Galina Petrovna's Three-Legged Dog Story

by Andrea Bennett

  They were offered no food or refreshment of any kind.

  Galia had wanted to ask about Pasha and Kislovodsk, and thank Grigory Mikhailovich for his help, but every time she collected her thoughts and screwed up her courage, either Zoya or Grigory Mikhailovich would make some sort of breakthrough in preparing their case and the words would be forgotten for a few minutes again. Her own bit of ancient history seemed to have no place in the discussions raging around the table. She felt silly for wanting to bring it up. She gazed at the old map of the Soviet Union hanging on the wall, and picked out Azov, a tiny speck on the mid-western side. She felt a sudden urge to go home.

  ‘Right! That’s all settled then!’ crowed Zoya, triumphant, beaming.

  ‘Is it?’ asked Galia.

  ‘Galia, you really don’t have the necessary physical and mental stamina for this, do you, my dear? I can see you are thinking of your vegetable patch and your dog.’

  Galia blushed slightly as she stumbled over a denial. ‘No, I was just thinking about how large our old Soviet Union was, that’s all.’

  ‘Ah, bless!’ said Zoya a little acidly, and started rolling up maps and sorting papers in to alphabetical order. She hopped around the table, hands darting to and fro, as Grigory Mikhailovich stood silent and still, the great heaving of his chest every so often as he drew air in and then expelled it with a whistle the only indication that he was living. His bright blue eyes were unfocused now, his puffy hands limp by his sides. Galia wondered again whether this old bear actually had any influence with today’s ‘new Russian’ ministries.

  ‘He would have known what to do, mark my words.’

  ‘Who would, Grigory Mikhailovich?’

  The old man turned his eyes to Galia and stared through her for at least thirty seconds, before a switch flicked somewhere within the mysterious and calcified network that was his brain, and he remembered exactly who she was. He blinked.

  ‘Ladies, I will bid you goodnight,’ roared Grigory Mikhailovich, suddenly lumbering towards them, and somehow herding them towards the door without them knowing it, their small, backward steps taking them swiftly towards the open doorway. ‘It is late, and we have a busy day tomorrow. Make yourselves comfortable. Sleep where you like. I generally do.’ And with that, Grigory Mikhailovich closed the door in their faces, shutting them out in the echoing gloom of the hall.

  ‘What does that mean?’ asked Galia, her voice wavering slightly.

  ‘Well, I suppose it means we find a room and go to sleep in it,’ said Zoya, looking a bit baffled herself. ‘He’s an old man, he’s probably forgotten—’

  ‘Forgotten how to have guests,’ broke in Galia.

  ‘Yes.’ Zoya sat, briefly, on a sagging chair in the hallway, and gathered her thoughts. A swift sniff on the smelling salts gave her the necessary boost, and away she went, pecking her way into one of the rooms leading off the hall, to build a nest.

  ‘I am so looking forward to the Bolshoi,’ she said with an almost girlish simper as she pressed the door shut.

  ‘Zoya?’ called Galia, but there was no answer, just a vague humming of some Soviet aria, and the sounds of her friend settling down for the night. Galia rubbed her eyes, and then remembered that she shouldn’t rub them. Her belly was empty and growled like a feral kitten, but she was too tired and unhappy to brave an expedition to the old man’s kitchen. She took a deep breath, and set off reluctantly to find a bed.

  11

  A Date with Mitya

  Mitya stroked his right arm with the fingers of his left as he stood in the centre of his room, hot and sticky as a baker’s crotch. He still carried the marks left by Monday’s meeting with the three-legged dog, and the coming-together with his mother. He didn’t mind though. He had hardly noticed the itching as the cuts had turned to scabs and then begun to dry out. Indeed, Mitya’s mind was elsewhere.

  Katya: the girl with the lopsided smile and the musky smell. He tried to remember the exact scent of her, and unthinking, raised his own hand to his face, sniffed his fingers and gently licked their tips. She was everywhere in his mind. All day he’d seen her out of the corner of his eye in every street, when it wasn’t her at all. The nerves had leapt in his chest when he saw any woman who was approximately the same height and colouring. He’d almost run after a small blonde in the market this morning, until he realized it was a babushka in a wig. He saw her everywhere, except where he wanted her to be: at his door.

  He stood in his room, gnawing a freshly clipped fingernail, and replayed, again, their first meeting in the toilet, their subsequent meeting by the bins, and then last night, in the dark of Children’s Play Park No. 4. He recalled every detail, every word, look and sigh. He replayed the image of her jean-clad rump in the air as she stretched out over the ground and under the equipment store, dragging out the half-starved, crying puppies one by one. She had been so brave, so cheerful, and so organised. She had not minded their mess and fuss: she had been wholly intent on getting them out and making them warm. She had snuggled them into his black body-warmer and they had rustled about in its man-made cosiness, seeking a teat for milk. Together they had taken them to the Rosa Luxembourg embankment, where Mitya had waited outside the window as Katya had handed them over to the salivating elderly female citizens, whose eyes glowed as the little bodies were counted in.

  How long he stood there in his room, heart hammering and mind blankly replaying the scenes of the previous day, he didn’t know. But when he came to, he realized with painful clarity that staying in and ironing his uniform tonight, his night off, was out of the question. Tonight, in this warm Azov evening, he needed action and company and the sights and sounds of other people. His own company was not enough this evening. He felt like his brain might explode. Town would be busy, and he wanted to be somewhere where lights shone and music played and the wind blew through the trees. He struggled free of his dressing gown as if it was crushing his very soul, and stood panting and naked, save for a pair of white socks and brown rubber flip-flops. The place where his mother had caught him with the sickle throbbed, and he stared at the long thin scab for a moment. A noise in the doorway startled him.

  ‘You want to fucking shut your door, you fucking dog-murdering weirdo!’ cackled Andrei the Svoloch from the threshold. Mitya had just enough time to consider that what Andrei the Svoloch had said was in fact true, before he added. ‘Hey Oxana, want to come and see something funny? Come and look at this loser!’

  In one movement, Mitya leapt across the tiny room and crashed against the door, slamming it shut with his body just as a toxic cloud of cheap perfume and big orange hair appeared to engulf Andrei. What was wrong with him? How could he make a mistake like that? He never left the door open. And then a thought chilled his soul like a shadow across a baking Black Sea sunbather: had he wanted to be caught naked in his room? But perhaps not by Andrei? That girl was having a strange effect on him. His routine was empty and unsatisfactory, and his flesh was on fire.

  What Mitya needed, he realized as he gazed down at his feet, was a drink. He opened the pressed cardboard wardrobe and pulled out his usual evening wear: snow-washed blue jeans, brown loafers, red T-shirt and chunky-knit green button-up cardigan. He frowned and sniffed the cardigan: it was not fresh, but it would have to do. He felt better once everything was in place: he felt more like the real Mitya, more in control. Nakedness had a tendency to make his mind race, to make him feel like he was someone else, or maybe no-one at all.

  He collected up his wallet and keys and, having made very sure he had properly locked his bedroom door, left the communal flat. The music from Andrei the Svoloch’s room party was echoing down the stairs, but Mitya hardly heard it. At least the angel wasn’t there. She had promised. He heard a strange squealing coming from Andrei’s room and hurried down the steps, putting the communal flat to the back of his mind. Tonight was going to be special.

  * * *

  The Azov Bar No. 2 – ‘Smile Bar!’ – was Mitya’s habitual spot for informal s
ocial interaction. Until fairly recently it had been a typical old-style bar, simply called ‘Bar No. 2’ and it had contained no seats, just a selection of dirty round tables littered with chipped, empty glasses and spit. The drinks menu had been simple: flat, fishy tasting beer, or vodka. But then as the spirit of hedonism so evident in Moscow and St Petersburg had gradually trickled downstream to backwaters such as Azov, local businessmen had, eventually, recognized an opportunity: what Azov really needed was a proper bar with leatherette sofas and expensive fizzy beer imported from Italy, or at the very least, Poland. So now over-plumped, shiny red couches jostled blistering white plastic tables and a newly tiled floor, that became slippery when wet, for the drinkers’ attention. Taking the place of surly, grizzled old Borya, whose charm had been limited to barking political songs and beating up the more feeble customers, there were now young, attractive, surly waitresses who chewed gum and forgot to fill orders, and mostly sat around in packs, looking bored. The vast majority of customers eked out each drink to last approximately two hours.

  Mitya liked the smell of the bar, it was unusual yet familiar: cleaning fluid and new plastic, seasoned with parmesan and hormones. The strip lights scarring the ceiling were an eye-piercing white and bounced beams like lasers off the collage of mirrors hanging on the walls. A jungle of plastic flowers and shrubs around the doorway completed the bright, confusing effect.

  Mitya squinted as he swaggered in the glare of the bar, taking in the jumble of drunken faces with as nonchalant a glance as he could muster: small groups of tired middle-aged men leered hungrily at larger groups of young girls; large groups of young boys taunted small groups of young girls; young couples gazed into each other’s eyes in wordless wonder, or stared with mute boredom into the dark mosquito buzz of the street. Mitya was unsurprised to see Petya Kulakov at the mauve-and-green studded bar, leaning heavily on another comrade, known as Big Vova. Both the policemen were liquid with sweat and Mitya could sense their hum from the doorway, above the parmesan and the cleaning fluid.

  He negotiated the plastic jungle and laser beams, albeit with a slight throbbing at the left temple, and arrived at the bar with a sense of quiet triumph.

  ‘What do you want?’ a pouting waitress with raven black hair acknowledged his presence while examining her long, purple nails.

  ‘A beer – lager.’

  ‘Small? Big?’ the effort of speaking seemed to pain her, and she rolled her eyes seeking divine assistance.

  ‘Big.’ Mitya felt he really should add a quietly muttered ‘bitch’ to his order, but knew if he did he would never receive the beer tonight or any other night, so kept quiet.

  ‘Hey, Mitya, hey-hey-hey! How you doing, brother?’ Petya Kulakov lurched into Mitya’s personal space and slapped him on the back with a tepid, damp hand.

  ‘Good, thanks, Kulakov. Just taking a break from business, you know.’ He cleared his throat and made a lunge for his beer, wishing Kulakov would stand further away from him. He had to make a kind of limbo move to drink his beer while avoiding a collision with Kulakov’s baby-soft jowls, and he could feel the spirit fumes vaporising from the policeman, making his eyes water. He would never understand how people could drink vodka. At the back of his mind he wondered if Kulakov might just spontaneously combust when he lit the bent fag stuck to the corner of his lip.

  ‘Business, business: we are all businessmen now! How’s your business, brother? How are those doggies doing? Howling, I should think?’ Kulakov giggled for no reason.

  ‘Yes, the dogs are doing good business. Well, they’re not, but I am, if you see what I mean,’ said Mitya, without a trace of a smile.

  ‘Ha, you’re great, Mitya! I love you, brother.’ Kulakov giggled even more uproariously. ‘But seriously, business is business. I’m glad you walked in: I have something – a little thing, just little – I need to discuss with you.’ Kulakov winked.

  ‘Business?’ squeaked Mitya, and cleared his throat, inwardly berating himself for not doing a warm up and gargle back home. It was the angel’s fault, in actual fact: she had driven his usual preparation far from his mind. But he couldn’t be angry with her. ‘What kind of business?’ This time it came out as a cold, harsh question, just the way he had intended.

  ‘We share a secret, you know, you and I?’

  ‘A secret?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, it’s our secret.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Aw, Mitya you know! It’s your … family secret.’ Kulakov winked again, and nudged Mitya in the ribs.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Mitya repeated, louder, attempting a dismissive tone, and nearly succeeding. He turned away from the drunken policeman and surveyed the bar, squinting in the light.

  ‘Don’t try to push me out, little brother. Mishka, Mitya, I know your secret.’ Mitya turned and Kulakov looked straight into his left eye, and as he did so, Mitya had the distinct and uncomfortable feeling that there was, in fact, some sort of secret. But he didn’t have the faintest idea what it was.

  ‘You’re drunk! And you’re talking shit!’

  ‘No, now come on, you know I’m not talking shit. Kulakov never talks shit, brother. That’s rude. Come on: finish your beer, I’ll buy you another. And don’t worry; it can probably stay our secret, if you want it to. And I’d assume you want it to. It doesn’t have to go anywhere, brother. You know, just … make me happy, keep me sweet. We can negotiate.’

  Mitya took a swig of beer and desperately searched the forgotten corners of his memory ready to drag out and shoot anything he had done or anywhere he had been that wouldn’t stand up to Kulakov’s scrutiny. But he was satisfied: since adulthood, there was nothing in his past that could be useful to Kulakov. He lived a blameless life, devoted to his calling. He generally avoided girls, he was never drunk, he didn’t take drugs or bribes or talk to local government officials. He didn’t even cross the street if the lights told him to stay put.

  ‘Kulakov, I have no secrets, and I don’t need your stupid, made-up, alcoholic’s lies. It’s the vodka in your brain that’s telling you secrets. You should dry out a little. I know a good place where your sort can go, you know.’ Mitya was pleased with his response, delivered in a deep, firm tone, eyes straight ahead. He took another swig of beer and was about to change the subject when Kulakov’s face erupted with a strange, high-pitched howl and he drummed the bar with both palms, like one of those wind-up monkey drummers, and woke a slumbering waitress.

  ‘Ha ha! You’re so funny! Your mama would be proud. Of that, at least, she would be proud. Mad as a fucking Siberian Snow Goose she may be, but she’d love that firm tone of yours. It’s a shame you can’t use it on her, keep her under control a bit. I hear she’s completely unmanageable. We might have to bring her in to the station some time for a bit of treatment, you know? But actually, you’re completely wrong. This one, this secret, is very interesting, and it actually concerns your mother too, God rest her soul.’

  ‘She’s not dead, Kulakov.’

  ‘No, but she will be when this one gets out! She’ll die of fucking heart failure!’ Kulakov’s voice dropped to an oily whisper, ‘I think you will be very interested in having this one kept to ourselves, you know. Especially if you want promotion, or actually, to hang on to your job, or your flat, or anything, really. And if you want your momma to be … calm.’

  Mitya narrowed his eyes, despite himself. What kind of secret could Kulakov be talking about?

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Kulakov. I’m just an ordinary guy.’

  ‘An ordinary guy? Oh Mitya, you’re so modest. You’re the town’s best dog exterminator! The only exterminator, it’s true, but the best, oh yes! No, but anyway, it’s not you, it’s a family member that I’ve heard about. Take a guess?’

  ‘No.’ Mitya leant over his beer and tried to move his elbow away from Kulakov’s soft, damp caress. There was a slyness in the policeman’s eyes that was threatening to swallow him
up. He concentrated on the small purple bowl of dry roast nuts in front of him and selected one that was evenly brown and rounded. He wished Kulakov would go away.

  ‘Hey,’ Kulakov sighed in Mitya’s face, so close that he could taste the policeman’s vodka breath mingling with the nut crumbs in his mouth, ‘don’t you want to get that promotion? You’re not such a young man any more: you want to go up the ladder a bit? You need to impress your bosses.’