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

‘Is the reason dogs can’t talk because of the shape of their mouths?’ He remembered asking his mother once, a long, long time ago, back in the times of chat over lunchtime and brown bread and butter. She had laughed. She had laughed so much that she cried and Mitya had felt a little stupid, although he’d smiled also. But she had not answered the question. Perhaps, because she did not know.

Mitya showered in the communal bathroom down the hall. He was barely able to clamber into the bathtub, and holding the shower above his head was torture to his bruised shoulders. The entire washing process was even more unpleasant than usual given the stiffness of his body, and on a number of occasions his face came dangerously close to touching the fecund walls of the chamber when he attempted to reach his various sore spots. Once clean and dry, he dressed in the only presentable set of clothes he now had – his winter ensemble of heavy purple wool trousers and a grey long-sleeved shirt – and these made him sweat anew. He looked at the trousers: they seemed wrong. Maybe he could make a visit to the commission shop today and try to get something second-hand, something a little more suited to the heat. He needed some shorts, perhaps. He bent down to do up his shoes and found he could barely reach his feet. He forgot about issues of clothing as he struggled with his laces, and again he thought of his mother. Then he made for the door.

In the corridor, he could no longer hear the humming. But he was sure it had been Katya: he had felt it in his soul and felt her fingers strumming on his heart. He hesitated, and then slowly approached the magical door at the end of the corridor. He had never really noticed it before – could not recall seeing anyone go through it, apart from her, the other day. He reached out a hand and knocked, gently, hesitantly. All was quiet. He felt empty. He cleared his throat and tried again, slightly louder. He heard a muffled clanging and his heart thumped slightly. He wondered what she was wearing today, and whether her hair would be tied back in a pony-tail, or loose around her shoulders. He felt a great need to touch her.

A great belch shook the door on its hinges before it was pulled open roughly, and before him towered a lumpy girl with bad skin and enormous red hands. She smelt strongly of cheese.

‘What?’ she roared. Mitya took a step backwards, despite himself.

‘Hello. Is Katya home?’

‘Katya?’ She looked somewhat outraged.

‘Yes, Katya.’ Mitya tried to curve his lips into a smile to persuade the girl that he meant no harm.

‘What would you want with Katya, eh?’ She squinted her eyes and smiled in a particularly unpleasant way, leaving her mouth half open, her creamy-coloured tongue protruding and dripping saliva on to the floor. She slurped slightly, and wiped her mouth on the back of her slab-like hand. Mitya took a gamble.

‘Are you her cousin, Marina?’ Again he tried to smile.

‘What sort of a stupid question is that, Mikhail Plovkin? Are you pretending not to know me?’

Now it was Mitya’s turn to leave his mouth half open. He must have met her at some stage, but he had no recollection of it. Maybe in the kitchen at some point: if he was tending to his imported ramen noodles, he might not have taken her all in? Or if coming out of the bathroom – he would have been sure of averting his eyes. He sensed that it was important to try to continue to be civil.

‘No, of course not – you are Marina. Of course. You’ve done your hair differently, perhaps?’

Marina snorted.

‘She’s not in.’ The girl fed him the information like a piece of cheese rind.

‘Ah. Thank you, I’ll—’ Mitya turned to move off towards the front door.

‘You can come in for a cup of kvass , if you like? You look like you need one.’ He stopped, suspended in the hallway by her words. He turned his head towards her, trying to avoid looking at her directly, but still uncomfortably aware of the pitted pink smudge of her face and that drooling smile. Her fingers, thick as eels, were fiddling at her arm-pit, picking off the bobbles of grey cotton sprouting from her towelling house-coat. Mitya shuddered and muttered something about being very busy just now.

‘You think yourself better than the rest of us, don’t you, Mikhail?’ The smile had dropped off her face.

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Keeping yourself to yourself. That door: always shut. You never come to Andrei’s parties, do you?’

Mitya knew it would be undiplomatic to answer with honesty. He glued his tongue to his palate and tried to smile.

‘You never show an interest. I’ve seen you in the kitchen five or six times – six, I think it is: you never say hello.’

Mitya shrugged slightly and looked at the floor. ‘I’m not a very good cook. I have to concentrate on what I’m doing when I am in the kitchen. Distractions lead to burnt food, I find—’

‘I know all about you,’ she cut him off. ‘Mitya the Exterminator. Oh yes.’

‘Really, Marina?’ Again he shrugged, but the blood rushed to his neck and crept up his cheeks. ‘There’s not very much to know, I assure you.’

‘She doesn’t know, does she?’ The cheese mistress smiled as she flicked a few creamy crumbs from her cleavage on to the floor.

‘What?’

‘Katya. She doesn’t know what you do. She wouldn’t spit on you if she did, you know.’

‘She knows I’m an exterminator.’

‘Yes, Mikhail, but she doesn’t know what, does she? I found out – she thinks you kill cockroaches. But I think I’m going to have to put her straight.’

‘No, cousin Marina, please don’t do that.’ He moved back towards her door with quick steps.

‘She ought to know.’

‘Yes, citizen neighbour, but I’ll do it.’ Mitya was trying hard not to become annoyed.

‘She’s going to find out, you know.’

‘I will speak to her.’ His voice was earnest.

‘You’d better do it soon.’

‘Yes, I—’

‘She’ll hate you.’

‘I will explain.’ He could feel a gelatinous film of sweat forming on his brow and upper lip. The effort of trying to persuade, and not simply going for his dog pole and containing this bitch, was becoming more than he could bear.

Cousin Marina smirked. ‘That will be a fine conversation. And a short one! You’re a loser, Mikhail Plovkin! There’s nothing here for you!’ She slammed the door in Mitya’s face. He blinked hard, took a deep breath in and tried to relax his fingers, which had curled into claws at his sides. Cousin Marina was formidable, and slightly scary. And she had told him something he already knew. He gazed at the door for some moments, and then shook himself slightly. He raised his chin, and headed for the stairs and his van outside.

As usual on a sunny afternoon, there was a group of children going about their business in the courtyard, trailing sticks through dust and making pies out of sand, spit and leaves. Their babushkas lined the benches in a higgledy row, soaking up the sun, their wrinkled faces resembling walnuts. Mitya remembered his own babushka and her dacha . He hadn’t thought of her in years. He could hardly remember her face. But he could recall her voice as she scolded him for eating strawberries straight from the bush. Her garden had been a safe haven for him. He smiled, and embraced the feeling, his steps light on the path as he made for his van. How they’d enjoyed those days in the garden, he and his best friend.

‘Murderer!’ The screech was like a slap in the face. His head jerked up and he was surprised to see a small girl with brown pig-tails and a dust-smeared face standing directly in front of him, blocking his path. She had a large stick in her hand and was trailing its end across the clean paintwork of the van, leaving smudges that set Mitya’s teeth on edge. She looked vaguely familiar.