Jason Overstreet - Beneath the Darkest Sky

“Toropit’sya!” said the guard, his voice getting angry.

I took the bread from my pocket and handed it to James, hoping it wouldn’t further draw the guard’s ire. It did not. He stood there holding his rifle. As I began to move, he turned and led me south, past the long stretch of barracks again, the hungry, aimless, wandering zeks oblivious to us.

We exited the camp and headed toward the train. Waiting beside the tracks was a black vehicle, two unfamiliar officers sitting up front. As we approached, my accompanying guard opened the back door.

“Get in!” he said. And I did.

The car started moving, just the two officers and me inside. I was not scared. I was worried about James but did not fear for my own life. And as the hours passed, and this long drive toward some newer version of hell continued, my nerves stayed calm. Call it faith. Call it experience. Call it bravery. All I was certain of was that a sudden calm washed over me as we began to enter a new type of terrain. We were driving deeper and deeper into a thick woods—so thick that the afternoon sunlight began to fade away. The fir, spruce, and oak seemed to grow taller with each passing minute, the road a little more rugged.

Aboard the Trumpet yacht

Three years earlier

ALL FIVE CABINS ON THE TRUMPET WERE NAMED AFTER AFRICAN wild animals. On that continent, the most impressive and elusive of all of those roaming the land are categorized as the Big Five. They include the lion, elephant, buffalo, leopard, and rhinoceros. Loretta and I were staying in the Lion’s Den on the lower deck.

Dorene’s father wasn’t a hunter but had visited Africa on several occasions and had taken some impressive photographs of the Big Five, all of which decorated the walls of the respective cabins. We hadn’t been aboard the beautiful boat for a minute before James and Ginger begged to have the Rhinoceros Cabin. Something about the animal’s long, pointy horn captivated them.

We had dined on the main deck both nights so far—trout on the first, duck on the second—and had all watched the sunset each night before winding down with butter half cake and tea. The ship’s crew was at our beck and call around the clock.

Upon first laying eyes on the beautiful white yacht, I suddenly had a sweet tooth, as its design reminded me of a big bowl of vanilla ice cream with caramelized almonds sprinkled on top. The round windows dotted along its hull were framed with dark mahogany, and its two decks and railing were made of cedar.

For Loretta and me, the trip up the Atlantic toward Nantucket felt like a second honeymoon, our first having been a simple weekend in Montpelier, Vermont. As I lay on the bed in my white T-shirt and underpants watching her wash her face at the sink, her white silk nightgown shining in the cabin light, I realized how completely attracted I still was to her after eighteen years of marriage.

“Can you imagine getting used to this, Love?” she said, turning to me while pat-drying her face with a washcloth. “I mean, I’d like to think I’m a changed woman, having seen what I saw in Haiti. I certainly consider myself much more of a woman of conscience now. But, still, could you ever see yourself living like this, like a king?”

“All right, Miss Princess and the Pea!”

“No, I’m serious. Could you?”

“In all my life,” I said, hands behind my head on the pillow, legs straight and crossed at the ankles, “I’ve never even taken the time to imagine such luxury.”

“Well, I, for one, Mr. Sweet, am a woman who would like to get used to it.” Her voice sounded playful. “I wish this big ol’ yacht would just keep going and going around the world until our children are all grown up. I’m half joking, but then again… on the serious side… they’re so safe on this boat, so jubilant and carefree. I know it’s a vacation, not the real world, but it’s just special to see all of us so completely together and bonded as a family unit. I’m trying to take it all in, knowing that we are very fortunate to be experiencing this exact moment in time. I feel like you’re the captain that’s keeping us protected. I find it beyond attractive.”

“I’m your captain, huh?” I said, watching her brush her long hair.

“You are my captain, Love. You are the only man on this yacht who could fix it if it broke down… because the helmsman and crew darn sure seem to value your opinion more than I’d expect. And don’t think I haven’t seen the way you’ve been explaining to Bobby how the mahogany was used throughout to offset the white exterior, and how the planking was laid, and the type of fuel—”

“And the hydraulics, the propulsion, the electrical system, the wheel room, the—”

“Stop it, Mister!” She hurried over and jumped in the bed, pretending as if she might land on me.

“That was too close for comfort, lady.” I pulled her close and we lay on our sides face to face. “Sorry I talk like that. You did marry an engineer.”

“No, I married a very sexy engineer.”

“Ty krasivaya,” I whispered in Russian, running my fingers through her long hair.

“What did you say, love?”

“You are beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

“Ya lyublyu tebya,” I said, our noses nearly touching.

“And that means?”

“It means ‘I love you.’ ”

“I love you, too.”

“Why do you brush your hair at night again?”

“Because it pulls the natural oils from my scalp into my hair, and that’s very healthy for it while I sleep.”

“Sleep? Can’t that wait?”

“Oh yeah, love.” She spoke softly. “It can wait a long time.”

She began kissing me and we stayed like this for a while until I ran my hand along her thigh and she opened herself to me. I reached farther under her gown and pulled her black panties off with one hand as she straightened her legs to help me. There was a natural smell to her skin that wasn’t always present—one that I believed indicated how intimate she was feeling. Of course, maybe I just wanted to believe that—my ego at play. Whatever the case, there would be no foreplay tonight, no setting the mood, for I saw in her mirroring eyes what we both were desiring.

Scooting off of the mattress, I stood at the end of the bed and removed my underpants while she remained on her back. “Leave my gown on,” she said, sliding toward me a bit and lifting her long legs up for me to grab. I took both of my hands and placed them on her ankles, pulling her to bed’s edge, where I would remain standing. I slid my hands down to her under-knees, calmly pushing her bent legs back, her gown bunched up at the waist. I leaned forward, my hands still cupping her knees while I entered her. She cried out softly. Once again I felt us becoming one. And I would try to prolong this oneness for as long as possible tonight. My mind had a singular thought: This was the only woman I would ever love.

Weeks later, on August 1, as our train approached Moscow—having chugged from France through Belgium, Germany, and Poland—the eight of us looked out of the windows and I tried to imagine what this new world might be like for us. I thought of the men I’d known who’d been here and had said such positive things. Men like my old poet friend Claude McKay, and my idol, W.E.B. Du Bois. What was the essence of this place that had so captivated these colored gentlemen?

Even the famous poet Langston Hughes had been here just two years earlier. I’d read where he had said of this place: “Folks went out of their way there to show us courtesy. On a crowded bus, nine times out of ten, some Russian would say, ‘ Negochanski tovarish— Negro comrade—take my seat!’ ”