Can't Let Her Go

In the periphery of my vision I see the Sherpa waving to us from a distance.

“The Sherpa beckons,” I tell her, cutting our chat off.

She doesn’t answer, just starts off by herself. I grab the bag and follow. I watch her ass as she moves off, and I remember how it felt in my hands. I remember how smooth her skin is, how pure. I remember how she crawls and licks my erection. I remember, and the lust burns fresh inside me. Fuck! She’s not mine. I’m not allowed to look at her with desire oozing out my skin. Gone, gone, gone … I tell the persistent thoughts to be gone.

Outside, the Sherpa points to an aged Ford Explorer. “We go to Moscow.”

I look over at the vehicle. It’s faded, dented, covered with dirt, and two of the tires are almost bald. It looks as if it’s on its last legs. There’s a long crack along the rear window, and when I try the latch, it doesn’t work. I can’t get it open. The Sherpa points to a rear door, and I jerk it open. The interior is as dingy and ripped as the exterior. I throw in Katya’s bag as the Sherpa tells Katya to get in the front as he climbs behind the wheel.

Inside, the Sherpa starts an engine that sounds as if the muffler fell off many years ago. I hope the exhaust doesn’t leak into the cabin.

“Ford,” the Sherpa says. “Much better than Russian cars.”

This Explorer might have been stellar when it was first put together, but at this point, it’s a rattle-trap, something that should be politely rusting away in some junk yard. I’m guessing Russians harvest parts. In fact, I’m guessing that they harvest every bit they can put to use. With any luck, most of the working parts in this vehicle have been replaced recently. Otherwise, we’re as close to Moscow as we’ll ever be.

“How long till we get to Moscow?”

“Two days,” he replies.

“How? It’s three days by train.”

“The car is faster,” he says. “Four-wheel driver.”

“Yeah,” I mutter. “Four-wheel driver.”

The day grows darker as we leave Sutgot. The snow is visible through the dirty windows. Up front, the Sherpa and the girl seem totally oblivious to the snow. I have a knot in my stomach, a gut feeling that we should have stayed in a hotel, but I tell myself to stop worrying. If the Russians aren’t worried, why should I be? I grab the bag and toss it into the very back where there’s a bald spare tire. I lie down across the seat and pull my jacket tight. Closing my eyes, I try to think, but I can’t concentrate because the vehicle is bouncing, slipping and sliding like crazy.

Opening my eyes, I look for a seat belt. There isn’t one. Up front, they’re not using seat belts either.

“We outrun snow,” I hear the Sherpa say.

“Yeah,” I say back. “Outrun snow.”

Katya

I find it difficult to believe an experienced, old hand like the Sherpa … I have adopted the American’s title … rented this death trap. It looks like it will fall apart if it hits anything heavier than a snowflake.

I have no expectations of making it to Moscow. It is simply a matter of where it will break down. If we are close to a town, he might get a chance to rent another vehicle.

Despite what the Sherpa says, we will not outrun the snow. It will cover us before we get anywhere near Moscow. If my father was here he would say the Sherpa is an idiot for being out in this foul weather, but it might be my best hope of escaping. If I see even the smallest chance of making a run for it, I will take it.

The snow falls thicker with every passing minute. It will be dark soon, and all the car has are these small, weak lights. I hope we are close to a town. I don’t like our chances in this car. Luckily, the road is straight. That much is good, but it’s not a good road. The vehicle rattles with every bounce. Even the radio doesn’t work.

I think the Sherpa is driving by feel, and even as I watch, the car starts to spin and he immediately turns the steering wheel in the opposite direction. At least he doesn’t have a death wish. He slows right down and squinting into the driving snow, he pulls out a cigarette and lights it. The car fills with smoke.

I hit the button for the window, but it doesn’t work. It seems very little works in this vehicle. He notices and lowers his window a little, and the smoke goes his way. I’m grateful, but I won’t tell him. I know there’s no use trying to butter him up. Such things don’t work with old Russian men. They will take what you give and then do as they please anyway.

The Sherpa glances back at the American. He’s lying down and his eyes are closed. The Sherpa shakes his head and tells me that he thinks the American is big but worthless. I ask him why he thinks this, and he says all Americans are weak and lazy. They have too much, so they work too little. It’s nature. Any animal that eats without working grows fat and lazy. It doesn’t matter if it’s a rat or a human. Too much leads to weakness. The Americans have too much.

He says the American brought a prostitute back to his hotel room the night before. The noise that bitch made kept him up for hours. He throws his cigarette butt and spits out of the window before winding the glass up again.

I could tell the Sherpa that the American in the backseat is not flabby or soft. He’s rock hard and powerful. Perhaps, he’s not one of the pampered people the Sherpa knows. But if I tell the Sherpa that, he’ll want to know how I know so much about the American. Then I will have to tell him that the bitch who kept him from his sleep with all her cries and screams was me.

I turn away from him and stare at the snow. We seem to be the only ones foolhardy enough to be on the road, but in a way, the lack of traffic is a good thing. The Sherpa won’t be crashing into another vehicle.

He lights a second cigarette, and I can tell he’s getting a bit nervous. The snow and dark are getting to him. To be honest, it’s all getting to me too. But there is no place to stop out here in the hinterland. I don’t know much about my country, but I know there is little development around here. This may be the least populated place in all of Russia—except for Siberia. No one lives in Siberia except the criminals placed there.

With the cigarette comes more talk. It’s almost as if the Sherpa is drinking, and after every vodka he has to make some pronouncement. This one is about the corrupt officials in Moscow. He hates them. They steal money from everyone, especially him. They’re blood suckers, and they drain the life from everything they touch.

If he had his way, they would be marched out of their offices and summarily shot. He would bulldoze a big pit and dump the bodies without funerals or ceremonies. Then, he would cover up the bodies and plant flowers. At least their rotting bodies would provide food for something pretty. As he rambles on while peering at the windscreen and puffing out smoke like a dragon, I realize that the Sherpa is more than a little bit crazy. On a night like this, being driven by a mad man isn’t a good thing. When we crash, I must make sure to go with the American.

Bruno will surely lead me into a blizzard and abandon me.

It happens when the Sherpa tries to toss his dying cigarette out the window. He doesn’t lower the glass far enough, and the butt bounces off the window and into his lap. He should have his testicles burnt off for being so klutzy, as he flaps around between his legs for the still glowing butt. As he does that, he takes his concentration off the road, his hand turns the wheel, and in seconds, we’re clipping off a reflector on our way into a field of white. There isn’t time to correct the steering. I grab the door handle and hope we don’t bang into a tree.

Bouncing through the ditch enlightens the Sherpa as to our predicament. He forgets about his roasting balls and jerks the wheel back toward the road, but he’s too late. We’re deep in the snow, and the spinning wheels do nothing but dig a deeper hole. We don’t move an inch and while the side of my head hurts from where it hit the window, I’m all right. I rub my head as the Sherpa puts the vehicle in reverse and tries to ba

ck out.

Nothing.

“What the fuck was that?” the American asks from the back.

The Sherpa curses in Russian, which is good. If the American understood what the Sherpa was saying, there might be a fight.

“We’re off the road,” I tell the American.

“I can see that. How did we get here?”

“It happened when he tried to toss his cigarette out of the window and missed.”

The Sherpa curses even more colorfully and spins the wheels again. It rocks the vehicle a little, but it’s certain that we’re not going anywhere.

“Tell him I’m getting out to push,” the American says. “Maybe we can get back to the road.”

I could have told the American not to bother. We’re too far off the road, and the snow is falling too fast, but both men seem to think they know better. Besides, I haven’t forgiven the American for the way he brushed me off last night. Let him find himself on the side of stupid for a change.

As he climbs out, I tell the Sherpa what’s happening.

He grunts and calls the American a pea green jester. In Russia, this is a derogatory expression. It is supposed to recall the image of a jester from Medieval Europe wearing a pair of donkey ears and carrying a rattle made of a bull’s bladder filled with dried peas. Basically, he was calling the American a moron or an idiot.

I wait, trying to stay warm and sane. As the Sherpa rocks the vehicle, I can feel the American push, but it does no good. Once he manages to get the vehicle out of its ruts, it only moves a few feet before bogging down again.

The Sherpa tells me to drive as he climbs out to join the American. I tell him I don’t drive, and he tells me with great irritation it’s not driving, it’s holding the damn steering wheel and pushing on the gas while they push. Biting back a sarcastic reply, I do as I’m told, and moments later, he’s at the back with the American. I press on the gas, and they push. The vehicle moves a few more feet before the wheels spin and the car comes to a stop. From there, it will do nothing. A few minutes later, they both return to their seats.