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

‘Zoya?’ called Galia, but there was no answer, just a vague humming of some Soviet aria, and the sounds of her friend settling down for the night. Galia rubbed her eyes, and then remembered that she shouldn’t rub them. Her belly was empty and growled like a feral kitten, but she was too tired and unhappy to brave an expedition to the old man’s kitchen. She took a deep breath, and set off reluctantly to find a bed.

Mitya stroked his right arm with the fingers of his left as he stood in the centre of his room, hot and sticky as a baker’s crotch. He still carried the marks left by Monday’s meeting with the three-legged dog, and the coming-together with his mother. He didn’t mind though. He had hardly noticed the itching as the cuts had turned to scabs and then begun to dry out. Indeed, Mitya’s mind was elsewhere.

Katya: the girl with the lopsided smile and the musky smell. He tried to remember the exact scent of her, and unthinking, raised his own hand to his face, sniffed his fingers and gently licked their tips. She was everywhere in his mind. All day he’d seen her out of the corner of his eye in every street, when it wasn’t her at all. The nerves had leapt in his chest when he saw any woman who was approximately the same height and colouring. He’d almost run after a small blonde in the market this morning, until he realized it was a babushka in a wig. He saw her everywhere, except where he wanted her to be: at his door.

He stood in his room, gnawing a freshly clipped fingernail, and replayed, again, their first meeting in the toilet, their subsequent meeting by the bins, and then last night, in the dark of Children’s Play Park No. 4. He recalled every detail, every word, look and sigh. He replayed the image of her jean-clad rump in the air as she stretched out over the ground and under the equipment store, dragging out the half-starved, crying puppies one by one. She had been so brave, so cheerful, and so organised. She had not minded their mess and fuss: she had been wholly intent on getting them out and making them warm. She had snuggled them into his black body-warmer and they had rustled about in its man-made cosiness, seeking a teat for milk. Together they had taken them to the Rosa Luxembourg embankment, where Mitya had waited outside the window as Katya had handed them over to the salivating elderly female citizens, whose eyes glowed as the little bodies were counted in.

How long he stood there in his room, heart hammering and mind blankly replaying the scenes of the previous day, he didn’t know. But when he came to, he realized with painful clarity that staying in and ironing his uniform tonight, his night off, was out of the question. Tonight, in this warm Azov evening, he needed action and company and the sights and sounds of other people. His own company was not enough this evening. He felt like his brain might explode. Town would be busy, and he wanted to be somewhere where lights shone and music played and the wind blew through the trees. He struggled free of his dressing gown as if it was crushing his very soul, and stood panting and naked, save for a pair of white socks and brown rubber flip-flops. The place where his mother had caught him with the sickle throbbed, and he stared at the long thin scab for a moment. A noise in the doorway startled him.

‘You want to fucking shut your door, you fucking dog-murdering weirdo!’ cackled Andrei the Svoloch from the threshold. Mitya had just enough time to consider that what Andrei the Svoloch had said was in fact true, before he added. ‘Hey Oxana, want to come and see something funny? Come and look at this loser!’

In one movement, Mitya leapt across the tiny room and crashed against the door, slamming it shut with his body just as a toxic cloud of cheap perfume and big orange hair appeared to engulf Andrei. What was wrong with him? How could he make a mistake like that? He never left the door open. And then a thought chilled his soul like a shadow across a baking Black Sea sunbather: had he wanted to be caught naked in his room? But perhaps not by Andrei? That girl was having a strange effect on him. His routine was empty and unsatisfactory, and his flesh was on fire.

What Mitya needed, he realized as he gazed down at his feet, was a drink. He opened the pressed cardboard wardrobe and pulled out his usual evening wear: snow-washed blue jeans, brown loafers, red T-shirt and chunky-knit green button-up cardigan. He frowned and sniffed the cardigan: it was not fresh, but it would have to do. He felt better once everything was in place: he felt more like the real Mitya, more in control. Nakedness had a tendency to make his mind race, to make him feel like he was someone else, or maybe no-one at all.

He collected up his wallet and keys and, having made very sure he had properly locked his bedroom door, left the communal flat. The music from Andrei the Svoloch ’s room party was echoing down the stairs, but Mitya hardly heard it. At least the angel wasn’t there. She had promised. He heard a strange squealing coming from Andrei’s room and hurried down the steps, putting the communal flat to the back of his mind. Tonight was going to be special.

The Azov Bar No. 2 – ‘Smile Bar!’ – was Mitya’s habitual spot for informal social interaction. Until fairly recently it had been a typical old-style bar, simply called ‘Bar No. 2’ and it had contained no seats, just a selection of dirty round tables littered with chipped, empty glasses and spit. The drinks menu had been simple: flat, fishy tasting beer, or vodka. But then as the spirit of hedonism so evident in Moscow and St Petersburg had gradually trickled downstream to backwaters such as Azov, local businessmen had, eventually, recognized an opportunity: what Azov really needed was a proper bar with leatherette sofas and expensive fizzy beer imported from Italy, or at the very least, Poland. So now over-plumped, shiny red couches jostled blistering white plastic tables and a newly tiled floor, that became slippery when wet, for the drinkers’ attention. Taking the place of surly, grizzled old Borya, whose charm had been limited to barking political songs and beating up the more feeble customers, there were now young, attractive, surly waitresses who chewed gum and forgot to fill orders, and mostly sat around in packs, looking bored. The vast majority of customers eked out each drink to last approximately two hours.

Mitya liked the smell of the bar, it was unusual yet familiar: cleaning fluid and new plastic, seasoned with parmesan and hormones. The strip lights scarring the ceiling were an eye-piercing white and bounced beams like lasers off the collage of mirrors hanging on the walls. A jungle of plastic flowers and shrubs around the doorway completed the bright, confusing effect.

Mitya squinted as he swaggered in the glare of the bar, taking in the jumble of drunken faces with as nonchalant a glance as he could muster: small groups of tired middle-aged men leered hungrily at larger groups of young girls; large groups of young boys taunted small groups of young girls; young couples gazed into each other’s eyes in wordless wonder, or stared with mute boredom into the dark mosquito buzz of the street. Mitya was unsurprised to see Petya Kulakov at the mauve-and-green studded bar, leaning heavily on another comrade, known as Big Vova. Both the policemen were liquid with sweat and Mitya could sense their hum from the doorway, above the parmesan and the cleaning fluid.

He negotiated the plastic jungle and laser beams, albeit with a slight throbbing at the left temple, and arrived at the bar with a sense of quiet triumph.

‘What do you want?’ a pouting waitress with raven black hair acknowledged his presence while examining her long, purple nails.