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

‘State your business!’ commanded a thick voice, a voice of phlegm. Galia peered in at the door, but could see nothing.

‘Grigory Mikhailovich! Cousin! It is I, Zinaida Artyomovna, and my friend, Galina Petrovna, as arranged!’

There was a brief pause, filled only by the sound of breathing, slow and even and wet. Then there was a sudden explosive inhalation, like a brick being thrown into a millpond.

‘Oh! Ah! Yes! Ladies, ladies, I was beginning to wonder whether you would ever arrive. I have been waiting a long time, it seems.’

‘Apologies, Grigory Mikhailovich. There was a bear on the line,’ said Zoya drily, and in an unnecessary tone, Galia thought. She looked again into the blackened doorway, and made out a pair of eyes so startlingly blue they reminded her of those of a husky, or a mad man. She was enveloped in a bright, hard glance that made her feel rather self-conscious. She coughed and looked at her sandals, and was released again.

‘Do come in, Galina Petrovna, it is a pleasure to meet you, at last,’ rumbled Grigory Mikhailovich. Moving towards him through the doorway, Galia was conscious of a variety of tide-marks of what could have been gravy on the front of the old man’s threadbare shirt, and what appeared to be fish bones sticking out of his beard, which pressed sharply into her forehead when he kissed her, and left tiny indentations that she could feel with her fingertips. Zoya bustled in after her, reaching up on scrawny shanks to kiss her cousin noisily on both cheeks, twice.

The front door groaned shut, and Grigory Mihkailovich led the way. His apartment was dark and cool as a cemetery in October. The block had evidently been put up during the 1950s – the Soviet boom years – and reflected as much: high ceilings with moulded roses and real crystal chandeliers; caramel-coloured parquet that gulped down the clack of footsteps; respectable oak doors that swung languidly into each lofty room, and windows stretching to the ceiling with five inch double-glazing. The solid pedigree of the building was evident, but, on closer inspection, all was decay with Grigory Mikhailovich. The chandeliers were dust-encrusted; there were dunes of flies collected between the panes of the windows, and the dull parquet swallowed light as well as sound.

The old man led them, with slow, halting steps, from the grand hall towards the main reception room. As they moved, they passed numerous doors, all half-open, and behind each one, Galia could vaguely make out either a tumult of shadowy, moth-eaten chaos, or plain echoing emptiness.

‘Come in to the den, and we will plan our campaign.’

Galia had been hoping for a glass of hot tea, at the least, but dared not ask. She tried to catch Zoya’s eye, but her friend was making directly for the huge table in the middle of the room, covered with maps, paperweights, directories, empty cups, broken radios, ashtrays and choc-ice wrappers.

The hot day collapsed into a sultry evening and, as a multitude of flies and moths circled the yellow bulbs of the chandelier above their heads, so they began to plan the next day’s events. Grigory Mikhailov scrawled out long notes to himself with a squeaky pencil about which connections, at which ministries, they would need to prevail upon. There was a long discourse on whether there would be different approaches for dog and human? Different, of course, in the end: the dog was wild, the man wasn’t wild, he was just desperate, and old. The dog wasn’t as old, but was a Class 3 Invalid, so perhaps there was merit in approaching that section too? The Ministry of the Interior, the Justice Ministry, the Minister for Old People, the Minister for Stray Dogs… no, there was no Minister for Stray Dogs, strike that. Make a connection to find out the right minister whose portfolio would include Stray Dogs, who were Class 3 Invalids. It went on for hours, backwards and forwards, misunderstandings, anecdotes, everyone forgetting their train of thought all at the same time and looking at each other blankly, wondering who would take control. Each time someone recovered, after several seconds or sometimes minutes. Oh, so they did actually steal the dog back from the Exterminator? And the dog did actually bite Officer Kulakov, and several times? And who was the mad woman with the sickle? Was it a state-provided sickle, did Galina Petrovna think? Had the paperwork handed to her included a Form No. 372c signed by the required parties? Galia opened the travel bag and brought out all the documentation, much of it now studded with glass serpents’ eyes and Urals dust. ‘Oh dear, that will never do,’ rumbled Grigory Mikhailovich. Galia pursed her lips, and Zoya pretended not to have heard.

They were offered no food or refreshment of any kind.

Galia had wanted to ask about Pasha and Kislovodsk, and thank Grigory Mikhailovich for his help, but every time she collected her thoughts and screwed up her courage, either Zoya or Grigory Mikhailovich would make some sort of breakthrough in preparing their case and the words would be forgotten for a few minutes again. Her own bit of ancient history seemed to have no place in the discussions raging around the table. She felt silly for wanting to bring it up. She gazed at the old map of the Soviet Union hanging on the wall, and picked out Azov, a tiny speck on the mid-western side. She felt a sudden urge to go home.

‘Right! That’s all settled then!’ crowed Zoya, triumphant, beaming.

‘Is it?’ asked Galia.

‘Galia, you really don’t have the necessary physical and mental stamina for this, do you, my dear? I can see you are thinking of your vegetable patch and your dog.’

Galia blushed slightly as she stumbled over a denial. ‘No, I was just thinking about how large our old Soviet Union was, that’s all.’

‘Ah, bless!’ said Zoya a little acidly, and started rolling up maps and sorting papers in to alphabetical order. She hopped around the table, hands darting to and fro, as Grigory Mikhailovich stood silent and still, the great heaving of his chest every so often as he drew air in and then expelled it with a whistle the only indication that he was living. His bright blue eyes were unfocused now, his puffy hands limp by his sides. Galia wondered again whether this old bear actually had any influence with today’s ‘new Russian’ ministries.

‘He would have known what to do, mark my words.’

‘Who would, Grigory Mikhailovich?’

The old man turned his eyes to Galia and stared through her for at least thirty seconds, before a switch flicked somewhere within the mysterious and calcified network that was his brain, and he remembered exactly who she was. He blinked.

‘Ladies, I will bid you goodnight,’ roared Grigory Mikhailovich, suddenly lumbering towards them, and somehow herding them towards the door without them knowing it, their small, backward steps taking them swiftly towards the open doorway. ‘It is late, and we have a busy day tomorrow. Make yourselves comfortable. Sleep where you like. I generally do.’ And with that, Grigory Mikhailovich closed the door in their faces, shutting them out in the echoing gloom of the hall.

‘What does that mean?’ asked Galia, her voice wavering slightly.

‘Well, I suppose it means we find a room and go to sleep in it,’ said Zoya, looking a bit baffled herself. ‘He’s an old man, he’s probably forgotten—’

‘Forgotten how to have guests,’ broke in Galia.

‘Yes.’ Zoya sat, briefly, on a sagging chair in the hallway, and gathered her thoughts. A swift sniff on the smelling salts gave her the necessary boost, and away she went, pecking her way into one of the rooms leading off the hall, to build a nest.

‘I am so looking forward to the Bolshoi,’ she said with an almost girlish simper as she pressed the door shut.