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

‘Grigory Mikhailovich, it’s nearly eight. I think we should call. Don’t you?’ Galia was itching to get on with the task. Waiting around in the flat didn’t suit her at all. The old man frowned at her through a cloud of smoke and coughed with a wet, rattling sound that shook the window frames and made her want to fetch a mop.

‘Nearly eight, you say, Galina Petrovna? Well, in that case, let the dog see the rabbit!’

Galia placed the telephone on the table in front of Grigory Mikhailovich as he passed one paw into the recesses of his shirt and scraped around among a seemingly endless collection of pieces of string, keys and torn up newspapers that were stuffed inside his vest. Galia looked away, and caught Zoya’s gleaming eye: her friend was gloating over a pile of winnings that included cash, and buttons, and matches, and what looked like a few dead beetles, but couldn’t have been.

‘He’s a bad loser, Galia, for such a frequent one!’

‘Ah, here we are, ladies, here’s the number. Oh no, not that one, that’s, well, never mind. Ah, here it is! Not in there at all, but in my important numbers pocket. I sometimes think Kolya is right when he says I am becoming confused. But then I think – oh fuck it! You only live once!’ Grigory Mikhailovich roared with laughter and Zoya joined in, jerking up and down like a puppet on a string. Galia didn’t see what was so funny, and tapped her watch in his face.

‘Please, Grigory Mikhailovich, we must hurry. Vasya and Boroda are relying on us. They are relying on you!’

A dog barked in the courtyard and was answered by a sharp yap from a neighbouring window.

‘Galina Petrovna, you are right, as ever. We will continue with sobriety.’ And the great fat fingers began to slowly pick out the magic numbers. Galia held her breath, until she began to feel lightheaded and remembered to breathe, deep and slow, and to pace. Zoya crouched low next to Grigory Mikhailovich and craned her neck to hear every word. Galia couldn’t bear to listen to one half of the conversation. What would the Deputy Minister say, disturbed from his meetings and fishing trip and dacha to discuss an old man and a dog banged up miles away in the dusty south west. Galia couldn’t imagine that it would be positive. She watched the ugly dog in the courtyard straining on its leash to bark at a passing OAP, and wondered whether Boroda was still breathing somewhere, still blinking her dark eyes and observing people with her canine understanding, or whether Kulakov and Mitya had dispatched her already. She closed her eyes momentarily, and then jumped out of her skin as Grigory Mikhailovich thumped the receiver back on to the cradle.

‘He’s gone clubbing.’

‘Clubbing?’

‘Clubbing!’

‘How very unusual? Seal or deer?’

‘No, you stupid old trout, clubbing – he is in town, at a club, drinking and dancing and, and that kind of thing.’

Zoya shook her head, uncomprehending.

‘The Deputy Minister Glukhov is not at his dacha , he has returned to town to go clubbing. Apparently, we are not to tell anyone. Our lips, as it were, must be sealed.’

‘Oh, what are we to do, Grigory Mikhailovich?’ Galia began to shout slightly. ‘He promised that he would speak to us tonight, and we have to return to Azov tomorrow. I can’t stay here any longer. I really can’t. I have my vegetable patch to see to, and—’

‘Galina Petrovna – may I call you Galia? Galia, your vegetables will not run away, and neither will they wilt. Your true love will be freed, and your dog will be returned to you – perhaps, God willing. We are to meet him there. We will go clubbing, and all will be well.’ Grigory Mikhailovich’s tone was certain, booming, calm: he seemed in control, and Galia felt, for a moment, comforted.

Zoya clapped her hands and a smudgy smile stretched from ear to ear.

‘A club! A night club! In Moscow! I must change! Have you any sequins, Grigory Mikhailovich? I feel we must fit in.’

‘Zoya, control your eagerness, cousin. I’m afraid the club in question is not one of Moscow’s finest. There is no gold to be found at this place. It is… on the Bohemian side, if you know what I mean.’

Galia shook her head. ‘I don’t know what you mean, Grigory Mikhailovich.’

‘He means there are cockroaches and no toilet doors, at a guess,’ said Zoya, crestfallen.

‘I think you are likely to be right, Zoya,’ the old man concurred.

‘Grigory Mikhailovich, I don’t mean to be rude, but I am surprised at your knowledge of Moscow’s night clubs. Do you go often?’ Galia was curious.

‘I never go myself, how preposterous! But I know things, Galia. And I also know a youth who goes to clubs. I must telephone to Kolya, and he must come with us. I fear we’ll never get through the face control without him.’

‘The what?’ Zoya put a hand to her face and pulled worriedly at a lip and an eyebrow.

‘Kolya will know what to do. He should have been here by now, anyway. He’s idle, and conniving, and stupid, but he’ll have to do. He is my own flesh and blood, after all. Now, ladies, have a look in the dressing room and see if there’s anything you can find that will make you look a bit more…’

‘Bohemian?’ panted Zoya.

‘Yes. I will do the same. I’m sure I had a fez around here somewhere.’

And with that Grigory Mikhailovich raised his great weight from the table, stubbed out his Cuban cigar on a fifty-years-of-Communism commemorative plate, and lumbered towards the hallway.

‘I don’t like this,’ whispered Galia.

‘Culture, adventure, salvation – and vodka!’ cackled Zoya. ‘What’s not to like?’

The pool of sweat collecting beneath Mitya’s eyes gave him the brief impression, when half-way between sleep and wakefulness, that he was drowning in a salty orange sea. It appeared to him that a wave of sticky, unctuous fluid had become stuck to his face, with no tide to take it out, and he could almost feel the crabs scuttling around on the sand of sleepy dust that collected thickly around his eyes. He began to feel slightly sea-sick and pushed his eyelids open slowly, before peeling his face away from the pillow with great care. His whole body was covered in a rich layer of moisture, and even the air that he pulled into his aching lungs was warmly damp. Reaching up a swollen hand to his cheek, his fingertips felt the indentations left on it by the coarse man-made fibres of his bed linen. The skin felt a bit like a cheese grater. His stomach squeezed and he focused his eyes with some difficulty. Through his narrow slit vision, framed above and below by the pinkish insides of his eyelids, he eventually spied the clock. It was almost midday. He turned over and stared at the shiny polystyrene ceiling tiles. Today was Friday: he was supposed to be on duty. It was, in fact, his duty to be on duty. But today, Mitya the Exterminator was going to go astray.

There was a mood about the room that struck him as odd, and at first he couldn’t work out what was wrong. He lay still. The sun dappled the wall as the breeze played with the edge of the nylon curtain, and somewhere an elderly citizen addressed his radio in formal tones. Then Mitya realized: there was complete quiet in the communal flat. No volcanic roaring from the no-name alcoholic, no disco beats leaking out of Andrei the Svoloch ’s vibrating walls, no cat fights tearing up the tattered hallway and threatening to make his ears bleed. A bird twittered in the green pool of the courtyard and the silver birch tree washed its branches in the breeze. There was peace. Mitya closed his eyes and opened his ears: beyond the hum of his blood cells pulsing across his eardrums, he could make out a female voice, humming. It was Katya. She was humming ‘Enjoy the Silence’. He was sure she was. His facial muscles relaxed into a gentle smile and he opened his eyes again. A dog began to bark in the courtyard below. He wondered at the sound: what was that creature saying? Perhaps it was saying ‘Get up, Mitya. There’s work to be done.’ And perhaps it was just barking because it had no other business to do.