Page 75 of Porcelain Vows

We drive in silence through what locals call the Valley of Frozen Shadows. The landscape deserves the melodramatic name— jagged mountains loom beneath heavy clouds, their peaks disappearing into gray nothingness. Stunted trees bend permanently from relentless wind, their branches reaching southward, searching for sun.

Nothing survives here without becoming twisted. Deformed. Adapted to harshness.

What has twenty years in this wilderness done to my mother?

Halfway to Vostok, the driver stops to refuel at an isolated outpost— a cluster of weather-beaten buildings huddled against the elements. While he fills the tank, I stand in the biting wind, staring at the endless white horizon.

For twenty years, I’ve been tormented by the certainty of her death. The possibility of her life is somehow more terrifying.

What if my father lied? What if this journey leads nowhere? What if she’s there but broken beyond recognition? What if she doesn’t remember me? What if she does?

Questions without answers. Emotions without outlets. The kind of bullshit I’ve spent my adult life eliminating.

I could turn back. Return to California. To business. To Stella and Polina. To the life I’ve built on the foundation of believing my mother was murdered.

Instead, I climb back into the UAZ when the driver signals. The choice is already made. Has been since I heard those impossible words from my father’s lips.

We continue through deepening desolation until a structure appears on the horizon— a massive concrete complex sprawling across a barren hillside. Watchtowers punctuate a perimeter fence topped with razor wire. The Soviet star still crowns the main building, though its red paint has mostly flaked away, leaving rust-colored marks in the metal.

Vostok Institute for Mental Health and Rehabilitation.

“Podozhdi zdes’.Wait here,” I tell the driver as we approach the main gate. “I may be several hours.”

He nods, settling back in his seat. Men in this region understand waiting. Winter teaches patience through survival.

The first checkpoint is manned by bored guards who straighten when I approach. I offer identification— not my real passport, but one of several alternatives I keep for situations requiring discretion. Along with it, I slide across a stack of rubles thick enough to make the senior guard’s eyes widen slightly.

“I’m here to see Dr. Reznikov,” I say. “He’s expecting me.”

A lie, but delivered with enough confidence to create doubt. The guard makes a show of examining my documents while his partner makes a phone call. Money disappears into pockets. Gates open. The first barrier falls.

The administrative building smells of cabbage, disinfectant, and the particular mustiness of papers stored too long in damp conditions. A woman with hair pulled so tightly it seems to stretch her features sits behind a desk, typing on an outdated computer.

“I need to see Dr. Reznikov,” I repeat, placing another stack of rubles beside her keyboard. “Family matter.”

Her fingers pause. Eyes flick to the money, then to my face. “Name?”

“Andreev.” Another alias. “Tell him it concerns a long-term patient. Maria Tarasova.”

Something flickers across her features— recognition, perhaps. She lifts a phone, speaks quietly, listens, then nods to herself.

“Third floor. Room 312. Sergei will escort you.”

A security officer materializes, leading me through corridors that grow progressively cleaner and better maintained as we ascend. The third floor houses administration— the domain of those who control rather than those who are controlled.

Room 312 features a heavy wooden door with a brass nameplate: Dr. Mikhail Reznikov, Director. My escort knocks, receives permission to enter, then steps aside as I brush past him.

The office beyond is surprisingly modern compared to the rest of the facility— leather furniture, contemporary art, a computer that wasn’t manufactured during the Soviet era. Behind a substantial desk sits a man in his mid-sixties, gray hair swept back from a broad forehead, brown eyes studying me through rectangular glasses. His expression suggests a lifetime of calculating risk versus reward.

“Mr. Andreev.” He gestures to the chair opposite his desk. “An unexpected visit.”

I remain standing. “I prefer Tarasov.”

His eyebrows lift slightly. “Aleksei Tarasov. The prodigal son returns to his homeland.”

“You know who I am.”

“I make it my business to know the names of powerful men.” He removes his glasses, polishing them with a handkerchief. “Particularly those with connections to my patients.”

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