christinamguerrero.com ~ the official site ~
GOING HOME TO RUSSIA
Copyright 2022 Christina M. Guerrero
DEDICATION
Yes.
STORY BEHIND THE STORY
I wanted very much, and ached terribly,
to go home to Russia --
a place where I have never been.
I miss it, and want to go back..
ABOUT THE DRAFTS
Nothing, yet.
"Forty-thousand people out there. Almost sold out," Fletcher said.
I gripped my guitar and stiffened; felt my breathing rate increase; tried not to hunch over; felt like leaving.
But our fans were out there, anticipating the concert. I could not bail. They wanted the band together again.
"You can do it," Fletcher said in an impossible double accent picked up from his Russian father and Irish mother. He stood a few inches taller and slimmer than me at six-three; he placed a big slender hand on my right shoulder. Backstage lights reflected off tan and blond strands of his light brown hair.
I nodded.
"You can do it. You're strong, Derek. You're back, and you survived those pieces of ...." He looked around. "You know what I mean. And you got through the last two concerts."
I nodded again. The noise peaked and I flinched, then tolerated a series of tremors in my arms, torso and legs.
As I shivered, the other band members arrived and surrounded us: Short, bald Jake, drummer for our band; Thomas, long and lanky with black hair, bass; and keyboard player Brian, who resembled me with his six-foot-tall muscular frame and dark brown hair. Fletcher, the lead singer, continued to rub my shoulder; he knew I appreciated the contact.
We huddled, arms around each other, my guitar close to my chest; I refused to let go of it once arriving at concerts now. Tears rolled down my cheeks as we had a moment of silence -- one of our pre-concert traditions. Prior to the abduction I always felt inspired and happy during the huddle. Now I felt dreadful and sad and missed my old self.
We moved apart in unison; the others hugged me one by one, wordlessly yet kindly.
I gripped my guitar again, holding it close, thinking about my first music teacher who instructed me at my first class, "No matter why you are here, or where this takes you, I want you to always approach your music with a love for the craft of it."
I still loved my craft. Could I access the love? Would it show tonight? Apparently it had showed during the last two concerts. Reviews had been positive; comments had been variations of, "Lead guitar player Derek Jimenez, despite enduring a traumatic nine-month-long abduction, continues to play beautifully and conscientiously."
Abduction ... the word repeated itself on a loop in my mind, taking me back to the fair.
*****
It was a beautiful multicultural fair just outside Irkutsk, Russia. The fair featured hand-made goods, food, beverages, music, other entertainment, and even places to stay overnight should one choose to visit for several days.
On the day of the abduction, we strolled through the fair, looking about, commenting on various items.
For safety reasons, only four of us were there. Fletcher was at the hotel; Thomas, Brian, Jake and I grouped and re-grouped into three plus one, in case one or more of us were cornered or attacked or worse.
We had never been threatened, or commented upon in a negative way in the Russian press, but still took precautions. Fletcher was the only Russian; the rest of us were from other countries, yet we had the proper papers and experience which permitted us to live and work in Russia.
We went into a long, narrow stretch of stalls. Up ahead, there was a wider, more bustling area.
At a huge table, we looked over knit caps in all colors of the rainbow. We glanced at each other and nodded and I stepped away from them, now the designated single, to look at some scarves. The others moved to my right, to another table that featured multiple wares made from seashells.
I touched the knit caps, smiling. There was a girl in Vladivostok who I liked, who appeared to have an endless supply of knit caps, but not one was orange. I bought a peach-colored cap from the vendor, looked up at several mirrors leaning against the stalls behind him, and saw six men dressed in shades of bluish-gray, like undercover soldiers, at the narrow entrance to this wider area. Earlier, I had observed one of the men examining Brian and frowning and looking around. I had a strange, sick feeling that the man had found something missing and was actually looking for me, then felt vain and stupid.
Now I felt the sick feeling again.
Several big tables of goods were behind me, between the men and where I stood.
Casually, I turned to my right and saw that Jake and Thomas and Brian were close to an exit to this area. The exit led to more of the fair away from the stalls. They continued walking and did not look back. They would be among other people shortly.
I could move quickly and inform them of the men. However, if the men were up to no good, we might be confronted and then messed with, as a group. The men could affect our persons, our band, our livelihoods, our finances, our art, our futures.
Perhaps the men meant no harm at all.
I found that hard to believe; the one man had been studying Brian too closely.
Without breaking my stride, I turned to my left -- now walking away from my band mates -- to yet another narrow row of stalls. Huge rugs hung from this section.
If I were followed and messed with, I hoped the band would continue to be successful.
*****
The concert was about to begin. The opening acts had ended; there were several cues; then we simply walked onstage and I began to play.
The noise of the crowd made me wince. I fought to keep my shoulders straight, despite vivid flashbacks of the fair and the beginning of the abduction.
I forced myself to play as I always had.
Just do it, I coached myself. Love your craft.
*****
The beginning of the abduction.
I had moved into the rug stall area, intending to run, but somehow two of the men were in front of me.
"Excuse me," I said, attempting to move around them.
"No, not quite," said one of them. An Englishman. He appeared to be made out of long rectangles, even his face. He grabbed my left arm.
"Let go, please."
"'Let go, please,'" the other man mimicked in a thick French accent.
"What do you want?"
"'What do you want?'" The Frenchman mimicked. He was tall and heavyset.
The Englishman said, "Derek. I understand your band mates are dealing with hardships lately. Migraines, deaths among loved ones, memories of abuse, et cetera. Don't make them suffer, too."
I kept a straight face, thinking about my own struggles, none of which had been mentioned.
"Let's go," the Frenchman said.
I stood still as they moved ahead.
The Englishman somehow had my left arm behind my back. "Derek. I suggest you move along. Where we are going, you would receive medical care should I have to separate your shoulder, but it will be quite some time before we get there. Do I need to ask you again to move along? This particular shoulder has always given you problems, hasn't it? I imagine the pain will be rather unpleasant."
I started moving.
The Englishman let go of my arm.
The Frenchman muttered in French, "Let us begin with material goods first. If that does not work, then we will resort to physical torture."
The Englishman responded, also in French, "I have several ideas. Perhaps the one will be sufficient."
*****
The fans cheered and shouted and clapped and whistled and sang as we played the first song.
I played as conscientiously as possible. My band mates were around me; the music filled the arena; the cameras focused on our faces: Jake drumming happily; Thomas apparently in love with his bass; Brian smiling into the camera as he played keyboards without looking; Fletcher singing on a level that made me believe in happiness for just a few seconds before the dread and post-traumatic stress disorder took over again.
*****
The six men surrounded me as they guided me toward a van.
"Inside," said a tall, hefty, red-haired man who spoke in Russian.
I went in and found only an empty space with no windows.
They asked for my cell phone and watch. I hesitated for a few moments. Then handed them over. "You may keep your wallet," the Russian said. They shut the doors.
I listened. Perhaps I could hear my band mates among the happy voices and music and sounds of the fair.
One of the van doors opened. "We will be driving safely," the Englishman said. "No need for seat belts. Take a nap."
I nodded once.
The door shut.
After an hour -- the only time I counted -- the van started up and moved.
I still listened but heard only other vehicles or sirens or muffled voices.
Later, at night, they let me out for a bathroom break and asked what I wanted to eat.
I thought about being impertinent; thought about six big men against me if I chose to argue or fight; thought about the damage they could do to my hands and arms, which would affect my livelihood. That is, if they let me go in one piece.
"Chinese or Mongolian food," I said. "Meat and vegetables and rice, please."
They brought exactly that, and it was good.
Then they drove again.
I fell asleep on the hard floor of the van.
*****
Song number two. I went through the motions, but perhaps that was good enough for at least one person whose lone voice shouted above the others: "Derek!"
I smiled and nodded once, which reminded me of that day that I nodded once at the Englishman.
*****
The men took me to a hot, dry place. Probably somewhere in Mongolia. I never did find out where.
They pulled onto what looked like an abandoned military base: Lots of plain buildings. Several security locations. A big wall around the entire area. In the distance I saw a huge crater and remembered some vague thing about Mongolian mining.
"You get this whole building here," the Russian said. "Explore it. You get a bed, blankets, toiletries, radio, eventually a TV. You get food, shower and bathroom, exercise room."
"What about a guitar?" I said. "Sheet music? A couple of books or newspapers?"
The Russian frowned and left.
The other three men showed up together. One said in Russian, "We are triplets. Nice, yes? You do not need a guitar. Nor sheet music. Maybe a few books." They were also tall and heavyset, with long dark blonde hair.
On day three the triplets set up a TV and cable access and smiled at me the entire time. One aimed a remote at the screen, flipped through several news channels and said, "Here. We watch this together."
I almost told him no. Then I almost made a sarcastic remark about how incredibly excited I was to watch TV with someone who had taken me away from a nice life. Then I almost beat him, and imagined the extreme possibility of being beaten in return by him and his relatives or whatever they were, and their messing with my hands and arms on their own, before inviting the other men to finish.
I watched the news with them.
A pretty brunette announced in Russian, "There are no leads on the disappearance of Tryplex band member Derek Jimenez. He vanished from a fair on the outskirts of Irkutsk, Russia. The band's manager says they have no enemies and would like to know the whereabouts of Jimenez."
The camera flipped to a shot of our manager, Trey, who said, "Derek. We miss you and we hope you are safe."
The camera flipped to my band mates frowning and crying at a news conference. Jake said as he wiped his face, "Derek plays lead guitar for us, and this absence and potential loss is devastating. Please, please, we want him back. We can't think of anyone who would want to harm him or us. Please send him back. And if you left on your own, Derek, let's talk. We agreed to, long ago, remember?"
The man next to me said, "In Finland, we also ...."
One of the others hit him.
He frowned. "Never mind. Nice of them to want you back."
They smiled their way out of the room.
*****
Onstage, I made my way through songs three and four. Some of the old me was there, but not quite. A chair was nearby should I need it, but I had never sat during a concert, and still hadn't, despite feeling perpetually exhausted since being released from captivity.
I shivered as I brushed against the chair but still played, not missing a note.
*****
The Finnish triplets enjoyed taunting me, sitting in their stupid folding chairs, smiling, as we watched the newscasts together, making very personal threats should I refuse. They knew everything about me and my band mates, which was not surprising but still disturbing as hell.
"Day forty-five of the disappearance of musician Derek Jimenez," said a major newscaster from the United States, as Finnish Triplet Number One (apparently the one approved to talk to me) smiled next to me and poked me in my right side. "He vanished from a fair in Russia. Despite hundreds of tips, none have led to Jimenez--"
"Vanish," Finnish Triplet Number One said. "Like 'poof'.' Like magic, no?" He poked my side again.
I nodded and managed a fake smile.
"See? You are smiling. It is not so bad. I bring you delicious Finnish dessert, no?" He went on about some pastry thing that I tried to focus on, but could not.
When he left, I paced and cried and then wept uncontrollably for a long time, shaking my head and missing my life and my old self, who had been happy and healthy and thriving.
The next day, all the terrible thoughts started: What if my band mates thought I wanted to leave? What if the band and Trey had planned this? What if the record company had planned this? A fan? The Russian government? My parents? Friends? My thoughts grew increasingly paranoid. I did my best to be logical and rational about each suspicion.
Within a few more days, the captors set up a computer and said I could do almost anything except send or receive emails.
I began researching trauma, PTSD, and related subjects, not caring if the captors asked why.
*****
At the concert, there was a small break. We went backstage, sipped drinks, had a couple of snacks, used the restroom. Jake hugged me sideways and said nothing, but wiped underneath his eyes. Thomas walked past us, mumbling into his cell phone, and shook my left shoulder.
I winced. The captors did not seriously injure me but had threatened repeatedly about the possibility of torture, starting with "your weak left shoulder." Somehow an old injury had healed well, but I still had some discomfort now and then, especially when the stupid men messed with it, like the day Finnish Triplet Number One muttered early one morning,"If you don't watch news with us," as he woke me up. "If you don't watch." He shoved my left shoulder.
I sat up, yawned, looked around at the huge room where I slept, rolled my eyes and almost gave in to the urge to act hysterical. It was ridiculous, this situation. What did they want? They only taunted me if I asked. They would not tell me who they were, or where we were.
Reluctantly, I sat in front of the TV.
Yet another newscaster: another famous one from the United States. "Musician Derek Jimenez has been missing for five months since last being seen at a fair in Irkutsk, Russia. No one has claimed responsibility."
"Watch this," Finnish Triplet Number One said. He flipped to another station.
"Breaking news on the disappearance of Derek Jimenez," said another journalist. "The Committee For Fair Representation Of Culture has claimed responsibility for his disappearance."
The camera flipped to Finnish Triplet Number One dressed quite expertly as a teenaged boy who said, "Yes, this a real group. I know of them. They fight for culture rightly represented."
Finnish Triplet Number One nudged me. "They could find us. Or you. But people stupid. They want, but they do not use brains." He sighed, stood, stretched, swore at length in Russian using intimate body parts as adverbs and gerunds in ways I had never heard before, and smiled his way out of the room with his lookalikes.
*****
Back onstage. Song number eleven.
Eleven.
I felt nauseated but continued playing.
*****
"Heppy bird day do oo. Heppy bird day do oo. Heppy bird day, deeeeer Dare-reek." Heppy bird day do oo."
The six men could sing and harmonize well, despite four of them mangling the words. If they were not my captors and if I had had never known them in such a traumatic way, I might have hired them as singers in a different life.
"You know it is eleventh of the month, yes?" The Russian said. "We bring you Chinese food and cake and liquor and girly magazines. You like?"
"Yes, thank you," I said, feeling dazed and robotic. As long as I moved about in such a way, they appeared to be least likely to threaten or taunt.
I ate birthday cake with the captors. They chatted about neutral topics: no politics, no current events, nothing about the arts. Mostly sports -- which wasn't too bad a topic but still it was with THEM -- and weather and how to keep the building and base/mining camp clean. There was a brief hint that they knew what I was researching on the Internet, but the Englishman frowned and shook his head, and they changed the subject.
*****
There was cake backstage during the second break of the concert. I looked away and almost retched. I paced a bit, shaking my head, frowning, sighing, breathing fast. No cake for me, not for a long time, hopefully never.
I stopped and looked around. Some things had changed. Upon my return, a few people on our staff had resigned, saying they no longer felt safe among us. One had accused us of staging the abduction to increase record sales. Another considered filing lawsuits, then apologized. Our record label called us in for a meeting once I had been released, and gave us a grilling which was startlingly familiar to the police interrogations. Then the record label dropped us, saying they did not believe my story.
I winced, hating the the entire situation. I wanted my old life back.
Then I smiled a tiny bit. From wherever they had gone, the captors had released a series of photos of them and their time with me, with my face pale and drawn and strained, and their stupid faces happy and healthy and apparently untroubled. Almost everyone who said they did not believe, suddenly believed.
"Derek." Fletcher was at my side again. "You good for the whole show?"
"Yeah."
"Tough night again."
"Yes. I'm so nauseated. Having flashbacks twenty-four seven."
"Gross. Just six more songs left. Then you can rest."
"Our longest ones, though."
"Then sleep, perhaps."
"I hope."
Back onstage, the epic songs went on and on.
I longed for my bed.
*****
Sleep was troubled at first, in captivity. I wondered if they would harm or kill me. I wondered if they would keep me forever. I wondered if they would make me do awful things.
Then sleep was an escape. Sometimes too much.
They did not do much to affect this, except for the Finnish triplets waking me to watch the news now and then.
Early one morning yet another newscaster informed us, "Musician Derek Jimenez has been missing for almost eight months. The Committee For Fair Representation Of Culture continues to claim responsibility but no such group has been found anywhere in the world. However, according to this source, who asked not to be identified, he says a simple search would lead to the whereabouts of the group and Jimenez."
The camera flipped to a very obvious silhouette of the rectangular Englishman, who said without any distinguishable accent, "This group exists. With all the technology and advancements in social media and intelligence and interpersonal awareness of the last decade or so, how can you not have knowledge of this group?"
I almost laughed at all of it. The news coverage was not very thorough; the group name was lame; the situation was terrible. I almost started a fight with the Finnish triplets.
After studying their huge hands and the tattoos on them, I just continued watching.
*****
Five more songs. Only one song had passed since the last break?
Fletcher sang like a legend. Jake's drums were epic. The bass bounced like Thomas's personality. Brian's keyboards sounded like an entire orchestra.
My guitar pick snapped; I tossed the pick and played with my hands, moved to the microphone, grabbed another.
I remembered Finnish Triplet Number One's comments about this very activity during one Tryplex concert he insisted on watching with me.
*****
"You break pick, you get another that easily," he said as we watched one of our concerts performed in Moscow.
"Yes." One-word answers earned me the gold star daily.
"You show me."
He brought in two microphones covered with picks, two electric guitars ("You break, I break you" he threatened), and two small amps.
We spent several days at this activity.
We were interrupted by the Frenchman who said, "Ze ladies are here."
Finnish Triplet Number One said, "Pardon us, Dare-reek. We must go. I leave front door unlocked. You don't leave the base. Understand?"
I nodded.
After they left, I put the guitar down and retched. The stress of being away from my life was too much. I felt sick and nauseated, and wondered if I would stop losing weight, despite eating well. I felt sad and distraught. I did not want to be here.
When I felt less stressed, I explored.
Only several feet out of the building, I found only endless acres of flat land with distant mountains. Where could I possibly go without weapons, transportation, food, water? They kept everything locked up and carried rifles and guns when we moved about together.
I returned to the building.
For several days, I heard the men and some women laughing and talking as the men came and went with my meals.
*****
Onstage, still on the fifth to the last song.
Something in me shifted. I felt a tiny bit better. Or, more accurately, slightly less stressed.
I passed an intricate part of the song involving finger-picking. The crowd cheered.
I smiled and did not look up. Disappointingly, I felt nauseated again, and exhausted. Four and a half more songs. It felt like a chore. Then my enthusiasm flickered, trying to grow stronger. I remembered about loving the craft. I concentrated and was pleased with the remainder of this song.
Next. Fourth to the last. Fletcher's voice started out soft; it was a ballad. One of our more popular songs. It went quickly.
Third to last. I faked my enthusiasm this time; the dread and nausea returned. I recalled vague information from a couple of weeks of acting lessons: relax, feel your emotions, improvise ... oh, who cared; whatever. I didn't care at this point, wanted to leave the stage, felt so nauseated, what was the point? Why did so many people get together to watch five men mess around with objects made out of wood and metal? What the effing. I studied the crowd and my band mates as I played, exploring those thoughts, then felt the enthusiasm fade.
The dread and PTSD returned.
*****
"Why you are musician?" Finnish Triplet Number One asked one morning.
""Why you are Finnish and speak English like Russian?" I asked, only vaguely worried about the consequences of asking this. Plus, it came out all at once, on the first try.
I felt like throwing up. Would I ever be a musician again? Captivity had passed eight and a half months, moving toward eight and three fourths. Would they mess with me and end my life at the ironic time frame of nine months?
"Why you are musician?" Finnish Triplet Number One asked again, as if I had said nothing at all.
An answer, probably way too long, formed in my mind. However, I was now having trouble accessing words and speaking, and mild difficulty planning ahead.
A few sounds emerged from my mouth: "Well, once, I, well, then--"
Finnish Triplet Number One waved a big hand, stood up, and said, "Look into being doctor, lawyer, engineer. You still young in your twenties." They left.
I frowned at all of this, and sat there for far too long, trying to figure out exactly what I had hoped to say, and also feeling embarrassed that the words had emerged so jumbled.
This happened several times. Each time, they either listened patiently or suddenly had something to do. Each time I wondered what was wrong with me. I did more research about trauma and PTSD and thought about all of it. My best guess was that the extensive trauma of sudden and prolonged displacement had caused temporary or permanent damage to my brain, focusing on the language centers.
I fought this word thing. It was difficult. The words were there and wanted to come out, but the physical act of speaking had become challenging.
*****
Words were difficult during the police interrogation. They studied me, questioned me, took pictures of my too-thin frame, asked if I had been tortured.
They frowned when I paused before answering.
I said, "Not physically."
"You were tortured emotionally?"
"Yes. Taunted. Provoked. They ... they ... they. Well. Would not answer my questions. Threatened to harm my b-b-b-band mates. Threatened to harm me."
"They fed you?"
"Yes."
"Why you are so thin?"
"I walked a lot. And volunteered to work. They were renovating the base ... military base ... mining thing ... whatever it was."
"Why you suddenly tell us this?" The lead investigator looked through his notes.
The work had been unwelcome and unwanted and made me almost faint with how far away it was from being a professional musician, but I still felt a tiny sense of accomplishment at the end of the days when I had assisted with painting and masonry and electrical systems and some maneuvering of forklifts. A tiny part of me wanted to work rather than weep over my lost life.
I said, "I rarely think of it. I wanted b-b-b-badly to be onstage playing my ... my guitar. Not there, doing all that stuff. I've b-b-blocked out a lot of the work."
The social worker and doctor studied me and looked at each other.
The doctor said, "I see video of you before abduction. Your speech is different. You have stutter."
"I know," I said. "Much different."
*****
Second to the last song. The third had come and gone, slowly but surely.
I concentrated, with part of my mind greatly looking forward to sleeping. I might talk to my parents before retiring.
Thinking of them made me smile a tiny bit.
*****
The Finnish Triplets and I were watching the news again early one morning when my parents were featured at a news conference.
"Why they look angry?" Finnish Triplet Number One asked. "I mean ... why their face look like that. Yours, too."
I sort of understood him. Hoped I could make a joke. What else could I do. Make the terrible situation more cheerful? Why not.
I said, "I like to call that resting Mexican face."
"Resting ... Mexican ... face. Like they look angry even when they do not want to."
"Yes."
"Oh." The triplets laughed. Finnish Triplet Number One punched my right shoulder. Hard. "That is funny."
I held back protests and exclamations of pain.
On the screen, my mother said, "Joo ... whoever joo are ... joo have my son? Why don't joo bring him back to me? Even in the pieces joo must have heem in by now?" She wiped under her eyes. My father patted her back. My mother added, "Why joo make hees mother suffer so?"
Finnish Triplet Number One turned off the TV. "Why you don't talk like that?"
"Because I grew up around many people. Not just them."
"You have unusual accent. Like ... like ... like Valley girl mixed with Sylvester Stallone."
My mind had all the words ready. I wanted a long, intellectual conversation about how location affected accents. My mouth said, "Oh. Well. I free up, I mean ... grew up ... in a lot of places." Then I tried to speak but the words would not emerge, and I felt my face frowning and squinting. I had a vague realization that the desire to be in my old life doing the things I loved, was behind this so strongly that my body refused to cooperate at times. Good. At least there was some resistance.
Finnish Triplet Number One's mouth twisted. "Hm." He turned the TV on again and watched multiple broadcasts of my parents.
When he left, I saw him wiping his eyes.
*****
One song left.
More accurately, there would be one song left after the break followed by a ten minute break during which the fans would hope there would be a finale. Then we would perform the finale: an extended version of one of our more popular songs, followed by lengthy bows and thank yous.
Bedtime was still well into the future.
I sighed and studied my guitar. It was in excellent condition. My band mates had kept my belongings safe.
Terrible thoughts poked at me, much like Finnish Triplet Number One had: what if I did not have the support of my band mates? What if they had been harmed or killed? What if the band's future had been affected even more? What if I were not still in music, and instead doing something I preferred not to do, to earn a living? I searched for the others and for several long seconds could not find any of them. Why weren't they backstage? Then Jake emerged from the restroom; Brian stood up from a low couch; Thomas and Fletcher chatted somewhere behind me.
A hand touched my back; I flinched and gasped and froze.
"Sorry," Fletcher said as he moved to my right side. "Just making sure you are truly standing here."
I regarded him with affection and wonder. Exactly what I needed to hear.
He shook his head; his eyes filled with tears. "I thought we'd never see you again."
I hugged my guitar close.
Fletcher frowned at this. "I can't say I hate. It's just not me. But I'd like to give them a good talking-to. About how you do that." Tears streamed out of his eyes. "You were so peaceful and happy before. Look at this. You'll be okay until you can get to bed?"
I did not have to look at my face; I felt the strain and the effort to be present. My arms wrapped around my guitar, not wanting to let go. My breathing rate had increased again. My jaw was clenched.
Something abruptly felt a tiny bit better; something eased, perhaps a lessening of the tense and frantic need to escape dangers that existed in memory, and a minuscule sense of some peace.
"I have to," I said. "I don't want to disappoint the fans. They pay our bills."
Fletcher cried and wiped his face. "You'll be okay, Derek. I can see the suffering in your face, but you will be okay."
*****
At nine months and two days of captivity, the captors told me to get ready to leave.
I did so.
They asked me to walk with them to a different van from the first -- one with windows -- and allowed me to sit near one.
We drove for a long time. There were bathroom breaks and Mongolian food for me.
They politely asked if I would close my eyes during certain portions of the trip. I did so.
Eventually, they told me it was time to get out of the van.
I got out and they drove away.
After a few minutes, I was able to use my phone.
*****
The last song was over. We enjoyed a long farewell, then I rushed to the bathroom and retched and trembled.
Everything ... everything ... everything ... captivity, being released, all that came after, the challenges and stresses of touring ... I retched for quite some time.
*****
When the van had disappeared into the distance, I used my phone to call Fletcher.
"This better be you, Derek," he answered in a deadly calm way.
I wept at the sound of his voice.
"Derek? Oh, please, don't be almost dead."
"Fletcher. Please. Oh, god."
"Where are you?"
I described the location.
"On my way," he said. "I've become an expert in Russian geography."
Thirty minutes later, he arrived, opened the door of his car, jumped out, and rushed to me.
"You're skinny," he said. "WHY ARE YOU SKINNY? Did they TORTURE you?"
"Nole-ly, mole-ly, only ... emotionally."
"What's wrong? Why can't you talk?"
He had lost weight too.
"We better call the p-p-police," I said.
*****
The police questioned us together, then separated us.
They interrogated me yet allowed breaks and even some time to sleep. A doctor and social worker joined us.
Finally, after a day, they let me reunite with my band mates.
They entered the room, one by one. Fletcher moved to my right side, crying. Jake searched for me and burst into tears. Thomas and Brian took turns hugging me.
We sat without words for a long time.
Jake continued to cry. "What is wrong with this world?"
I shook my head. "Same things since the dawn of time, different millenniums."
"You sound dead."
"I feel dead."
"What if we can't perform anymore?"
I bowed my head. "We will. We should. I hope we do."
The police said we could leave.
We went to the warehouse where we rehearsed, and sat around a desk.
Fletcher said, "Derek, too soon to show you how this has affected the business?"
"No. Show me."
We all looked over spreadsheets, receipts, expenses, income, and other paperwork.
I wanted to throw up yet again. Managed to say, "So we work more, and forget about vacation or holidays for about a year. Or two."
"That's what we hoped to do if you ... when you ...." Fletcher wept and I held him.
*****
A day later, we had a meeting with the record label.
After they interrogated us and then dumped us, we returned to the warehouse and posted our individual resumes online. Just in case this band thing suddenly ended.
Ten minutes later our manager began receiving text messages and phone calls about fake documents with our names being submitted to job sites. The sites, without contacting our manager or us, removed the resumes and threatened to take legal action should we continue to have the audacity to seek honest work in the face of adversity.
Our manager protested long and loud, with all the proof necessary, but the sites would not accept anything from us, and had no regard for our potential loss of employment and income.
*****
We searched for another record label.
During the search I attempted to visit the girl in Vladivostok so I could give her the orange knit cap. Two government agents accompanied me, claiming multiple reasons including that her parents "had a history that was inconsistent with patriotic feelings." I said nothing, not even when the girl's father met us at the gate of the house and said, "You three have ten seconds to leave my property." and pointed a rifle at me.
As we walked away, the girl shouted from somewhere behind us, "I will bet that you faked the so-called kidnapping, Derek, you fake faker. Anything to provoke the public into capitalism. You traitor."
*****
We made a list of record labels, narrowed down our preferences, and approached the ones we wanted, most preferred to least preferred. Number three on the list, after several long meetings, signed us.
*****
At the first post-captivity concert, I trembled and shook frequently, from waking in the morning to falling into bed later that night. Everything about it gave me flashbacks to the fair, to the first ride in the van, to the nine months at the base, to the stupid men taunting me, to the loss of my usual life and all that had made me happy.
Fletcher and Jake insisted on sleeping on the floor in my bedroom.
"It'll go away," Fletcher said. "The reactions. Eventually."
"I hope so," I said.
*****
Two concerts and a few hours later, I was still in the bathroom: shaking, retching, and feeling dull.
"Derek?" Fletcher asked outside the bathroom stall.
"Almost done."
"Come on. Let's go home. It's not far away."
I could not sleep during the drive. When we finally got home, I kept my guitar close.
"Good night," Brian and Thomas said, as they went upstairs with their girlfriends.
"Good night," Jake and Fletcher said together. I smiled and nodded.
Jake prepared drinks for himself and Fletcher. I declined.
"No liquor for now," I said. "Makes me think of them."
Jake put his drink aside. He went to one of the windows and looked out.
"It'll get better," Fletcher said. "Even if only a little bit."
I nodded.
Jake said, "One of those agents is here. Mikhail. The one with the American wife."
"He's cool," Fletcher said. "Quiet, respectful, sometimes funny."
Jake nodded and opened the door. "Good evening. Please come in."
"Thank you." Mikhail, a tall slim man with a silvery blond crew cut, entered and nodded at me. "Gentlemen. Perhaps we could chat for a while."
"Of course," I said. "Please make yourself at home. Would you like something to drink?"
"Water, please."
"Ice?"
"No, thank you."
We sat in the living room and sipped water.
Mikhail said, "Derek. You would like vengeance?"
I imagined many things. "The only vengeance that would be satisfactory: that this had never happened. I will be recovering the rest of my life. The PTSD, which was mild before the abduction, is now severe. Had this not happened, I would be happy and healthy and thriving, joyful and hopeful, more at peace and less exhausted. I am always nauseated and tired. Happiness is a faint memory. I can work. I can ... well ... devote myself to my craft and do that as well as I can. But ... recovery will be slow. I wish this had never happened."
Mikhail nodded. He frowned then stood and said, "I will go, then."
We said goodnight.
Jake resumed his post near the window.
Fletcher and I sat again.
The house grew silent. Upstairs, Thomas and Brian talked and socialized with their girlfriends.
I woke up, not realizing I had fallen asleep, when my phone buzzed. It was an hour later. I checked the screen and found a text message with a video and a screen shot.
A few minutes later I said, "Look."
Jake and Fletcher watched a video with me.
Mikhail's face appeared, then he showed a room with the six captors sitting on folding chairs. Mikhail said, "You are all free to go. He seeks no retaliation."
Finnish Triplet Number One said, "Just like that."
"Yes."
They stood.
Mikhail said, "Perhaps you will make a contribution to a facility that provides services to those who live with post-traumatic stress disorder. Right now. Using this so-called modern technology that is so easy to use. And after that, perhaps all six of you will find new jobs. Perhaps as doctors, lawyers, or engineers."
Finnish Triplet Number One stiffened. He stared straight ahead, groped in one of his pockets, pulled out a cell phone and messed with it for a while.
"Would this be sufficient?" he said.
Mikhail studied the phone. "More than. Leave, please. You're still young. Late thirties is not too late to pursue second careers."
The men left.
The text message under the attachment had a link to an Internet address, along with a screen shot of a headline: "Breaking News: Anonymous $25,000 donation made to Siberian hospital, specifies treatment of post-traumatic stress disorder."
Jake said, "Whatever."
Fletcher said, "Ditto."
I sighed and sat back and felt a song sifting through the trauma. The song flickered, found itself, formed, moved through my synapses, passed along nerve cells and multiple connections that had not made contact since the fair just outside Irkutsk, moved along the same tracks other songs had taken, traveling familiar pathways until it emerged, fully formed, ready to be accessed and shared.
"Wow," I said. "The Craft Of It."
"Hm?" Jake said as he frowned.
"That is my next song."
"Sounds like a class at one of those art and hobby supply stores," Fletcher said.
"Yeah," I said. "But it's only a working title."
"What does it sound like?" Jake said.
We began chatting, humming phrases, trying out words.
It was not like before; changes were there: my sighing and occasional frowning; Jake staring into the distance, Fletcher's solemn face. The place was quiet; other than rehearsing and concerts, we no longer appreciated sound levels above normal conversation. The agents took turns arriving and leaving outside. We flinched at random noises.
Terrible thoughts returned: what if I did not have them? What if I were alone, without Fletcher to my right and Jake to my left?
Abruptly, I wept, aware of the act, yet also felt far away.
I had a vision of being alone with my tears, of needing comfort and only imagining the comfort around me: a quiet space; the gift of understanding if only from myself toward myself; the same for the gift of emotional support and acknowledging my emotions; being patient with my progress, no matter how slowly it went; finding some peace in the depths of sleep.
I felt the tears slowing, felt the flashbacks receding, felt my friends nearby.
Fletcher's voice brought me back. "We're here, Derek."
"I can't stop crying," I said.
"Why wouldn't you cry," Jake said. He frowned; his mouth twisted; he wiped under his eyes. "Think about all of it."
The flashbacks looped around again, swiftly: the sweet life before the fair; the threats leading to the trip in the van; the months without my life and growing increasingly agitated and despondent; the days and days and months of wanting my guitars and my band mates and my life back; the release; reuniting.
"It's okay to cry," Fletcher said.
Soon, we chatted again about the new song.
"Alone With My Tears," I said. "That's the title."
The love of our craft broke through, turning frowns into half-smiles; turning somber tones of voices into happier sounds; turning silence into our voices singing at first tentatively then firmly, as yet another song finally moved from idea ... to discussion ... to experimenting ... to its first draft release into the quiet evening.
THE END THE END THE END
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