Galina Petrovna's Three-Legged Dog Story

by Andrea Bennett

  ‘I don’t care about promotion, Kulakov,’ said Mitya, ‘I enjoy my job.’

  ‘You want to impress the girls a bit, maybe, with that promotion? I hear you’re not much with the ladies. The guys were saying they thought you were one of those queers, you know, a gay boy, but I said no, not our Mitya. He’s straight as the day is long, it’s just,’ Kulakov sniffed at Mitya’s thick green cardigan. ‘It’s just, you smell of dog shit. Did you know that? You always smell of dog shit. Do you really want to spend your whole life smelling of dog shit and being bitten on the ankle by those mutts? Sooner or later, you’ll find one with rabies, or she’ll find you. You know that, don’t you?’

  Mitya glared into his beer and stuck another dry nut between his teeth.

  ‘You really need a promotion, brother, so that you can get a desk job and dream up strategies for dog extermination rather than having to involve yourself. It’s the way of the world, brother. And for a promotion, you need to impress. And to impress, you need good family.’

  ‘OK, OK, what is it? What is it about my family that you so want to tell me, Kulakov? Just say it, and then fuck off.’ Mitya couldn’t help it. The jibes about smelling of dogs and getting the desk job had got to him. He did his best every night to extinguish the pungent scent of dog crap on his body and clothes, but it was difficult, with no light in the shower cubicle and only one ancient washing tub between the ten of them in the communal flat. He did his best, but the Omo wasn’t great and he couldn’t afford the Ariel. Yes, he did his best, but in the end, he was a man fending for himself, he had no time to write extermination strategies being out on the road so much, and sometimes, just sometimes, he missed that female touch. She would take care of the shit smell, if he had an angel … she would iron his shirts while he made up plans. She would be proud of him.

  ‘Well, now, Mitya, firstly: mind your language. I’m a patient man, and your friend. But I am also a member of the organs of state. And you, as a dog exterminator, are not. I could have you arrested for telling me to fuck off. So just, you know, be nice. You don’t tell me to fuck off, my little dog-killing friend!’ Kulakov ran a chubby finger down the side of Mitya’s face and pinched his chin, playfully.

  ‘What is it you want to tell me, Kulakov?’ anger and frustration gripped Mitya’s throat and his question came out in a soft, strangled croak.

  ‘I want to tell you,’ Kulakov leant in to Mitya’s face, smiling like an old nanny, eyes focused on the wall behind him, ‘that we’ve got your daddy – that is, your real daddy – in the SIZO. He’s a common criminal! Now, what do you think of that?’

  Mitya’s reply was to punch Petya Kulakov right between the eyes with all the force he had and then to keep punching the soft bag of plumpness as it slumped against the bar, blood spurting from eyebrow and nose. He was dully aware of the piercing screams let out by the coven of bored-looking waitresses, but it was just a noise. Kulakov and Mitya fell to the floor with a crack and slap of skin, bone and fat on tile and glass, just as Big Vova came lurching out of the toilet with his zipper open and his fists ready. Smile Bar! patrons scattered like cockroaches as Mitya knocked Kulakov’s head against the green and mauve studs of the bar, while the latter gurgled and tried to gouge Mitya’s eyes out with his stubby, fat fingers

  Big Vova moved quickly: he pulled Mitya off his friend and floored him with a punch that caused trinkets to tinkle against each other in his mother’s apartment on the other side of town. Then Vova kicked him in the stomach like he was scoring a goal against those Spartak Moscow bastards, briefly stopping to acknowledge the cheers of the crowd in his head before hoisting Mitya back to his feet to punch his face a few more times. All the while Kulakov was crawling about on the floor, whining for him to hit harder and lower while he scrabbled about searching for his two front tooth caps. He found the shiny metallic teeth under a stool and shoved them back on to the blackened stumps in the front of his mouth.

  ‘Let’s kill him.’ Kulakov clapped his hands together as Big Vova threw Mitya back on to the tiles. The barmaids watched in silence, as what remained of the customers trickled away into the night. The stereo continued to play, and Mitya, curled up into the fetal position as boots thudded around him, was vaguely aware of Depeche Mode in the background: ‘Master and Servant’ had always been a shitty song. Both policemen spent a happy few minutes kicking the stricken exterminator until they were too tired and breathless to go on.

  When the two policemen were spent, Big Vova ejected Mitya through the fluorescent plastic jungle and out into the Azov night, where he lay on the pavement, face down, while the mosquitoes and moths colonised his capillaries and his green cardigan respectively. He had not felt his flight through the air, and only barely recognized the thump of his face against the walkway. He was dreaming, barely there: seeing dogs floating in a darkness that was deep and all around him: old dogs with scarred, grizzled faces and open sores; top breed dogs with clicking, wobbly hips and hideous holes in their skulls; mother bitches with dozens of swollen teats and tired faces; hungry puppies with their ribs sticking through scant fur and infections eating up their eyes. And somewhere behind them all, an old dog, whose name was Sharik, wagging his tail and holding a red rubber ball in his mouth, looking at him with love.

  ‘Sharik, Sharik, come here, boy!’ Mitya called in a high-pitched voice. The dog seemed unable to come to him. He called again, but the dog began to whimper and shake. It tucked its tail between its legs and started limping around, the red ball still in its mouth, but the dog lost and frightened.

  ‘Sharik, Sharik, come here, boy! Good boy!’ Come on then!’ But the dog was going the wrong way, heading for somewhere very, very dark, and never-ending. ‘Sharik, come back!’ Mitya tried to call again, but his mouth wouldn’t move. ‘Come back!’

  He felt something cool on his cheek and the doggy blackness wobbled and became studded with fuzzy orange lights. He could taste blood in his mouth and he gradually felt, with his fingers and nose and shins and hips and belly, that he was lying in a pool of vomit.

  ‘Hey, are you OK?’ a soft voice hovered above his head. He couldn’t open his eyes, but he recognized that scent, despite the blood and the sick and the street. It was his angel.

  ‘What happened to you, puppy? You’re not having a good night.’

  ‘I found my daddy,’ he whispered through throbbing split lips, before slipping back under, into the dark.

  12

  A Letter from Vasya

  Wednesday or Thursday, I think, but maybe not

  My Dearest Galina Petrovna,

  I thought I’d drop you a line to let you know that I am well and that things are going all right here, although I can’t speak for Boroda, as we are being held in separate establishments, as far as I understand it.

  Life here in the SIZO is most interesting so far. I was transferred from the police station to the SIZO after roughly twenty-four hours in the police cells, and I’ve been here two days – I think, although there aren’t many windows, and I don’t have my watch, so it is somewhat difficult to tell. It is all rather confusing, as I am sure you can imagine. As you may know, SIZO stands for Sledsvenny Izolyator (Remand Prison) so the idea is that I will be held here while the organs of state control investigate my crime and decide to bring formal charges, or not. Judging by Officer Kulakov’s performance on the night of my arrest, the investigation could take many, many months and involve many, many reports, not to mention a large number of counter-signatories and bottles of vodka. I don’t hold out much hope of being out before New Year, I fear. In which case, I think I will have to hand over stewardship of the Elderly Club to another willing pair of hands (yours maybe?), and of course provision will have to be made for Vasik. I had a dream about him last night, Galia. It was just like I was at home. He had his little fluffy face in his bowl and he was scrunching up sardine spines with great relish. He really is a precious little fellow. I do miss him so.

  Anyway, let me tell you a little about life here. The
corridors are somewhat long and dark, and there is a bad odour about the place, as you may imagine. The cells are even darker than the corridors, and very poorly ventilated. We are not held in small cells, this is not the case at all: the cells here are large, like classrooms, and hold fifty people at a time. However, there is only room for half that number to lie on a bunk at any time. The rest await their turn by leaning on the walls, or shuffling about from one side of the room to the other, although this appears to cause great annoyance to some of the inmates, and resulted in a fight and bloodshed last night. My fellow inmates have been very welcoming so far, and shown a healthy interest in my case which is, in general terms, a bit different from most of theirs. It appears that I share this cell with a large number of burglars, hooligans, rapists, fraudsters and poisoners. I feel that dogs were unlikely to have been involved in many of their cases, and cats even less so.

  In the cell walls there are a number of windows, but there are metal shutters closed over the windows permanently – I believe to stop prisoners from passing messages between the cells or to the outside world. As a result, it is very stuffy in here. There is one toilet: it is in the corner of the room, and shielded from view by a rather ragged brown curtain. Next to it there is a small sink. This is all we have for a cell of 50 men. There are no other washing facilities, as far as I can make out. Needless to say, some of my fellow prisoners could do with a good scrub and a shave. I try not to make a point of this though, much as it pains me. I know it is not technically their fault that they are unwashed. I have not mentioned it to them. I think that is best, don’t you?

  So, what else to tell you? The walls are brown and mottled: there is damp here and there, and a few posters and newspaper cuttings, some drawings even, that serve for entertainment. I may add to the drawings if my fellow inmates allow, although I’m not sure we will have similar tastes in terms of decoration. Maybe I could attempt the Goddess Venus, to bring a spot of higher culture to the cell, or a cartoon of Vasik.

  Despite the number of people in the room, this is a lonely place. Some of the men have been here for over a year, and are still awaiting trial. Some have been told that they now have tuberculosis, as a result of living in these conditions. It is a type of tuberculosis that cannot be cured: it has mutated within the prison system and now can withstand any of the drugs that doctors try to treat it with. Not that much treatment goes on around here, I believe. Some of the men with this awful disease, Galia, are little more than boys. There are one or two that I recognize from my days at School No. 2. They cough like beggars, and have a haggard look, with burning eyes. I must admit I have tried to keep my distance from them: I know I am old, and my life is almost over, but I have no desire to shorten it still further. Am I wrong in this?

  What other news do I have? My friend Yegor Platkov was allowed to bring me this paper and a pen. I am allowed to write one letter a week, but it must be seen by a Prison Officer before it can be sealed and sent. There is regular food, served up in our cell by trusties who generally have sores and are the most dishevelled of the lot. The quality is very poor, and the food is, mainly, unidentifiable: we are, after all, relying on the State’s charity. They tell me that this SIZO has a new and slightly flamboyant Kommandant and that changes are afoot, but I have not witnessed anything that could be called progressive or flamboyant so far. I do know that if and when one is found guilty and sent off to prison camp, the conditions there are far better, as they are properly equipped with workshops, kitchen gardens, farms and factories. They are designed for the long term, while these SIZOs are meant to be holding pens. The start of the sausage machine, as it were, ready to feed the system and spit out reformed characters in due course. I believed in the system once, Galina Petrovna. But I must admit, now I am not so sure that it can produce anything apart from misery, and better-qualified criminals. I can only hope that my case comes to trial soon and that, one way or another, I can get out of this dungeon before the tuberculosis or the rats get me.

  But let me reassure you, dear Galia, that the other prisoners are treating me with a great deal of respect, generally, and I have not been mistreated at all, so far. I am a grandfather to them, so I hope that as long as I can keep my mouth shut and my eyes on the floor, I will be all right.

  Yegor communicated to me that you have departed for Moscow to try to free both Boroda and me. Thank you, dear lady: you are so valiant, and so brave! If only I could be as strong as you, I would burst out of these prison walls with my bare hands! As it is, I miss my pussycat Vasik, and my neighbours, and of course, your good self. What will the Elderly Club have to say about all this, I wonder? I am shaking just thinking of it. But it can’t be helped. Even if I survive SIZO, of course, and prison camp, I will have to disbar myself from taking any role within the club, as I will have a conviction for bribery and corruption. Perhaps you will not want to know the likes of me when I am released: I cannot tell, but I could not blame you if that were the case. I may even arrive back in my old life with a convict’s tattoos: I have so far escaped an etching, but only by a whisker. When my neighbour, Shura, wakes from his sleep I fear he may once again be quite determined to adorn me in some way. Maybe I will ask for a picture of my puss Vasik: I do miss him so, and he has been my constant companion these last ten years. Do you think you could pop in to see him on your return from the great capital? I’m sure he would appreciate it.

  I miss the sunshine already, and I miss the air. Has it been three days? Not a long incarceration so far, but it seems to be sucking the life out of me at a pace. It would be so sad to die here, in this cell, never having seen the sunshine or smelt the wind on the river again. I’m sorry, Galia, this letter was meant to be hearty and uplifting, but as you can see, I am a coward, and instead of sparing you and buoying you up I am weighing you down with my own fears and cowardice. Please forgive me.

  I wish you God speed on your journey, and good luck with your mission to Moscow, although I cannot believe in my heart of hearts that anything will come of it. We are very small, small fry out here in Azov, and I am sure no-one in Moscow will give two hoots about an old man and a dog with three legs, no matter how good her manners.

  Take care of yourself and young Zoya while you are there. I will be thinking of you. Thank you for not forgetting me: it would be easy for you to leave me to rot, a silly old teacher, worth nothing to anyone.

  Vasya re-read the letter in the dim light of the bulbs hanging despondently from the crusted ceiling a couple of metres above his head. He sighed, and shifted his feet on the sticky floor beneath him. He noted the handwriting, here clear and neat, and there turning spidery and blotted. Then he screwed up the paper into a ball and thrust it under his bunk. Staring into nothing, he gritted his teeth and firmed up his chin, and waited to go to sleep. He was no coward, and he refused to send such a whining epistle to such a strong lady. Tomorrow, everything would seem better, and he would write another letter entirely. His neighbour shifted slightly in his sleep, and threw a massive hand out across Vasya’s thigh. Vasya remained entirely still, not even daring to breathe, and silently wished his neighbour a very good night’s sleep.

  13

  Mitya’s Angel

  Mitya wiped his face with the proffered towel, and felt the wet ghost of someone else’s ball sack smear across his mouth and nose. He retched again, pressing his forehead hard against the floor. His stomach was tight and empty, and all that came up was bubbles of rotten air in a series of loud, echoing belches that shook his lips, head, chest: his buttocks even. He realized that he was sprawled on the familiar lino of home, but he felt greasy and swollen, shining and shaking despite himself. He was not in control. He cleared his throat gingerly, feeling the sting of bile on his tonsils.

  ‘That’s not my towel!’ he whispered through paper-white fingers, guarding his mouthful of wobbling teeth, keeping his eyes closed against the harsh orange light and wavering shadows around him. He couldn’t remember the journey home, wasn’t sure who he was with, didn’
t know if he was still in danger of further kicks and punches. But he wasn’t going to use a towel that had been anywhere near Andrei the Svoloch’s scrotum, that was for sure. He was not in control, but he had his standards.

  ‘Oh, shucks, puppy, I’m sorry. I found it in the bathroom, there wasn’t much to choose from, really. I just thought you needed something to have a wipe with. I didn’t realize, you know: a towel’s a towel in my book. Not that I keep a book about towels … take it easy though, hero, no puking on the lino, OK? Your landlord won’t be happy. And neither will I. I’m not so good with puke.’

  Katya leant over him. For a moment he could sense her warmth covering him, hear her breathing softly through her nose, feel her scent in a warm cloud passing over him, and he felt a sense of calmness creep from a point in his chest through his vital organs and out towards his tightly curled fingers and toes. But no sooner had the feeling brushed through him than the room shifted sideways suddenly and his stomach lurched into his throat again. And now she was very far away, like a distant planet out of his orbit, shadowy, unknown, untouchable on the other side of the room. Mitya tried to draw his legs up towards his head: he desperately wanted to curl up into a ball and become a small nothing melting into the floor, but the pain in his abdomen and hips stopped him moving more than an inch or two and left him splayed out, gangly and vomit-flecked under the orange light, eyes rolling for cover.

  ‘You surprise me!’ He aimed for tough, but his voice came out a thin rasp with a high note of sob at the tail-end. He breathed deeply to contain the sob as it threatened to break his bruised ribs, and gradually he calmed the churning that was tying his insides into sticky knots. Gingerly, he began to push himself up into a seated position with his back propped against the wall, and he breathed in deeply again, feeling his diaphragm relax as he did so. He leant his elbows on his knees, bracing against the waves of nausea that washed up his throat as he gained a vertical position, and gradually the pieces of the evening collected in his mind like leaves in the corner of an autumnal courtyard. He noticed the rip down the right leg of his snow-washed jeans, and the mass of thickening reddish-purple bruises blooming on his forearms. He relived the feeling of his knuckles connecting with Kulakov’s pudgy, slimy face.