Anthony Melchiorri - Shipwrecked in Siberia

“Let’s go.” Belskiy’s raspy voice cracked through the early morning darkness.

Shukshin looked toward the window of the drafty room where Belskiy stood. A shimmer of orange approached the horizon, chasing away the loitering stars. The thick covers, matted and clumped, were still more welcoming than the blankets of snow outside.

“Yes,” Shukshin said, “but I’ve got to feed Dusha first.”

Belskiy muttered something incomprehensible about the dog lying next to Shukshin’s feet and left the room. His boots smacked against the creaking floorboards and down the wooden stairs.

Shukshin sat upright in his bed and swung his legs over the side. His ragged undergarments were soaked in a hot sweat beneath the sweater and trousers he had worn to bed. Still, the air around him stung the exposed skin of his face. Dusha stretched at his feet, her front legs spread wide, her long tail arched in the air, and her tongue curled out of her mouth.

“Good girl.” Shukshin rubbed her head, twisting his fingers in the coarse fur behind her perched, alert ears. “Good girl.”

Dusha wagged her tail, licking Shukshin’s knuckles. He opened his hand to her, revealing the calloused and rough skin of his palms. She licked that, too. Her brown eyes gazed up at him and her tail beat the air.

Reaching into the olive canvas bag at the foot of his bed, Shukshin pulled out a husk of dried bread. He tore it into crumbling pieces, feeding them to Dusha. Dusha lapped up the food, letting Shukshin pet her.

When Dusha finished, Shukshin stood up. He stretched out, and breathed in the cold air. Shukshin picked up his bag and motioned for Dusha to follow him. She wagged her tail in agreement and padded after him.

Shukshin sat across from Belskiy at the small table in the front of the inn’s meager café. A grizzled woman brought him a plate of round, doughy syrniki topped with sour cream. The syrniki was not cooked thoroughly and Shukshin bit into a sour, creamy layer of cottage cheese. He winced and Belskiy laughed at him.

“Is this not fit for Queen Shukshin?”

With a glare, Shukshin emitted a disgruntled groan and continued to slurp down the food. The food, though lukewarm, provided a stark contrast to the dry, frigid air. That was enticing enough. Shukshin ate half the syrniki and gave the rest to Dusha, wiping his hands clean on his pants. Without a word, Belskiy stood and nodded his head toward the front door, already donning his thick gloves with fur lining. Shukshin followed suit, motioning to Dusha to follow him. The three walked in a line out the door of the inn, letting a rush of cold air ornamented with blusters of snowflakes burst into the inn. Shukshin paused in the open door, realizing he’d forgotten his canvas bag. Belskiy held the door as Shukshin retrieved the bag.

“Hurry, hurry!” The burly woman, her shawl wrapped tight around her head and a wolfish scowl on her face, threw her hands in the air, waving the men out the door. “We don’t want to freeze to death in here!”

The heavy gurgle of the diesel engine accompanied the distant howl of gray wolves. The call to the pack pierced through the incessant growl of the old KAMAZ truck. Following Shukshin, the drone of the truck’s engine and its oily black smoke coughing into the air was as familiar as his shadow. He could not turn the thing off lest the truck freeze itself to death in the taiga.

In the short walk from the inn to the truck, Shukshin’s beard and eyebrows were white with frost and snow. He opened the door, letting Dusha jump into the cabin of the truck. The dog shook the snow and ice out of her fur. She jumped into the passenger seat and curled up, biting at the ice that stuck between the pads in her paws.

Shukshin grabbed a metal scraper from the cabin and shut the creaking door, its hinges screaming in pain at the cold that had settled in its dented metal shell. After hoisting himself high enough onto the front bumper, Shukshin managed to clear away the ice from the windshield. He looked ahead in the biting wind. Illuminated by the truck’s headlights, gusts of snow and ice streamed across the stark landscape. Belskiy cleared away the ice and snow that caked the man’s old four-wheel-drive UAZ-469. The image before Shukshin staggered and broke like a decaying black and white film. He wished he could be back in Tomsk, watching the scene as if it were indeed only a movie, sheltered from the cutting chill around him. Instead, the wind whipped at his face and stung at his eyes. Tears welled up as he tried to protect his eyes with a gloved hand. “Are you ready yet?”

Belskiy looked back at Shukshin and waved his hand. He said something in return, but his voice was lost in the wind. Belskiy disappeared into the light truck, so Shukshin opened the door to his beastly vehicle. He climbed into the worn seat. The fabric covering underneath him gave away to cheap, cracked plastic. From the vantage point in the big diesel KAMAZ, Shukshin could see over the smaller 4x4 that Belskiy drove. Belskiy’s 4x4’s engine roared, shaking the vehicle from the rusted hood to the winch attached to the rear frame of the small but punchy vehicle.

Shukshin gripped the steering wheel, his arms vibrating with the shaking of the truck as he applied pressure to the gas pedal. The truck lurched forward. Snow crunched under the truck’s heavy tires as he followed Belskiy onto the blanketed roadway. Through the combined rhythmic swish of the windshield wipers and the hypnotic swirl of the falling snow, exhaustion and the warm air that circulated the cabin begged Shukshin to shut his eyes. Dusha, however, sat alert in the passenger seat. She barked at Shukshin when the truck jerked or wavered. Her eyes settled somewhere beyond the rumpled blue hood of Belskiy’s vehicle.

The burgeoning sunlight peaked above the horizon and glinted on the tall snowdrifts that graced the trunks of towering pine trees, bent in the wind. A blanket of packed snow buried the road. Shukshin had to use the clearings between the trees and the occasional erect steel bar with a minuscule, ripped, whipping orange flag to judge where the road hid beneath the white.

The two-vehicle convoy crawled through the wintry flurries and broke through mounting snowdrifts forming in the roadway. If Shukshin let his mind wander, he imagined their trucks were equivalent to majestic ships, with sails spread across the horizon, exploring the high seas with determination and vigor. Dusha stared hard into the snow as though searching for land from the crow’s nest on the mast of a frigate, completing the vision. Certainly, the week-long journey across hundreds of icy kilometers to deliver supplies to remote villages made him a noble, brave explorer of the taiga. Snow drifts were not so different than white-capped waves, though the crew of his vessel consisted of a sole wolfish mutt.

Driving onward, the sun crept up along their starboard side. Shukshin risked taking his hand off the wheel to rub Dusha’s head, watching her eyes close and her tail thump against the back of her seat. With a start, Dusha opened her eyes and barked with a ferocious, deep woof. Shukshin’s heart raced and his hands shot instinctively to the brittle plastic wheel, holding his breath in worried concentration. Belskiy’s red taillights gleamed in the downpour of snow and Shukshin slammed on his brakes. The truck lurched sideways. Shukshin spun the wheel madly. He struggled to achieve a balance between keeping his truck on the road and preventing it from flipping. The heavy beast skidded forward, still approaching Belskiy’s stopped truck. Dusha barked in excitement. Shukshin laid on the horn as a final effort and the truck bellowed.

Belskiy’s taillights disappeared and the truck fishtailed for a moment. The unhooked end of the tow on the winch swung wildly and the truck abruptly shot forward, finally obtaining a panicked grip on the road. Shukshin’s foot had gone numb, pressed onto the brake pedal, and his lungs burned. The truck stopped after a final jolt and settled evenly on all four rugged tires.