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

So, what else to tell you? The walls are brown and mottled: there is damp here and there, and a few posters and newspaper cuttings, some drawings even, that serve for entertainment. I may add to the drawings if my fellow inmates allow, although I’m not sure we will have similar tastes in terms of decoration. Maybe I could attempt the Goddess Venus, to bring a spot of higher culture to the cell, or a cartoon of Vasik.

Despite the number of people in the room, this is a lonely place. Some of the men have been here for over a year, and are still awaiting trial. Some have been told that they now have tuberculosis, as a result of living in these conditions. It is a type of tuberculosis that cannot be cured: it has mutated within the prison system and now can withstand any of the drugs that doctors try to treat it with. Not that much treatment goes on around here, I believe. Some of the men with this awful disease, Galia, are little more than boys. There are one or two that I recognize from my days at School No. 2. They cough like beggars, and have a haggard look, with burning eyes. I must admit I have tried to keep my distance from them: I know I am old, and my life is almost over, but I have no desire to shorten it still further. Am I wrong in this?

What other news do I have? My friend Yegor Platkov was allowed to bring me this paper and a pen. I am allowed to write one letter a week, but it must be seen by a Prison Officer before it can be sealed and sent. There is regular food, served up in our cell by trusties who generally have sores and are the most dishevelled of the lot. The quality is very poor, and the food is, mainly, unidentifiable: we are, after all, relying on the State’s charity. They tell me that this SIZO has a new and slightly flamboyant Kommandant and that changes are afoot, but I have not witnessed anything that could be called progressive or flamboyant so far. I do know that if and when one is found guilty and sent off to prison camp, the conditions there are far better, as they are properly equipped with workshops, kitchen gardens, farms and factories. They are designed for the long term, while these SIZOs are meant to be holding pens. The start of the sausage machine, as it were, ready to feed the system and spit out reformed characters in due course. I believed in the system once, Galina Petrovna. But I must admit, now I am not so sure that it can produce anything apart from misery, and better-qualified criminals. I can only hope that my case comes to trial soon and that, one way or another, I can get out of this dungeon before the tuberculosis or the rats get me.

But let me reassure you, dear Galia, that the other prisoners are treating me with a great deal of respect, generally, and I have not been mistreated at all, so far. I am a grandfather to them, so I hope that as long as I can keep my mouth shut and my eyes on the floor, I will be all right.

Yegor communicated to me that you have departed for Moscow to try to free both Boroda and me. Thank you, dear lady: you are so valiant, and so brave! If only I could be as strong as you, I would burst out of these prison walls with my bare hands! As it is, I miss my pussycat Vasik, and my neighbours, and of course, your good self. What will the Elderly Club have to say about all this, I wonder? I am shaking just thinking of it. But it can’t be helped. Even if I survive SIZO, of course, and prison camp, I will have to disbar myself from taking any role within the club, as I will have a conviction for bribery and corruption. Perhaps you will not want to know the likes of me when I am released: I cannot tell, but I could not blame you if that were the case. I may even arrive back in my old life with a convict’s tattoos: I have so far escaped an etching, but only by a whisker. When my neighbour, Shura, wakes from his sleep I fear he may once again be quite determined to adorn me in some way. Maybe I will ask for a picture of my puss Vasik: I do miss him so, and he has been my constant companion these last ten years. Do you think you could pop in to see him on your return from the great capital? I’m sure he would appreciate it.

I miss the sunshine already, and I miss the air. Has it been three days? Not a long incarceration so far, but it seems to be sucking the life out of me at a pace. It would be so sad to die here, in this cell, never having seen the sunshine or smelt the wind on the river again. I’m sorry, Galia, this letter was meant to be hearty and uplifting, but as you can see, I am a coward, and instead of sparing you and buoying you up I am weighing you down with my own fears and cowardice. Please forgive me.

I wish you God speed on your journey, and good luck with your mission to Moscow, although I cannot believe in my heart of hearts that anything will come of it. We are very small, small fry out here in Azov, and I am sure no-one in Moscow will give two hoots about an old man and a dog with three legs, no matter how good her manners.

Take care of yourself and young Zoya while you are there. I will be thinking of you. Thank you for not forgetting me: it would be easy for you to leave me to rot, a silly old teacher, worth nothing to anyone.

Vasya re-read the letter in the dim light of the bulbs hanging despondently from the crusted ceiling a couple of metres above his head. He sighed, and shifted his feet on the sticky floor beneath him. He noted the handwriting, here clear and neat, and there turning spidery and blotted. Then he screwed up the paper into a ball and thrust it under his bunk. Staring into nothing, he gritted his teeth and firmed up his chin, and waited to go to sleep. He was no coward, and he refused to send such a whining epistle to such a strong lady. Tomorrow, everything would seem better, and he would write another letter entirely. His neighbour shifted slightly in his sleep, and threw a massive hand out across Vasya’s thigh. Vasya remained entirely still, not even daring to breathe, and silently wished his neighbour a very good night’s sleep.

Mitya wiped his face with the proffered towel, and felt the wet ghost of someone else’s ball sack smear across his mouth and nose. He retched again, pressing his forehead hard against the floor. His stomach was tight and empty, and all that came up was bubbles of rotten air in a series of loud, echoing belches that shook his lips, head, chest: his buttocks even. He realized that he was sprawled on the familiar lino of home, but he felt greasy and swollen, shining and shaking despite himself. He was not in control. He cleared his throat gingerly, feeling the sting of bile on his tonsils.

‘That’s not my towel!’ he whispered through paper-white fingers, guarding his mouthful of wobbling teeth, keeping his eyes closed against the harsh orange light and wavering shadows around him. He couldn’t remember the journey home, wasn’t sure who he was with, didn’t know if he was still in danger of further kicks and punches. But he wasn’t going to use a towel that had been anywhere near Andrei the Svoloch ’s scrotum, that was for sure. He was not in control, but he had his standards.

‘Oh, shucks, puppy, I’m sorry. I found it in the bathroom, there wasn’t much to choose from, really. I just thought you needed something to have a wipe with. I didn’t realize, you know: a towel’s a towel in my book. Not that I keep a book about towels… take it easy though, hero, no puking on the lino, OK? Your landlord won’t be happy. And neither will I. I’m not so good with puke.’

Katya leant over him. For a moment he could sense her warmth covering him, hear her breathing softly through her nose, feel her scent in a warm cloud passing over him, and he felt a sense of calmness creep from a point in his chest through his vital organs and out towards his tightly curled fingers and toes. But no sooner had the feeling brushed through him than the room shifted sideways suddenly and his stomach lurched into his throat again. And now she was very far away, like a distant planet out of his orbit, shadowy, unknown, untouchable on the other side of the room. Mitya tried to draw his legs up towards his head: he desperately wanted to curl up into a ball and become a small nothing melting into the floor, but the pain in his abdomen and hips stopped him moving more than an inch or two and left him splayed out, gangly and vomit-flecked under the orange light, eyes rolling for cover.