story, but I got to know my father better too. Apparently he sent money to a Russian orphanage, I’m still furious with him. He never told me he had my mother’s notebooks.”

Katie cut the stem, put the flower back in the glass, and turned back to me. “Sometimes we misjudge just who a person is. I was going to tell you the room was rented.”

“I guess I’m a mess.”

“A bath and a haircut would help.”

“I’ve been obsessed with the notebooks since I found them and pretty much let everything else go to hell.”

“You look like you just finished exams.”

“I did sort of. I had to get most of the books translated, then I spent months writing about my mother.”

“And you found this address in the books?”

“No. I found your place by my mother’s description. Everything was a puzzle. I thought she had written a novel at first. In the end, I understood what an incredible sacrifice she had made for me and where there medal came from. She gave it to her brother at an orphanage. I suppose he died and they sent it to my father. Father said my mother died too, but I don’t know any more about it.”

“The story didn’t say?”

“The last notebook was molded, the last half nothing but pulp. It was strange, written in English by someone else. I was hoping Yuri Kolchak could give me some answers.”

“Sorry. He died three years ago, prostate cancer, probably caused by exposure to radiation.”

“I was afraid I wouldn’t find him in time. I wanted to ask about my mother. Did he talk about her?”

Katie nodded as she put away groceries.

“Did he say what happened to her?”

Katie left the grocery bag half full and turned to face me again. “There’s something you need to read.”

“Excuse the mess,” Katie said as she opened the door to an upstairs bedroom. “I’ve been using this for a study until it rents.”

I glanced at
Principles of Nuclear Physics
and a hardcover of Shackleton’s
Endurance
on a table by the front windows, then stared a crack in a window pane.

“I would have fixed that,” said Katie, “but when the light is right it casts a cool rainbow on the frame.”

I smiled. “It’s weird. I know this room.”

“It’s for rent.” Katie went to a closet in the hall and returned with a cardboard-clad notebook. “Read this,” she said. “When you’re done, come down to the dining room and talk if you want. I’ll make some tea.”

My Journey Out of Childhood, Volume 3,
was neatly penned on the cover. It was the same hand that had written the molded notebook.

Volume 3

by Katrina Kolchak

“Wax for the cold,” said Niki, “green base, blue kicker.”

I knew. It was my wax. When your father bleeds to death in your arms, you’re not a child anymore.

I worked the wax until it was smooth as glass and hoped Niki was doing the same. She wasn’t well. Once my father waxed too thick and slowed us down to a walk. I wanted to check Niki’s skis but I didn’t. My hands were freezing and I rubbed them.

Niki whispered something and handed me some big black gloves. I thought she should wear them, but she insisted I take them. She wore the old ones Alina had given me. I wanted her to wear the down ski jacket too, but she said I should. I figured she’d want it later so I put it in the food sack. I wore my old snowsuit over my new clothes. I’d be warm enough, especially once we started skiing.

Niki started to open the door, but I stopped her. “The fog’s been coming in waves,” I said. “Wait a minute.”

We left unseen shortly after. Niki could barely walk. I wanted to carry both bags, but she insisted on carrying the leather satchel. I suggested leaving the metal canister behind.

She stared at me in disbelief.

“Not the plastic sack of bone marrow,” I said, “just the metal canister. Father always said, ‘Travel light, travel fast,’ and we have a long way to go.”

She said, “One nick in that sack, and the bone marrow will be ruined. I have to protect it, just like I have to protect you—with my life if need be.”

I didn’t doubt that she meant it. She told Dimitri that she had shot Malenkov. I think she convinced herself that she actually had, but it wasn’t so. For years, every time I closed my eyes I saw Malenkov getting up, felt the weight of my father’s gun in my hand, and heard the noise of the shots echoing in my head. I was still pulling the trigger when Niki pried the gun from my fingers. She dragged me out of there and got me halfway across Russia.

I wished she could be my mother, but I didn’t really think either of us was going to get out alive. I had seen her festered feet when we had washed at Dimitri’s place, and she hardly ate or drank a thing. I was amazed she could walk at all, much less put on the ski boots.

We didn’t put on our skis until we were on the ice. I could hear the balalaika playing
Those Were the Days
and couldn’t believe I was leaving my home, my country. But I knew I couldn’t stay. I had shot a man, KGB at that.

Finland was at least forty kilometers away, a good distance for a racer in good shape. I thought we should have stolen the Buran. I knew sea ice was flexible; it would have held, and a fast Buran could even have skimmed across short stretches of open water. Niki wouldn’t listen. I suggested she wear the ski jacket again, but she refused. I think she wanted her feet to go numb. She could barely walk, but I was surprised at how well she skied, considering. Niki led as we turned north parallel to the shore. The snow was almost perfect, a few centimeters of wind-packed snow on smooth ice, and we made pretty good time.

I had read a lot about polar explorers, and I knew about drift patterns, but I didn’t want to say anything. I didn’t want to be overruled again. But with each step, we were turning slowly back toward shore.

I called her name a few times, but she didn’t answer. Finally I yelled, “Wait. We’re circling back.”

She stopped. It took her a moment to realize she wasn’t alone.

“We’re circling back,” I repeated.

“What makes you think so?”

“I can feel the drift patterns as we ski.” I even showed her the little compass, but she just stared at it in disbelief. I was really worried then. She wasn’t thinking very well. I got her to sip a little water. I explained that it would be shorter if we turned due west and explained again that we could feel the ice sag when it was getting thin. I ate some sausage while she thought about it. Niki didn’t want to eat. Radiation will do that.

I drank half a bottle of water, forced Niki to take another sip, put the rest back in my sack. I didn’t want to drink more than my share.

“I think you’re right about the direction,” Niki finally said. “We’ll turn back north until we hit the coast, then west, but first we’ll rest an hour. I don’t think anyone is following us.”

I looked back. Even in the darkness, I saw we were leaving tracks. Someone would follow, and I was afraid she was going to sit down and die. I lied and told her I had to keep moving or I’d freeze. It wasn’t my first lie. I was carrying extra weight too. Stuff I had to keep hidden.

When we started again, she finally let me carry both sacks, and she let me lead.

I kept looking back to make sure Niki was following me. She always was, kilometer after kilometer after kilometer. I don’t know how she did it.

Then I stopped. Niki bumped into me and almost tipped me over. Thank goodness I hadn’t gone any further. Polar explorers may have skied with their eyes closed, but I didn’t. We frequently had crossed patches of clear black ice. This one looked different. The ice had cracked apart exposing open water, the source of the fog.

We skied east toward shore following the open water. Eventually we saw ice on the other side. Eventually the water gap narrowed to a few meters wide.

“We could jump here,” I suggested.

“No,” said Niki. “We have to go until the ice comes together, to shore if need be.”

I knew that could be a long way. The map showed a deep inlet. Also, I had cheated and veered westwards soon after I had taken the lead. At the time, I had thought it was the right thing to do.

A few steps further, the gap began to widen again. I tried to convince Niki that this was the place to jump.

“I’m going to sit a while and think about it.”

“No, you can’t sit.” I knew she’d never get up, and I knew she wasn’t up to the jump. “We’re in this together,” I continued. “We need each other. Lean on me until you catch your breath, then we’ll head toward shore.”

I got out the drinking water. The half-empty bottle was frozen solid so I set it down. The others were iced on top. I took a sip, but Niki didn’t.

I wondered what she was thinking when the drone of a snowmobile engine broke the silence. We both turned.

“It’s him,” I said. “It’s the man who killed my father. I know it. We’ve got to jump. It’s our only chance.”

Niki didn’t say anything.

I moved the frozen water bottle to mark the point where black ice turned to black water. It fell over. The ice inside had frozen along one side. I carefully stood it up again and hurried back to Niki. She stood holding the canister. The food sack and the satchel were on the ice. “We’ve got to jump,” I repeated.

“Alex is going to die. I failed him, I failed your father, and I failed you.”

I grabbed the canister, stuffed it in the satchel, and threw it across. I threw the food sack too. The Buran was louder.

“You haven’t failed yet,” I said. “We’ve got to jump.”

“We’ve got to jump,” Niki repeated slowly.

“Follow me. Jump when you get to the water bottle.”

“No. I’ll go first,” she said. “If I don’t make it, don’t follow. Tell them I forced you to go with me.”

With that, she started toward the edge. I trembled. Niki had gotten worse than I had imagined. I thought then that it was stupid to have suggested jumping, but it was too late. But no matter what she said, if she didn’t make it, I knew I would go on. I had to.

After the car crash, I had grabbed most of the medical records from the car and tucked them in my snowsuit. Father had died for them. I knew they were important, but I had to keep them hidden. When they thought I was sleeping, I heard Niki tell my father that it was too risky to travel with them. I loved her, but she would have tossed away everything my father stood for. At Dimitri’s place, I put the papers in the bottom of the clothes sack. That’s the reason I kept it with us. I barely kept Niki from exposing them on the bus. By deft and deceit, I had made it this far. I wasn’t going to stop until I got the records to someone in Finland, and I would get the bone marrow shipped too. I had the phone numbers from the slip of paper I picked up on the airplane. But the last thing I wanted was to go on alone. I said a prayer as Niki approached the water.

Niki was skiing faster than I thought she could. She jumped at just the right time but fell when she landed. Anyway, she was safe. I looked back. The light of the Buran was almost on me.

I took off as fast as I could, faster than Niki. I strained to see the water bottle. Niki yelled, “Hurry,” in English. Then I heard “Go. Go.”

I set my poles at the marker, but something was terribly wrong. I pushed on nothing, pitched forward, and saw that the bottle was in the water. Suddenly I realized Niki was yelling, “No, No.” The next thing I knew I was up to my waist in freezing water gasping for air. I hadn’t gone under, the edge of the ice stopped me, but it also knocked the wind out of me. I tried to get out, but the wet ice was too slick.

I heard the Buran stop and looked over my shoulder. It was him, Malenkov, the man who murdered my father. I knew that even with the light in my eyes. His face was bandaged, one arm in a sling. I wished I had killed him.

I knew I’d probably die. Father and I swam through a hole in the ice every New Year, but we always had a steaming banya to warm us up again. Without the banya, I figured I’d be gone in five minutes.

“Run,” I yelled to Niki. “Save yourself, save Alex.”

“Do not move or I shoot the girl,” Victor Malenkov shouted back. He had his gun out.

I closed my eyes and waited for the bullet.

“
Svoloch
,” Niki yelled or something awful like that. “I should have killed you at Mayak.”

“You are an amateur,” Malenkov answered.

Niki grabbed her leather satchel and got up. “You’re a disgrace to your brother,” she said back to Malenkov.

“Half-brother and a bastard. I have nothing to regret. Kolchak and your mother were traitors. Breathe your last breath with that.”

A fresh wave of fog washed over us, but I saw the flash at the barrel of Malenkov’s pistol. My ears were still ringing when the fog cleared a little, Niki was gone.