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

Grigory Mikhailovich subsided back into his chair, unknowingly curling his fingers into the newspaper. He felt dread, and didn’t know why.

Having wiped his hands on his jeans and straightened his hair in the hall mirror, Kolya peered through the spy hole. With shaking hands, he pulled open the door.

‘Hello.’

‘Hello!’

It was the girl from the courtyard, the ugly dog at her side. She was tall as a birch tree and smelt spicy as bark, her scent overpowering the rubbish chute and the dog. He could feel her heat like a radiator in mid-winter. Kolya tried to keep his eyes on her face. She peered at him from the dimly lit hallway.

‘Are you the resident?’

‘No.’

‘Oh.’ Her jaw slackened slightly below the red lips.

‘But can I help you?’ Kolya prompted.

‘Well, I was calling round to say hello. I’ve just moved in next door, and I’ll be having a little party later, a little house-warming. I just wanted to let the resident know, and to invite them round, if they’d like to come?’

‘They wouldn’t, I’m afraid. No. He’s old, and sick.’

‘Oh.’

In the next room, Grigory Mikhailovich was being eaten alive by worry. Clutching the arms of his chair, he heaved his weight up and forward, tottering on his great paw-like feet.

‘You know, when I said I don’t live here, I kind of do. He is elderly. I help him out. I’m here a lot. I practically live here, in fact. I’m his next of kin.’

‘Oh. Well, maybe you could come?’

‘Yes, yes, maybe I could. I definitely could, actually.’

‘ Kroota! Just bring some drink and snacks, yeah?’

‘Of course! Would champagne be OK?’

‘ Kroota! ’

‘Yes, kroota! ’ Kolya laughed down his nose and a small blob of mucus exploded from the end of it, landing on the girl’s fine red coat. ‘Ah!’

With a rough stick in each hand, Grigory Mikhailovich eased himself haltingly towards the hall. He could make out a strident female voice, and Kolya, speaking softly.

‘About eight, then?’ the girl was unsmiling.

‘Eight is good. Nice to meet you!’

She turned on a sharp heel and disappeared into the murk of the hallway. Kolya clicked the door shut and leant his forehead against it. His whole body felt electrified. He closed his eyes. ‘I think she liked me.’

Reaching the hallway, Grigory Mikhailovich was relieved to see that Kolya was still there, and alone, although the boy was clearly in turmoil.

‘Them?’ asked Grigory Mikhailovich.

‘ Them ,’ whispered Kolya, after a brief pause.

‘What happened? What did they say? Are you all right, my boy?’

‘They said,’ Kolya spoke slowly, emphasising every word, ‘to keep away from the Lubyanka . They are watching the flat. If you try to leave – they will arrest us both. It seemed like they knew it all, Grigory Mikhailovich! I don’t know how—’

‘The walls have ears.’

‘Maybe – your Zinaida, was it…?’

‘Zoya? No! Well… No, I can’t believe it. She only just called from Azov. She can’t be the mole. Maybe it’s that skunk downstairs at the desk! He’s been listening in again!’ Grigory Mikhailovich collapsed back into his chair as Kolya skipped into the kitchen to light the stove. ‘All the same, we have to help her, boy, we have to. The man… and the dog! They have been taken! Yes, the dog! We have to get them back!’

‘There is a complication, Grigory Mikhailovich,’ Kolya re-appeared in the kitchen doorway, ‘I don’t want you to worry, but I must present myself at their HQ tonight, to pay a fine.’

‘A fine? That is most unusual.’ Grigory Mikhailovich screwed up his eyes until they disappeared. ‘A beating yes, disappearance, confiscation of property – but a fine?’

‘Modern times, Grigory Mikhailovich: you are confused, and old. It would be best just to pay. That way, no-one gets hurt. It is a fine for… for an unauthorized phone call.’

Kolya whispered an amount, and Grigory Mikhailovich shoved a gnarled hand down inside his shirt, teasing out a sheaf of faded notes. Pressing them in to Kolya’s hand, he wheezed ‘Good luck, comrade. You must fight your own battles,’ and turned to the window.

Around ten p.m., Grigory Mikhailovich was still sitting at the window with unblinking eyes, that had once been so piercing, but were now wet as carp. The potatoes and mushrooms sat in his belly, undigested and indigestible. The small bottle of Pshenichnaya vodka at his elbow was half empty, or half full, depending on your point of view. Slowly and deliberately, he reached for the crusted plastic phone by his side, and punched in several numbers, methodically.

‘Zinaida Artyomovna? Good evening, it is Grigory Mikhailovich here. I am sorry for the delay in getting back to you. It was a particularly busy evening, if you understand my meaning. I have decided that your presence is required in Moscow, to help resolve the disappearance of… er, the missing… person. And your canine. No, I will hear no argument. You called on me for help, and unfortunately, when we spoke earlier, I was a little confused. I thought we were meeting you at the Duma , or was it the Lubyanka ? I was hungry, to be honest. But I have had a good dinner, and now everything is clear in my mind. You must come here. Bring the other woman: the dog woman. She can help you. You are not used to cities, Zoya, not really. Moscow is a queen among cities, believe me: a queen with filthy petticoats and a penchant for blong, as I believe the young people say. Book your tickets: unless I am much mistaken, the Green Arrow leaves Rostov-on-Don for Moscow tomorrow at one p.m. – you get in the next afternoon: it is the express.’

Grigory Mikhailovich waited patiently for the wittering sound at the end of the line to subside.

‘Now Zoya, be on your guard. We’ve already had a run in with them this afternoon. You know what that means.’ Grigory Mikhailovich replaced the handset, and spread the newspaper over his great bulk, the better to keep the warmth in. The black and white faces of sickly Chechen orphans stared up at him.

‘Lenin would have known what to do,’ he murmured to them, before nodding silently into the blizzard of sleep.

‘You may not see the prisoner, no. Citizen Old Women—’

‘My name is Zinaida Artyomovna Krasovskaya, but you may call me Madam, and this is my friend—’

‘Well, Madam Old Citizen,’ broke in Officer Kulakov, smiling unpleasantly and displaying small, dirty teeth flecked with something greenish and soft, ‘if you continue to beat your fists on my reception hatch like a hooligan, I will arrest you. I may even have to use my police dogs to subdue you, or maybe just my baton. Whichever it is, I advise you to fuck off back to your lair before it happens: you really don’t want to find out how brutal this policeman can be. Leave police work to the organs of the State, hag.’ Kulakov leant through the hatch and spat the words into the old lady’s face.

‘You filthy vermin, you have no right—’

‘Madam Old Citizen, I have all the rights in the world. I am a state policeman, and I have a hangover. And you should realize,’ he paused briefly to pick a small piece of green from his teeth and wipe it on his shirt, ‘you should realize, and I’m surprised that you haven’t already, that the more you piss me off here, the worse it will be for the other old fucker – your boyfriend, whatever his name is. The senile one. You’re making life quite difficult for him at the moment. And the funniest thing is—’

‘You…!’

‘The funniest thing is, he’s not even here.’