Andrea Bennett - Galina Petrovna's Three-Legged Dog Story

‘Our glorious brother, founder of our Soviet Union, the first and greatest communist state in the world! Kolya, it breaks my heart to say it, but he is well rotten. Sasha Gremyanchuk himself told me. He saw it. He did, don’t cluck at me, boy, he saw it! Saw it all. His nose turned black and squishy, his fingers fell off one by one, and as for his belly, well, the gasses and everything: messy, unpatriotic… so they just replaced it all with wax.’

‘Grigory Mikhailovich, where have you put your potato peeler? It is missing – again,’ said Kolya, his nose appearing round the door-jamb, and the words delivered in his strange, high-pitched twang.

The old man fixed him with a watery stare. ‘They preserved his brain though. This I know. It is no fairy story. It is there, with the boffins, under the Kremlin,’ Grigory Mikhailovich leant forward slightly, ‘waiting for us. We can reanimate him, Kolya. And we must! It is our duty! Comrade Sasha can help us. And old Petrov from the institute: he’s a scientist. They are ready, boy!’

Kolya slid back into the kitchen, wishing that the radio had not mentioned Lenin, again. He located the peeler some minutes later deep inside the vibrating sarcophagus that passed for a fridge: it was beneath a heap of something resembling cheese, or fish. He got to work on the potatoes as the old man argued with the radio. Throwing the stinky black and yellow bits on to a newspaper, Lenin’s nose rose before his mind’s eye. Lenin was not the only one who was rotting. He smirked and dropped the peeler on the floor, the sound echoing around the flat.

‘That bloody Yeltsin. Standing on that tank in ’91, cheering them on. Kill the Soviet Union! Kill it! Independence for all! Drunken bloody Urals bastard.’

‘Grigory Mikhailovich, do not upset yourself. You won’t be able to digest if you are upset.’

‘I can’t digest! Our brothers and sisters of the Soviets died for the cause. They donated their lives in their thousands to enrich the Soviet Union and he sold their bones for a bottle of vodka. He sold his mother for a shot and his granny for a gherkin. The dirty Urals bastard! Lenin would be turning! We have to raise him up!’

The old man pawed softly at his watery, blood-shot eyes and hacked a cough. A tiny glob of yellow slapped gently on to the window, clipping a drowsy fly. Kolya wrapped up the rotten potatoes and, stepping gently around the bulk of the old man, took them out to the rubbish chute. It was blocked again, and Kolya clasped his free hand across his nose. He left the package on the floor next to the chute. Perhaps someone would find a use for them.

‘And that bloody perestroika . Perestroika my arse. What idiot thought up perestroika ? Ahh, what was his name? Grom… no, not him… Pri… no, it’ll come to me. Anyway, we didn’t need Perestroika , we needed Lenin. He had guts and brains! Before, I mean, when he had real guts and brains, not wax guts, ha! No, he had guts! And a brain!’

Kolya examined the sarcophagus for something edible. After some time, he found a bottle of preserved mushrooms. He would pad out the potatoes with them.

‘Kolya! Hey, Kolya, get me the phone will you, lad, I need to call my comrade Sasha. We must make plans. Now!’

Kolya sighed, placed the casserole dish on the table and stalked out to fetch the phone from its box in the hall. He plugged it in next to the old man. How many years’ worth of wasted spittle were encrusted on the mouthpiece, he wondered.

Grigory Mikhailovich’s bloated pink fingers hovered above the handset for a second, when suddenly the phone went off like a hand-grenade, making both men quiver with shock.

‘My God, Kolya! It’s ringing! Who is it, Kolya? Who is ringing me in the middle of the afternoon?’ roared the old man, momentarily stupefied.

‘Grigory Mikhailovich, you need to answer it to find out who is calling you,’ replied Kolya with a smirk.

‘Clever dick! Don’t give me those clever-dick answers! Have some respect, you market monkey!’ Grigory Mikhailovich fumbled with the phone, eventually separating the handset from the dial.

‘Hello? I’m here! Hello?’ Spittle plumed in every direction as Kolya retreated, too late, into the kitchen to finish supper preparations as the old man roared. A movement through the window caught his eye. A pretty girl in a red coat was walking an ugly dog in the courtyard. She was tall, and young, and gazed about her, as if she was bored, or lost.

‘Yes! Grigory Mikhailovich speaking! Zinaida Artyomovna, how very surprising to hear from you! In the middle of the afternoon! But what a great pleasure, and honour…’

Kolya registered, absently, that the timbre of the old man’s voice had changed slightly: it could have been respect, or fear, or something else entirely. He continued gazing at the young woman, and the dog, which he found a little disconcerting. It looked like the kind of pedigree canine that would pee on your shoes and fart on your dinner. It had a curly tail, a strange, pushed in nose and a very definite, pronounced frown. He wondered if this dog brought the pretty girl any pleasure at all.

‘The problem is profound. I am glad you referred it to me. As you know, I have connections.’

Kolya observed the girl’s chestnut hair as she stood about waiting for the dog to take a crap. Suddenly, she looked up directly towards him, and Kolya dodged back behind the window frame with a jolt, heart beating fast.

‘Kolya! Get me out of this chair! We’re going!’

‘Grigory Mikhailovich, where are we going?’

‘Boy, don’t argue! Look!’

Kolya looked. In the distance, over the uniform rooftops, heavy skies were gathering.

‘Get me out of this chair. We must get to the Duma . Zinaida Artyomovna and some other woman… wait… no, I forget her name. Anyway, they are meeting us there. We must protect them. No – wait! We must get to the Lubyanka ! That’s where they will have taken him. Of course! Dead of night, into the car – they’ll have taken him to the Lubyanka , not the Duma !’

‘Who, Grigory Mikhailovich? Who has gone to the Lubyanka ?’

‘Some friend of Zoya’s. Some dog rustler, or breeder, or something. I don’t really know, she did explain but… the main thing is, they took him – in the middle of the night. It’ll be the Lubyanka . It might already be too late of course… they may already have beaten it out of him… but we have to try, boy! To the Duma !’

Kolya was startled by Grigory Mikhailovich’s clear intent to set off for the Lubyanka , or the Duma , without dinner.

‘But what about the potatoes?’ The boy indicated the makings of the evening meal heaped on the table.

‘Damn the potatoes!’

‘We’re having them with mushrooms,’ Kolya added softly. Grigory Mikhailovich hesitated, licking his lips.

‘And what about them ?’ Kolya mewed, arching an eyebrow.

‘Them?’

‘ Them .’

‘Them,’ said Grigory Mikhailovich, blankly.

His bottom lip quivered gently as his watery eyes slid across Kolya’s placid face. He thought he ought to know to whom ‘them’ referred, but for a long moment it escaped him. A vague recollection was just forming behind his forehead, when a sharp knock at the door made him jump, sending slight ripples through his chins and expelling the memory like a small egg from a chicken’s arse.

‘It’s them,’ purred Kolya.

‘No!’

‘They must have heard. You should keep your voice down, Grigory Mikhailovich. Shouting about the Lubyanka and the Duma and them . Things have not changed as much as you may think. You stay there, in your chair, leave them to me. Don’t worry, it’ll be fine. I am young, and innocent, after all!’