Galina Petrovna's Three-Legged Dog Story

by Andrea Bennett

  The clerk stared at the papers in front of him for several seconds, and then, without looking up, raised himself from his chair with a squeak of damp plastic and made his way, eyes fixed on the floor in front of him, towards Grigory Mikhailovich’s knees. Zoya looked at Galia and winked.

  ‘The Deputy Minister Glukhov, Roman Sergeevich, is very disappointed to have to disappoint you, but he is currently in a meeting with the Minister and the Deputy Prime Minister at his dacha, and therefore no meeting with you is possible at present. However, the Deputy Minister Glukhov, Roman Sergeevich, requests that perhaps you would like to phone this number at eight p.m. tonight to discover his whereabouts and maybe agree on a way forward with the … with the … situation that you find yourselves in, which is currently unclear to Glukhov, Roman Sergeevich, but which he assures me, I mean you, that he has the utmost interest in resolving. Forthwith, in fact.’

  ‘Eight p.m.? Ladies, what do you think? Will our situation still be resolvable at eight this evening?’

  ‘I sincerely hope so, Grigory Mikhailovich, but in truth, I cannot say,’ Galia was disappointed, and her bottom lip trembled slightly. Still, it was some sort of progress, and therefore not to be sniffed at. ‘I can only hope.’

  ‘Tell your Glukhov that we will call him at eight. And that we all, most sincerely, hope that it will not be too late.’ The shrinking bureaucrat and his cheeks were dismissed, and Grigory Mikhailovich held out a puffy hand to Zoya. ‘Come, cousin, come Galina Petrovna, we have wasted enough of the day with these good people. It is time to be swallowed by the city for a little.’

  The oak doors swung shut behind the departing trio, and the young man behind the desk heaved a silent sigh of relief.

  * * *

  The air in the flat hung heavy and stale over the table, still strewn with maps, official orders and biscuit wrappers. Zoya and Grigory Mikhailovich had been playing poker for what was left of the afternoon, both smoking cigars that made Galia’s eyes water. Any plans for cultural visits had been swept aside by Grigory Mikhailovich who insisted, with grave intensity, that his knees really could not entertain the thought of any more walking, and that all Moscow’s finest cultural sights would be shut, since it was August and anyone with any whiff of education in them would be out of town and in the country. Galia felt a long way from home. She had tried to phone through to Azov, to Yegor Platkov, to get some news of Vasya or Boroda. Each time she tried, her stubborn fingers punched in the numbers and she refused to believe all the telephone lines between the capital and her southern town could be truly full, buzzing like flies all the way across European Russia. But each time there would be a long, agonising pause once all the numbers were dialled, followed by a high-pitched whine: unobtainable. She had checked several times that the phone was actually connected to the system correctly, but all appeared to be as it should be. She stopped short of enquiring whether he had actually remembered to pay his bill, and the suspicion that he hadn’t clung to her shoulders. Calls in town were free, but long distance always had to be paid for. It was a worry, on top of all her other worries, that now seemed stacked up on her back and high enough to reach the ceiling, if not the sky.

  Galia stood by the window in the large reception room, looking out in to the courtyard. There were no children playing, only a tattered collection of old people decking out the benches with their grey, and brown, and yellow faces. Galia felt a wave of hopelessness engulf her, and let it break slowly over her head. Instinctively, she reached into her pocket for a boiled sweet, and pushed it quickly into her cheek. Sometimes, a little taste of home was very necessary. She eyed the poker players, puffing furiously on their cigars, cards fanning their faces, eyes set. She counted her blessings: at least they were both sober, and still fully dressed.

  ‘Grigory Mikhailovich, it’s nearly eight. I think we should call. Don’t you?’ Galia was itching to get on with the task. Waiting around in the flat didn’t suit her at all. The old man frowned at her through a cloud of smoke and coughed with a wet, rattling sound that shook the window frames and made her want to fetch a mop.

  ‘Nearly eight, you say, Galina Petrovna? Well, in that case, let the dog see the rabbit!’

  Galia placed the telephone on the table in front of Grigory Mikhailovich as he passed one paw into the recesses of his shirt and scraped around among a seemingly endless collection of pieces of string, keys and torn up newspapers that were stuffed inside his vest. Galia looked away, and caught Zoya’s gleaming eye: her friend was gloating over a pile of winnings that included cash, and buttons, and matches, and what looked like a few dead beetles, but couldn’t have been.

  ‘He’s a bad loser, Galia, for such a frequent one!’

  ‘Ah, here we are, ladies, here’s the number. Oh no, not that one, that’s, well, never mind. Ah, here it is! Not in there at all, but in my important numbers pocket. I sometimes think Kolya is right when he says I am becoming confused. But then I think – oh fuck it! You only live once!’ Grigory Mikhailovich roared with laughter and Zoya joined in, jerking up and down like a puppet on a string. Galia didn’t see what was so funny, and tapped her watch in his face.

  ‘Please, Grigory Mikhailovich, we must hurry. Vasya and Boroda are relying on us. They are relying on you!’

  A dog barked in the courtyard and was answered by a sharp yap from a neighbouring window.

  ‘Galina Petrovna, you are right, as ever. We will continue with sobriety.’ And the great fat fingers began to slowly pick out the magic numbers. Galia held her breath, until she began to feel lightheaded and remembered to breathe, deep and slow, and to pace. Zoya crouched low next to Grigory Mikhailovich and craned her neck to hear every word. Galia couldn’t bear to listen to one half of the conversation. What would the Deputy Minister say, disturbed from his meetings and fishing trip and dacha to discuss an old man and a dog banged up miles away in the dusty south west. Galia couldn’t imagine that it would be positive. She watched the ugly dog in the courtyard straining on its leash to bark at a passing OAP, and wondered whether Boroda was still breathing somewhere, still blinking her dark eyes and observing people with her canine understanding, or whether Kulakov and Mitya had dispatched her already. She closed her eyes momentarily, and then jumped out of her skin as Grigory Mikhailovich thumped the receiver back on to the cradle.

  ‘He’s gone clubbing.’

  ‘Clubbing?’

  ‘Clubbing!’

  ‘How very unusual? Seal or deer?’

  ‘No, you stupid old trout, clubbing – he is in town, at a club, drinking and dancing and, and that kind of thing.’

  Zoya shook her head, uncomprehending.

  ‘The Deputy Minister Glukhov is not at his dacha, he has returned to town to go clubbing. Apparently, we are not to tell anyone. Our lips, as it were, must be sealed.’

  ‘Oh, what are we to do, Grigory Mikhailovich?’ Galia began to shout slightly. ‘He promised that he would speak to us tonight, and we have to return to Azov tomorrow. I can’t stay here any longer. I really can’t. I have my vegetable patch to see to, and—’

  ‘Galina Petrovna – may I call you Galia? Galia, your vegetables will not run away, and neither will they wilt. Your true love will be freed, and your dog will be returned to you – perhaps, God willing. We are to meet him there. We will go clubbing, and all will be well.’ Grigory Mikhailovich’s tone was certain, booming, calm: he seemed in control, and Galia felt, for a moment, comforted.

  Zoya clapped her hands and a smudgy smile stretched from ear to ear.

  ‘A club! A night club! In Moscow! I must change! Have you any sequins, Grigory Mikhailovich? I feel we must fit in.’

  ‘Zoya, control your eagerness, cousin. I’m afraid the club in question is not one of Moscow’s finest. There is no gold to be found at this place. It is … on the Bohemian side, if you know what I mean.’

  Galia shook her head. ‘I don’t know what you mean, Grigory Mikhailovich.’

  ‘He means there are cockroaches and no toilet do
ors, at a guess,’ said Zoya, crestfallen.

  ‘I think you are likely to be right, Zoya,’ the old man concurred.

  ‘Grigory Mikhailovich, I don’t mean to be rude, but I am surprised at your knowledge of Moscow’s night clubs. Do you go often?’ Galia was curious.

  ‘I never go myself, how preposterous! But I know things, Galia. And I also know a youth who goes to clubs. I must telephone to Kolya, and he must come with us. I fear we’ll never get through the face control without him.’

  ‘The what?’ Zoya put a hand to her face and pulled worriedly at a lip and an eyebrow.

  ‘Kolya will know what to do. He should have been here by now, anyway. He’s idle, and conniving, and stupid, but he’ll have to do. He is my own flesh and blood, after all. Now, ladies, have a look in the dressing room and see if there’s anything you can find that will make you look a bit more …’

  ‘Bohemian?’ panted Zoya.

  ‘Yes. I will do the same. I’m sure I had a fez around here somewhere.’

  And with that Grigory Mikhailovich raised his great weight from the table, stubbed out his Cuban cigar on a fifty-years-of-Communism commemorative plate, and lumbered towards the hallway.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ whispered Galia.

  ‘Culture, adventure, salvation – and vodka!’ cackled Zoya. ‘What’s not to like?’

  17

  The Cheese Mistress

  The pool of sweat collecting beneath Mitya’s eyes gave him the brief impression, when half-way between sleep and wakefulness, that he was drowning in a salty orange sea. It appeared to him that a wave of sticky, unctuous fluid had become stuck to his face, with no tide to take it out, and he could almost feel the crabs scuttling around on the sand of sleepy dust that collected thickly around his eyes. He began to feel slightly sea-sick and pushed his eyelids open slowly, before peeling his face away from the pillow with great care. His whole body was covered in a rich layer of moisture, and even the air that he pulled into his aching lungs was warmly damp. Reaching up a swollen hand to his cheek, his fingertips felt the indentations left on it by the coarse man-made fibres of his bed linen. The skin felt a bit like a cheese grater. His stomach squeezed and he focused his eyes with some difficulty. Through his narrow slit vision, framed above and below by the pinkish insides of his eyelids, he eventually spied the clock. It was almost midday. He turned over and stared at the shiny polystyrene ceiling tiles. Today was Friday: he was supposed to be on duty. It was, in fact, his duty to be on duty. But today, Mitya the Exterminator was going to go astray.

  There was a mood about the room that struck him as odd, and at first he couldn’t work out what was wrong. He lay still. The sun dappled the wall as the breeze played with the edge of the nylon curtain, and somewhere an elderly citizen addressed his radio in formal tones. Then Mitya realized: there was complete quiet in the communal flat. No volcanic roaring from the no-name alcoholic, no disco beats leaking out of Andrei the Svoloch’s vibrating walls, no cat fights tearing up the tattered hallway and threatening to make his ears bleed. A bird twittered in the green pool of the courtyard and the silver birch tree washed its branches in the breeze. There was peace. Mitya closed his eyes and opened his ears: beyond the hum of his blood cells pulsing across his eardrums, he could make out a female voice, humming. It was Katya. She was humming ‘Enjoy the Silence’. He was sure she was. His facial muscles relaxed into a gentle smile and he opened his eyes again. A dog began to bark in the courtyard below. He wondered at the sound: what was that creature saying? Perhaps it was saying ‘Get up, Mitya. There’s work to be done.’ And perhaps it was just barking because it had no other business to do.

  ‘Is the reason dogs can’t talk because of the shape of their mouths?’ He remembered asking his mother once, a long, long time ago, back in the times of chat over lunchtime and brown bread and butter. She had laughed. She had laughed so much that she cried and Mitya had felt a little stupid, although he’d smiled also. But she had not answered the question. Perhaps, because she did not know.

  Mitya showered in the communal bathroom down the hall. He was barely able to clamber into the bathtub, and holding the shower above his head was torture to his bruised shoulders. The entire washing process was even more unpleasant than usual given the stiffness of his body, and on a number of occasions his face came dangerously close to touching the fecund walls of the chamber when he attempted to reach his various sore spots. Once clean and dry, he dressed in the only presentable set of clothes he now had – his winter ensemble of heavy purple wool trousers and a grey long-sleeved shirt – and these made him sweat anew. He looked at the trousers: they seemed wrong. Maybe he could make a visit to the commission shop today and try to get something second-hand, something a little more suited to the heat. He needed some shorts, perhaps. He bent down to do up his shoes and found he could barely reach his feet. He forgot about issues of clothing as he struggled with his laces, and again he thought of his mother. Then he made for the door.

  In the corridor, he could no longer hear the humming. But he was sure it had been Katya: he had felt it in his soul and felt her fingers strumming on his heart. He hesitated, and then slowly approached the magical door at the end of the corridor. He had never really noticed it before – could not recall seeing anyone go through it, apart from her, the other day. He reached out a hand and knocked, gently, hesitantly. All was quiet. He felt empty. He cleared his throat and tried again, slightly louder. He heard a muffled clanging and his heart thumped slightly. He wondered what she was wearing today, and whether her hair would be tied back in a pony-tail, or loose around her shoulders. He felt a great need to touch her.

  A great belch shook the door on its hinges before it was pulled open roughly, and before him towered a lumpy girl with bad skin and enormous red hands. She smelt strongly of cheese.

  ‘What?’ she roared. Mitya took a step backwards, despite himself.

  ‘Hello. Is Katya home?’

  ‘Katya?’ She looked somewhat outraged.

  ‘Yes, Katya.’ Mitya tried to curve his lips into a smile to persuade the girl that he meant no harm.

  ‘What would you want with Katya, eh?’ She squinted her eyes and smiled in a particularly unpleasant way, leaving her mouth half open, her creamy-coloured tongue protruding and dripping saliva on to the floor. She slurped slightly, and wiped her mouth on the back of her slab-like hand. Mitya took a gamble.

  ‘Are you her cousin, Marina?’ Again he tried to smile.

  ‘What sort of a stupid question is that, Mikhail Plovkin? Are you pretending not to know me?’

  Now it was Mitya’s turn to leave his mouth half open. He must have met her at some stage, but he had no recollection of it. Maybe in the kitchen at some point: if he was tending to his imported ramen noodles, he might not have taken her all in? Or if coming out of the bathroom – he would have been sure of averting his eyes. He sensed that it was important to try to continue to be civil.

  ‘No, of course not – you are Marina. Of course. You’ve done your hair differently, perhaps?’

  Marina snorted.

  ‘She’s not in.’ The girl fed him the information like a piece of cheese rind.

  ‘Ah. Thank you, I’ll—’ Mitya turned to move off towards the front door.

  ‘You can come in for a cup of kvass, if you like? You look like you need one.’ He stopped, suspended in the hallway by her words. He turned his head towards her, trying to avoid looking at her directly, but still uncomfortably aware of the pitted pink smudge of her face and that drooling smile. Her fingers, thick as eels, were fiddling at her arm-pit, picking off the bobbles of grey cotton sprouting from her towelling house-coat. Mitya shuddered and muttered something about being very busy just now.

  ‘You think yourself better than the rest of us, don’t you, Mikhail?’ The smile had dropped off her face.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Keeping yourself to yourself. That door: always shut. You never come to Andrei’s parties, do yo
u?’

  Mitya knew it would be undiplomatic to answer with honesty. He glued his tongue to his palate and tried to smile.

  ‘You never show an interest. I’ve seen you in the kitchen five or six times – six, I think it is: you never say hello.’

  Mitya shrugged slightly and looked at the floor. ‘I’m not a very good cook. I have to concentrate on what I’m doing when I am in the kitchen. Distractions lead to burnt food, I find—’

  ‘I know all about you,’ she cut him off. ‘Mitya the Exterminator. Oh yes.’

  ‘Really, Marina?’ Again he shrugged, but the blood rushed to his neck and crept up his cheeks. ‘There’s not very much to know, I assure you.’

  ‘She doesn’t know, does she?’ The cheese mistress smiled as she flicked a few creamy crumbs from her cleavage on to the floor.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Katya. She doesn’t know what you do. She wouldn’t spit on you if she did, you know.’

  ‘She knows I’m an exterminator.’

  ‘Yes, Mikhail, but she doesn’t know what, does she? I found out – she thinks you kill cockroaches. But I think I’m going to have to put her straight.’

  ‘No, cousin Marina, please don’t do that.’ He moved back towards her door with quick steps.

  ‘She ought to know.’

  ‘Yes, citizen neighbour, but I’ll do it.’ Mitya was trying hard not to become annoyed.

  ‘She’s going to find out, you know.’

  ‘I will speak to her.’ His voice was earnest.

  ‘You’d better do it soon.’

  ‘Yes, I—’

  ‘She’ll hate you.’

  ‘I will explain.’ He could feel a gelatinous film of sweat forming on his brow and upper lip. The effort of trying to persuade, and not simply going for his dog pole and containing this bitch, was becoming more than he could bear.

  Cousin Marina smirked. ‘That will be a fine conversation. And a short one! You’re a loser, Mikhail Plovkin! There’s nothing here for you!’ She slammed the door in Mitya’s face. He blinked hard, took a deep breath in and tried to relax his fingers, which had curled into claws at his sides. Cousin Marina was formidable, and slightly scary. And she had told him something he already knew. He gazed at the door for some moments, and then shook himself slightly. He raised his chin, and headed for the stairs and his van outside.