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

They found the correct door on their fourth attempt, which they both felt was quite good going. ‘I told you the portents were good,’ whispered Zoya.

As each oak door, complete with brass handles, seemed to stand at least twenty feet tall and weigh at least 200lbs, they were panting by the time they stood before the rather shabby reception desk at ‘Internal Affairs: Southern (Non-Caucasus)’. The desk was littered with forms of various colours, shapes and thicknesses, many of which appeared to have been partly filled in and then abandoned. A pale, slender young man with watery red-rimmed eyes checked their papers and took their names.

‘Would you like a reference number?’ he asked without looking up.

‘Do we need a reference number?’ countered Zoya, screwing up her nose inquisitively.

‘Well, it depends on you. This ministry is a modern Russian Federation state organ: we don’t treat people like numbers. President Yeltsin has decreed that everyone is to be treated as an individual, and has abolished compulsory reference numbers.’

‘That’s good,’ said Galia, smiling at the pale young man.

‘Yes it is,’ he said, still without looking up.

‘So why might we want a reference number?’ asked Zoya with a frown.

‘Well,’ said the young man, finally putting down his pen and raising his eyes to look at them, ‘in the new Russia, it is all down to individuals’ choices. You can choose not to have a reference number, and just join the queue. Or you can choose to buy a reference number, and join the queue.’

‘Buy?’ both ladies said as one.

‘Yes, buy. This is capitalism, after all.’

‘Why would we want to buy a reference number and join the queue?’ Galia asked, puzzled.

‘Well, it just depends on how much queuing you want to do.’

‘What if I don’t want to queue at all?’ Zoya replied.

‘Then you will need to buy the Platinum Rate reference number.’

‘And if I want to queue for an hour.’

‘For an hour you will need the Gold Rate reference number.’

‘Saints preserve us. This is just legal bribery, isn’t it?’ Galia rolled her eyes towards the beige-painted ceiling.

‘Elderly Citizen, this is capitalism; customer service, meritocracy, individual wealth. Now, would you like to buy a reference number, or not?’

‘My cousin, Grigory Mikhailovich Semechkin, will be joining us shortly,’ Zoya enunciated in clipped tones, leaning over the desk as far as her sparrow-legs would allow her and scanning the young man’s eyes for a flicker of fear, or recognition, or life. There was none. ‘So you can stick your reference number up your samovar until then.’

‘Sit there,’ he said blankly, pointing across the hall.

Galia took a seat next to an extremely broad, ruddy-faced woman. As she nodded to the woman she noticed that every tiny vein in the woman’s face was bright crimson and clearly visible. She was momentarily fascinated by the intricate network of lines that made up her neighbour’s face, and traced the network with her eyes from nostril to cheek to lip and hairy mole. Then, with a rush of colour to her own face, she realized how closely she was examining the poor woman. She was probably a farmer or construction worker or similar. She probably didn’t even own a mirror. She had probably spent her whole life toiling in the fields so that the people of this city could put bread in their mouths and flush their toilets in peace. Galia turned in her seat so that she looked straight ahead instead. She wondered if they should have invested in a reference number: numbers were still very important, and if you didn’t have one, you didn’t really exist, despite what the young man with the red eyes had said about meritocracy. She looked down the corridors to the left and right: they were lofty, brown, echoing, and very, very long. She could not even make out the ends of either corridor; it was as if they went on for ever, a never-ending repeated pattern of brown door, brown wall, strip light and shiny floor: no people, no curves, and no life.

Zoya was bored already. She had examined all the people she could see from here, and found them wanting. There was nothing of interest in their faces, clothes or speech. They were the usual crowd. She took out her sewing bag from beneath her rain poncho: she had insisted on wearing it despite the sun and heat: she predicted rain, and with her coat gone, the plastic poncho would have to suffice.

‘Oh Lord, Zoya, don’t be sewing eyes on a thousand-eyed serpent in the Ministry of the Interior. It’s just asking for trouble. Put it away – now!’ Galia’s eyes were wide as she hissed at her friend, trying not to draw attention to herself, and only succeeding in the opposite. All heads turned their way with a rustle of manmade fibres and a slight puff of dandruff.

Without raising her head, Zoya’s eyes moved stealthily across the dough-pale faces with their blackcurrant-eyes staring blankly in her direction, and with a sniff indicating both hurt and mild discomfort, quietly put the sewing bag away. ‘These people aren’t ready,’ she conceded to Galia. ‘This ministry isn’t ready. Might be, you know… hmm,’ and trailed off with a sigh which slipped into a vague hum of something slightly stirring, and ancient.

An hour later, there was still no sign of Grigory Mikhailovich, and Zoya began to pace, her tiny bird-like feet making sharp click-clacks on the polished granite floor. The dough zombies watched her progress, their heads moving in unison first to one side, then to the other, like spectators at a very, very slow tennis match, with no points scored. Galia had attempted, for some time, to concentrate on the crossword that had been in her pocket since before the train journey, but it was now just a mess of boxes and letters and scribbles that offended her sense of correctness. She screwed it up and tossed it in to the over-flowing bin.

‘Well done!’ said Zoya, ‘crosswords help no-one. Whatever the problem, crosswords are not the answer. Like ironing: ironing is never the answer. Or golf.’

‘Stroke,’ thought Galia, but said nothing, keeping her eyes on her folded hands in her lap. A door opened in the middle-distance of corridor number one, to the left, and a man in a grey suit emerged. Tension in the waiting area mounted to fever pitch: jaws flopped open, eyelids twitched, the crowd held its breath: and then it dissipated, as the man shuffled slowly away in the opposite direction, leaving them with nothing but the echo of his steps.

Some time later, but no-one could really be sure when, as time does funny things in ministries and seems to slow down or stop altogether at some points (especially during lunch hour, which is often two or three hours, and not at lunchtime), the young man took a phone call, and looked in Zoya’s direction. He talked very softly, so that they could not make out the words, but only occasional S and T noises, and the odd smirk.

‘He’s talking about us!’ Zoya whispered, excited yet fretful, like a toddler at a fairground who needs a wee. ‘You’ll see. We’ll be next. But where is Grigory Mikhailovich? He must be here for the meeting. We can’t possibly do it without him.’

‘Zoya, I think we can. After all, he’s not really contributed much so far, has he?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, we got off the train without him, we found our beds without him, we had our breakfast, or rather didn’t have our breakfast, without him, and we got here without him. I don’t really see what your cousin’s contribution to our mission is, Zoya.’

‘Well, that’s gratitude, isn’t it?’

‘To be honest, I have found him… quite disappointing.’

Galia knew that these words would annoy Zoya, but she couldn’t help it: they were true.