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The Summer of Siberia
Copyright 2007 Christina M. Guerrero
The idea for "A Shadow in the Fog" started with a recurring vision: a rectangular building in a giant vague white desert-like area, with low mountains in the distance.
As the vision recurred, I saw details: a low wall around the building, a roof extending past the wall all the way around, openings at the corners, stairs that led to the front door.
Inside was a long narrow apartment, filled with a rich brown, orange, golden and deep green decor. Near the door was the kitchen; in the middle was a big front room/bedroom, to the rear was the bathroom and storage.
It looked like a great place to take a vacation. I'd go -- if I knew where to find the building.
* * * * *
The vision recurred for a few years. Then one day I wondered if the building was in a land covered with snow. That would explain the surrounding whiteness.
Several things lined up: I wondered if the mystery building could be found near the Artic Circle; an important character in one of my novels turned out to be from Russia; I had always been curious about Russia and Siberia and had been putting off exploring this interest for way too long; and I found myself standing in front of the books about Siberia at the library.
I chose "The Whisper of Stars: A Siberian Journey" by Stan Grossfeld, and "In Siberia" by Colin Thubron.
* * * * *
I flipped through "The Whisper of Stars" slowly, enjoying every picture.
I tried not to strain in my comprehension of the material: about ninety photographs with captions, plus plenty of words to explain Mr. Grossfeld's adventures as an American Pulitzer Prize-winning photographer in the Soviet Union with his Russian translator/guide. Since it was mostly unfamiliar foreign material, I decided to scan the entire book, then read it slowly, hoping the fictional story would reveal itself to me as I learned more about Sibera.
My thoughts: This place is cold and remote and Eastern European/Asian/Arctic, but it makes me smile. Why? I didn't know ... yet. But I got a story idea out of that: "Where Is It Cold?" and hope to write that as time permits.
At some point the "Shadow" story began to emerge: the building was still vague, but there was a woman walking toward it. I was in her shoes, exhaling, then inhaling the bitter cold. To her left, a man walked slowly, carrying something, and whistling. The woman went to the building and waited for him, hoping the disagreement over that something had finally been resolved.
But what disagreement? And what something? What was the man carrying?
What do people disagree about in Siberia? Well, probably the same things people disagree about all over the world. But how would they approach each other? I could speak for the woman. She was American. But how would the nameless, faceless man in the black coat approach this disagreement? I knew he was Russian, and perhaps from the Siberian region. But was there more? Did he need to be more ethnic? Was his Russian accent different from the Russian spoken in other parts of the country?
And if they were disagreeing over something, he would have to be an agent, not a villager. I'd heard rumors about Americans being harassed in Russia. That meant more research: on the KGB, and whatever took its place.
Just a little bit more of the story became clear: The woman was vacationing in Russia for a year.
That was it. In order for me to figure out what happened next, I'd have to read "The Whisper of Stars" and "In Siberia" from cover to cover, no cheating.
* * * * *
By the time I checked out those two books, I had already either read completely, or studied portions of, twenty books about Russia. Learning about this place was like focusing on a picture from very far away, and gradually seeing the picture with greater clarity.
I was also learning the language, which didn't hurt, but more on that in another article.
"Whisper" was fairly easy. Grossfeld has a sly sense of humor, and injected it frequently into his observations, among the more historical entries of his book.
"In Siberia" was difficult. I would start it, "get it," feel wonderful, put it aside, take care of my daily activities, return to it during studying/writing/reading time, and forget what had happened.
This happened several times. I felt stupid. I wondered if my brain had finally broken from too much reading, from twelve years of regular school, four years of college and reading at least one newspaper a day since graduating from college, as is required by any newspaper that employs me.
I came across observations by doctors in their 40s: that it is harder for them to read and retain information than it is for their younger colleagues. If an M.D. has that kind of trouble, what hope was there for me?
Despite my struggles, eventually, finally, "In Siberia" began to sink into the stubborn neurons of my brain: Thubron traveled from western Siberia to the east, taking a few detours. He met a variety of people. He also observed the geography and gave me such a clear description of Lake Baikal -- only with words -- that I would probably recognize it by sight. He remained dedicated to the theme of his book, yet wrote about so much more. Gradually, I began to understand some of what I was reading.
* * * * *
As for reading Grossfeld's book: I laughed; I cried (inexplicably, at the description of a plane crash and an accompanying photo of the deceased's headstones); I took copious notes. I read his book several times during the same period that I read Thubron's.
* * * * *
I started losing the "thread" of Thubron's book again, but refused to backtrack too far, and plowed ahead, reading every single page. He took me way up north, to the Arctic Circle, and showed me, with his words, what I might find up there. He told me about Dudinka, and I thought I had found the location of the "desert house" as I fondly called it. But I found out that Dudinka is now closed to foreigners. So I kept on reading. Thubron took me into mid- and eastern Siberia, introducing me to small town people and city dwellers, villagers and farmers, and plenty of devout religious people. When I had to say goodbye, I felt sad. I hadn't quite found a place for the house, and the woman, and the agent.
* * * * *
I did not write the story right away, after finishing the books. Some time passed.
* * * * *
More of the story came to me: The disagreement was over the delivery of Pravda. The woman wanted it in Russian; the agent wanted her to have it in English, to give him and the other agent (who popped up unexpectedly) time to complete their assignment. They would be a couple of wanna-be comedians, trying to be funny, but not succeeding. Also, the story would be written like a diary, but out of order, like Day Two, Day Thirty, Day Nine, etc.
* * * * *
Then one day, I was ready. I had a CD called "Russian Soul". I played it, got a stack of white copier paper, a pen and waited.
For a moment, I felt nervous. Did I have enough information? Had I studied enough? Had I gone deep enough into Thubron's book, which was quickly fading from my memory?
To make things a bit easier, I decided to place the story within the first few days of the woman's visit to Siberia, when her knowledge would be vague and basic, and her experiences brand new, and I also decided not to name the town.
As I listened to that CD, I almost "got" the story during the first draft. The second draft, which is on the short stories page, has been corrected only for typographical and continuity errors, and for smoother transitions. It needs a third, possibly its final draft, for a few things that have not been fully explained. Otherwise, I love it.
* * * * *
As with most fiction I write, some details did not emerge until I wrote the first draft. I didn't know what the agent was doing until I physically wrote the final "dinner" scene. As a nod to an old friend with a silly sense of humor, I included the fact about the penguins -- something he abruptly shared with me one day, and which made us laugh hysterically. And the "title" scene makes me smile every single time I read it.
* * * * *
"The Sound of Snow," the second story in the trilogy, came to me in early 2008, full-length, detailed, tragic. It's on paper, waiting to be completed. The final story is "Sometimes Things Get Better," and is just an idea right now.
* * * * *
One day during the summer of Siberia, in mid-2007, I arrived home on a Friday afternoon, looked around, and wished I could jump straight to the Siberia books at the bottom of the book pile. I wished I could skip the bank, paperwork, chores, reading the paper, and making dinner. I wanted to sit down and do that research, because the story needed to get written.
I looked around. I didn't see anyone I had to answer to. I didn't have to do things in a particular order. There were the absolutely urgent things that needed to get done within a few hours, but I did not have to wait until the sun went down, in order to resume the studying.
I took care of a few things, made sure my daughter was well, then pulled the books from the stack, got comfortable, and returned to the path I was taking with Grossfeld and Thubron.
I imagined them standing on either side of a narrow road in Siberia, motionless, waiting for me to rush back to their sides. I imagined linking my hands through their arms and proceeding along their paths into and among the Siberians.
Although I closed their books a year ago, I still feel like I'm there ... with the crunch of snow beneath my feet ... and the dense fog around us ... as we travel the well-worn paths "where it is cold."
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