‘Yes, Galina Petrovna,’ Mitya also broke in, looking at the sky, ‘yes, we just need to get searching: to give it a go. We’re all tired, all scared,’ he looked at Katya, ‘but we have to give it a go.’
Galia nodded her head and squared her shoulders a little. ‘OK, you’re right. We have to do it, no matter what we might find. I’m ready, I suppose: lead on.’
They bounded away from the KAMAZ like a pack of elderly and slightly confused bloodhounds, fanning out over the site, noses into every cage, box, corridor, office and hangar they could find. They lifted the lids on all the stinking bins, opened up the black trap doors leading to echoing cellars below, climbed rickety ladders in to dusty lofts and called from the windows ‘Boroda! Boroda!’ They checked all the skips, the holding pens, the automated lift, the underside of the inspection chambers and even the conveyor belt buckets.
But there was no sign of life: not human, and not animal. They surged into the site office to harangue the officials, but came to a sudden halt when they realized that it was entirely deserted, a browning apple-core shivering atop a huge pile of official blue papers the only sign that habitation had occurred in the room that day. They looked at each other, eyes searching eyes, and then their eyes began softly to creep away towards the corners of the room, the ceiling, the windows, their own shoes.
‘Once more!’ Galia cried, and again they swept through the yard and the workshops, the bins and the lockers. They poked their noses into every nook and corner they could find across the site. But there was not a sign of any dog at all. Not a single collar, or blanket, or ball of hair. And all the while the huge incinerator chimney hissed quietly in the corner of the site, coughing occasional sparks into the afternoon sky that snapped orange before dying into the grey-yellow smog that cocooned the site, the street, the town. A fine dust was settling on all the searchers. Katya smoothed a blob of soot from Galia’s forehead as they stood together in the doorway of the deserted office.
‘There are no dogs here. There’s nothing living at all. Maybe we’re too late, Galina Petrovna?’
‘It seems so, Katya.’ Galia’s eyes were empty.
‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘You don’t need to say anything. We did our best. I blame no-one but myself. All she needed was a collar: an owner, and not a house-mate.’
‘I’m sorry, Galina Petrovna,’ said Mitya. Galia pressed his hand, unable to speak.
As they slowly came back out into the yard, a slouching figure with a pot belly hanging over his belt and unruly, matted hair appeared from around the corner. He was oblivious to the collection of people standing in front of the office and continued on his way, whistling and picking his nose with a knobbled index finger.
‘Hey, you, man!’ Mitya called out across the tarmac as still the operative failed to look up from his boots and snotty finger.
Slowly, the man raised his head and cast dull eyes towards the office: he was stunned by the sight of the odd bunch that stood there waiting for him. Momentarily, he regretted the pickles he’d gulped down at lunchtime with the glass or two of vodka, as a sudden queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach squeezed itself down towards his colon. Had something been found out? The uniforms, those angry looking babushkas, and – was it? Yes it was: a girl.
‘Hey! Stop gawping and come over here!’ Mitya commanded in his best official voice, clipped and firm. There was no squeaking now, no coughing.
‘I’m trying to work. And you’re not allowed in here. It’s forbidden. Get out!’ He turned his back on the crowd, hoping they would go away if he pretended they weren’t there, and made to shuffle off in the opposite direction.
‘Come here and answer one question.’
‘What’s it about?’
‘A dog for destruction. Came here this week some time.’
‘We get lots of dogs coming through here.’ Again he made to slope off.
‘A dog with three legs, brought here accidentally.’
‘Three legs?’ He stopped and looked back over his shoulder. ‘Was it in a wheelchair?’ he sneered.
‘Where is it, you waste of space?’
‘How should I know?’
‘You work here, man. Think!’
The man mimed the act of thinking, scratching his head and looking towards the sky.
‘Nah. No three-leggers today, or any other day this week. All we had come in today was a host of mongrels – all with four legs, like any other day. And a Yorkie pup.’
‘And where are they now?’ asked Galia, and immediately regretted it.
‘Khkhkh!!’ mimed the man, drawing a finger across his neck. ‘You see that dust on your collar. That’s probably one of them! Yeah look – hello, Rex!’ and he stepped forward as if to pat Galia’s shoulder.
‘You’re disgusting,’ said Katya, ‘and drunk!’
‘Yeah, and you think you’re some kind of princess,’ he retorted.
‘Oh, guys, there’s no point talking to this steaming piece of junk anymore,’ broke in the Kommandant, ‘I don’t think he can help us.’
The operative slouched off in the direction of the offices, picking his nose and smirking to himself.
The group watched him go in silence. Katya reached out for Mitya’s hand, and he held it tightly. Galia looked to the dust at her feet, and felt the pang of loss.
‘She’s not here,’ she said.
‘No, Galia, she’s not. But you know, there’s no need for that operative to lie: she has not been here, it seems, so maybe she’s, you know, still alive somewhere. Take heart, my dear.’ Zoya put her arm around Galia’s broad shoulders.
‘Maybe, Zoya. But that doesn’t really do me any good. What can I do without her? What is to become of me?’
‘I’m sorry you don’t have Boroda, Galia, but you do still have us, for what it’s worth. And you know that I – and Vasya – love you, don’t you?’
‘Thank you, Zoya, my oldest friend. I know you’ll look after me. And I’m sure I can look after Vasya if I put my mind to it.’ Galia gazed into her friend’s face, and smiled slightly. ‘It’s been a difficult week, Zoya. I want to go home. And I want to go to the vegetable patch.’
Zoya smiled and led her friend back across the broken tarmac to the waiting KAMAZ truck, and Vasya Volubchik, who was crying steadily.
* * *
A week or so later, Vasya and Galia were standing by the table, arguing good-naturedly over whether her tomatoes, or her cucumbers, or both, were the best this side of Kharkov. There was even talk of melons, but at this Zoya closed her ears and attempted to doze off.
‘Galia, don’t you think this old man deserves a little drop of beer after the hard day we’ve had? I swear, I’ve never seen such tomatoes – and those apricots!’
Vasya wiped his handkerchief around the back of his neck and then stuffed it back in his pocket. He liked to be clean.
‘Old man? I see no old man, just a man who needs his dinner,’ Galia smiled.
‘I won’t argue with that.’
A sudden noise in the corridor outside the flat, like angry geese riding piglets, cut short the conversation. Galia bustled away through the hall and flung open the apartment door, to find out what sort of assistance might be required on this occasion. She was just in time to see the door of Goryoun Tigranovich’s apartment being slammed shut, and tiny Baba Krychkova banging her forehead on it as a result.
‘Ooch, Baba Krychkova, do you want a cold compress for that?’
‘Stuff your cold compress! Open up you fiend!’ The old lady was clearly disgruntled and hammered so hard with her tiny fists on the door that Galia was afraid she was going to snap her wrists.
‘Baba Krychkova, be still! Do not upset yourself.’
‘Do you know who he’s got in there?’
Galia’s face was blank. What could the Elderly Citizen mean?
‘Do you know? Only that Drozhdovskaya woman! Yes! The merry widow herself! And he’s going to give her two marrows! She told me her
self! Garlic, no doubt, too! Before we know it, she’ll be wearing his gold!’
‘Really? Sveta Drozhdovskaya? Well, that’s good, Baba. It’s about time he had better company than those silly white cats, don’t you think? Come away and have some vareniki with us, Baba. We’d love to have you. And later we’ll play cards and Zoya can tell us some stories. You know her stories, don’t you? They’re generally quite dirty, but they’re all made up.’
Baba Krychkova’s face relaxed a little, and the wrinkles around her mouth quivered into a soft smile.
‘Well, I don’t know … I haven’t finished my crossword yet, and I like to get them done, you know.’
‘Well, why don’t you finish your crossword, and then come round after that? There’s plenty to spare.’
‘Thank you, Galia, that’s very kind.’ And Baba Krychkova shuffled off up the dusty corridor with a slight twinkle in her eye.
Galia smiled to herself as she made her way back to the kitchen and to Vasya, who was gazing out of the window as his stomach rumbled like the Urals Express. She picked up her pan.
‘Here we are!’ Vareniki stuffed with mushrooms and smothered with butter tumbled from a pan into a dish that could rival the Motherland statue at Volgograd in terms of stature.
‘My hero,’ smiled Galia. ‘Eat, eat and then have a little drink.’ She sat opposite and watched as he speared the tasty morsels eagerly with his fork, almost boyish, making a mess and dribbling butter down his chin. ‘We did good work today, Vasya, you and I. It’s so much quicker with an extra pair of hands. I think there’ll be lots of tasty treats to put by for the winter.’
‘Bottled tomatoes, Galia? They are my favourite! And I do very good salted cucumbers, you know, with bay and dill – and a few blackcurrant leaves.’
‘Blackcurrant leaves? Really? Well, you must show me, Vasya.’
‘With pleasure, my dear.’ Vasya stopped chewing and gazed into Galia’s eyes in a way that made her cheeks glow red.
‘Is none of that for me, Galia?’ Zoya called from the next room.
‘Zoya, there is plenty for you, my dear, but you must get up off that sofa and come in here to get it. I cannot feed you: you are not a child. If you come in to the kitchen we might find you a tot of vodka to help wash down the food.’
Zoya’s response was muffled by the sudden roar of the TV. Galia sighed, and drummed her fingers on the table slightly. ‘It’s the wrestling: I’d forgotten – Zoya loves it.’
‘Did you speak to Mitya?’ Vasya asked, fork stilled in mid-air.
‘Yes, he was just on his way out – with Katya. But no, there is no news.’ Galia looked down at the lino table-top and breathed deeply, determined to keep her face soft.
‘Well, that’s it, then: she must have escaped. She can’t simply have disappeared – it’s not possible.’
‘But she has disappeared! We have to be realistic, Vasya. We’re grown-ups. Very grown-ups. The disappeared never return, do they?’
‘No,’ said Vasya, with a sad shake of his head.
‘Life – it’s not a walk in the fields, is it?’ she sighed, her breath stirring the scattering of crumbs that had lain on the table since the early morning breakfast. She raised her eyes and smiled. ‘But how are the vareniki?’
‘They are magnificent, as I knew they would be,’ Vasya replied. ‘You are a wonder, Galina Petrovna,’ and he toasted her with a forkful of dinner and a deep nod.
A little later, as they stood on the balcony watching the sun melting into the black bar of the factory walls, Vasya screwed up his courage.
‘Galia, I have something to ask you.’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, it’s a delicate question—’
‘Go ahead, Vasya. I’m all ears.’
‘Are these potato or mushroom, Galichka?’ a plaintive voice mewed from the kitchen.
‘Zoya, just take a few and see. They’re a mixture. You may even find a surprise in there.’
‘Not the knickers I lost last New Year?’
‘You’re incorrigible!’ Galia laughed, the sound like water over warm pebbles. ‘Vasya, do go on. What were you saying?’
‘Well, I’m not sure now …’
‘You had a question?’
‘Yes, no.’ The thought of Zoya’s knickers had quite put Vasya off his stride.
‘Oh, never mind then. Maybe later?’
‘Later, yes. That’s best.’
Vasya shuffled back inside the tiny kitchen to take on the task of washing the dishes, and Galia leant her elbows on the balcony railing, her gaze dipping down into the courtyard below: Masha and her gang were playing among the bushes, shrieking wildly. Rose-coloured dust clouds billowed from their heels, and their voices bounced and burst off the apartment block walls. Galia chuckled, and waved down to them as they looked up. Then her gaze floated back to the sunset, and her senses were filled with the sounds and smells of the end of the day: clouds of starlings hazing the treetops; her neighbours on their balconies, rubbing their toes and drinking cold beer; the cats and dogs and children in the yard, gradually collecting up their owners and directing their steps towards their various beds. She closed her eyes for a moment, and caught her breath as she saw, very clearly, her bearded dog lady, Boroda, turning round and around three times, and then folding her legs up neatly beneath her, ready to doze in a pool of golden-orange sunlight, just like the one on her own kitchen floor. Galia’s heart squeezed slightly, and her tired face relaxed into a broad grin.
* * *
In a cool pool of dark green air under a kitchen table, Boroda licked her fore-paw and sighed. Things had been peaceful for a while now, and she had put on a little weight. Her sleep was much better, although it seemed to be extending to quite a lot of the day, and night. She had just woken from a dream: she had been chasing rabbits, or were they hares? It didn’t matter: whatever they were, their smell and springiness was tantalising, but their speed was too much for her, even with her imagined fourth paw. But she didn’t need rabbits. What she needed, Boroda knew, was quiet. And an old woollen jumper to lie on.
This old lady didn’t smell the same as the other old lady, the original old lady who had saved her when she was on the brink of starvation, but she was kind, and quiet, and had a vegetable patch just the same. This one had some small children who came around every other day, but they were no trouble. They used their sticky fingers to pat her head and smooth her coat, and their big, brown eyes gazed in to hers under the table as they muttered stubby-toed words about love and paws and princesses. Boroda eyed their grubby faces and noses sprouting glistening lemony bogeys, and felt she ought to give them a lick. But a lick was not always welcome.
She stepped from her box on to the kitchen floor with a light clatter of claw on lino, and stood for a moment by the balcony window. She observed the orange sky, the clouds of birds, and the scents of other dogs, in other apartments. All was peace. Turning several times to get her angle just right, she lay down in the patch of golden-orange sunlight that stretched across the floor, and listened with half an ear to the old lady knitting in the room next door. Every so often she sighed and tutted, admonishing herself for a dropped stitch, or chuckling over some recently remembered anecdote. In a little while, Boroda knew, the old lady would come slowly into the kitchen and reach down to give her a tickle under the chin with fingers as knobbled as sprout sticks. ‘Lapochka,’ she would say, ‘I am so glad that I found you.’
The sun began to set on the rooftops of Plovsk, and Boroda’s eyelids softly dropped shut.
THE END
Glossary
Baba – short for babushka
Babushka – Granny, often used as a term of address of any elderly woman
Blin – a mild substitute exclamation, like “flip!”
Boroda – beard, and pronounced barada
Dacha – wooden country residence, ranging from a hut to a mansion
Dedya – Grandad, often used as a term of address of any elderly man
Duma – the Russian parliament
KAMAZ – a make of Russian truck
Kasha – porridge
Kefir – a fermented milk drink
Kroota – cool
Kvass – a fermented non-alcoholic drink made from rye bread
Laika – the stray dog sent in to orbit by the USSR in 1957
Lapochka – sweetie, term of endearment based on the word for paw, and used for small children and dogs
Lubyanka – HQ of the KGB in central Moscow
NKVD – the People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs, or secret police (forerunner of KGB)
Perestroika – a political movement for reformation of the Communist Party during the 1980s
Sharik – little ball, it is a common dog’s name in Russia
SIZO – stands for Sledstvenny Izolyator, and is a remand prison
Skoraya – ambulance
Spetznaz – Russian Special Forces
Svoloch – bastard, git
Vareniki – small stuffed dumplings
Vint – a domestically produced stimulant drug, usually injected
Acknowledgements
I would like to express my thanks to the following people: Richard Samuel, for his early read through of the manuscript, valuable comments and encouragement; Greg Lawrence, for bringing to my attention The Borough Press open submission opportunity; Katie Espiner, Cassie Browne and Charlotte Cray at The Borough Press for being so helpful, decisive and supportive; and Mick James, for telling me to get on with it – without whom, I probably wouldn’t have.
About the Author
Andrea Bennett graduated from the University of Sheffield in History & Russian and then spent a good part of the ‘Yeltsin years’ living and working in Russia. On her return to the UK she joined the Civil Service – first at the Foreign & Commonwealth Office, then the Department for International Development. A stint in local government followed, and she now works in the charity sector. This is her first novel. She lives in Ramsgate, Kent, with her family and dog.
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