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

‘I have but one true love.’

‘What are we to do with him?’ asked Kolya querulously and obviously displeased.

‘Good boy, good boy,’ murmured Grigory Mikhailovich, looking intently at the chair arm, and giving it a little tickle under the chin. Kolya tutted and rolled his eyes skyward until Zoya and Galia fixed him with eyes that promised physical harm if he continued.

‘You are impudent, young Kolya,’ snarled Zoya.

‘But people are laughing,’ whined Kolya indignantly.

‘Zoya, my dear, I don’t think he is going to be up to recognizing anything very much, for a little time,’ said Galia, with a sigh, ‘the music seems to have had a strange effect on him. Grigory Mikhailovich, can you hear me?’ Galia shouted into the old man’s ear, her lips only centimetres from the waxy orifice, but there was no response. Grigory Mikhailovich continued to stroke the chair and sing, his eyes distant and dark.

‘On this occasion, Galia, I fear you are entirely right: he is of no further use to us at the present. But we shall not give in! One of these men is the Deputy Minister Glukhov, Roman Sergeevich. We just have to deduce which one. We are clever women: we will do this. Once more unto the breach, dear friend!’

Galia nodded quickly, her headband slipping into her eyes, but her spirit fortified by the vodka and a pickled gherkin proffered by a midget hostess on roller-skates who just happened to be rolling by.

‘Let us commence our detailed search, Zinaida Artyomovna,’ said Galia.

They marched from room to room, looking into each and every face, some smiling, some glowering, but most just hugely puzzled, trying to spot some evidence of another life. The life they were trying to spot was a life spent in dusty corridors: a life of endless dry meetings concerning ruddy-cheeked citizens, or arguments with Duma representatives from the far-flung icy reaches; a life receiving and giving back-handers, in place of any real work. They looked for evidence of a wearer of cheap and unclean suits, someone who had spent his school days unpopular yet reasonably bright, never the best or the most industrious, but one who knew how to play the system and get good scores in end-of-year exams. One who had got in to university at the right time and got through the Soviet system, to be in place at the ministry once that whole edifice had been dismantled, ready to step in under a democratic banner and seize promotion to Deputy Minister, Internal Affairs (Southern Non-Caucasus). One who might be a friend of Yeltsin, or the oil barons, or the new breed of bankers who seemed to rule the capital, if not the provinces just yet.

Their gaze scoured every corner of every room, but each glowing face they saw just spoke of vodka, and beats, and ecstasy, and love. In one of the winding corridors, a young woman dressed as a tiger stroked Zoya’s hair and murmured something in her ear. Zoya’s eyes widened, and she nodded suddenly, before disappearing to the dance floor. Galia almost followed, but something held her back. She didn’t know quite who the lady was, but she was pretty sure the tiger woman was not a lead to the Deputy Minister. She looked at her watch: it was ten p.m. already, and suddenly she felt a panic that grasped her throat: the evening was slipping away, and nothing had been gained. Ten p.m. in Azov too, but poor Boroda and Vasya weren’t kicking up their heels in a night club with vodka and tiger ladies. An image of noble Vasya surrounded by murderers and rapists, and noble Boroda surrounded by snarling street dogs, crept before Galia’s eyes. She had to stay focused. She had to find the Deputy Minister and plead their case. Even if Grigory Mikhailovich and Zoya were now… otherwise engaged.

Galia roamed back through the club, studying each room as best she could: the chess room, home to mushroom tables and weird paintings on the walls whose multitudinal eyes followed you as you moved: the bar, now raucous and over-flowing, even the walls wet and warm to the touch: the dancing room, still pulsating, a myriad of rainbow colours; the corridors that laced their way endlessly up and down, in and out, full of people lounging against walls, sitting on floors, all deaf, all wordless, all moving in slow motion or not at all; the toilets, dark and forbidding, at the top of a winding staircase that threatened to topple any unsuspecting, over-zealous reveller. Finally, Galia made her way back to the corner of the bar where Kolya had left Grigory Mikhailovich in the cat-chair. She hoped he had recollected himself and would now be able to at least give her a hint of what the Deputy Minister Glukhov, Roman Sergeevich might look like. However, when she returned to the chair, he was nowhere to be seen.

In his place there sat a slim young man with sly, tilted eyes, high cheekbones and an interesting scar across one cheek. His fingers were interlaced in his lap and his eyes were half-closed, as if he were on the edge of slumber. The fur of the cat-chair caressed the silk of his plain black shirt.

Galia looked at him for a few seconds, hesitated, and made to turn away.

‘Madam, are you looking for Grigory Mikhailovich?’

Galia turned back to the young man, somewhat surprised at his melodious voice and the fact that she had been able to hear it over the revelry.

‘Oh, er, yes, I did leave him here. He was feeling a bit… unwell.’

‘He’s fine, madam, just fine. In fact, he’s gone for a dance.’

‘What?’

‘He’s on the dance floor. Your friend Zoya, I believe, came and collected him, but he wasn’t unwilling, to be honest. I think the music is good for his soul, as it is for all of us, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘Er, yes, I suppose so,’ Galia agreed, but wondered at her agreement. This sort of music didn’t really seem to be doing her soul much good, she had to admit.

‘Would you like to sit down – please, go ahead.’

The young man stood suddenly, and Galia gratefully sank into the cat-chair. She could almost hear it purr as she leant back into its folds, but resisted the temptation to tickle its whiskers. She had the distinct impression it had stray fish scales on its chin, however.

‘Let me introduce myself. My name is Roma.’ The young man squatted beside her chair and offered his hand. His smile creased one side of his not-quite-handsome face as his eyes almost disappeared into his cheekbones. Galia liked the smile.

‘I am Galina Petrovna. Very pleased to meet you. And how do you know Grigory Mikhailovich?’

‘Well, Galina Petrovna, I would have thought that was obvious?’ Roma replied, lifting his eyebrows high and pretending surprise.

Galia was trying to decide how to respond to this perplexing statement, when a thought struck her like a shock from a cracked plug socket: this man’s name was Roma, short for Roman… and possibly, just maybe, short for Roman Sergeevich Glukhov. He didn’t look like a Deputy Minister, but then, these days, in this life, who could tell? Galia screwed up her courage, and took a punt on using his first name and patronymic. If it were wrong, the offence caused to the young man would be searing, but she had to try.

‘Roman Sergeevich, which way did Grigory Mikhailovich go?’

His eyes did not flicker. He looked at her sardonically, still smiling half a smile. ‘To the dance floor, Galina Petrovna, that way – see, there he is! Quite safe! Having a ball, in fact.’

Galia’s eyes followed Roma’s gesture: sure enough, there in the next room, visible through the archway, was the massive form of Grigory Mikhailovich, twitching in time to a beat that Galia felt through the floor but could not distinguish with her ears. The old man was still glistening, bare-chested, but now appeared to be wearing some sort of garland round his neck. His eyes were closed, and he was using his hands to conduct some symphony that no-one could hear except him. Young women were circling him, curious, and unafraid now that he was clearly harmless. Zoya was also nearby, dancing opposite a young man with short back-and-sides, thick glasses and an Adam’s apple the size of Venus. She looked contented enough, and the young man was clearly enthralled. The Brezhnev toga had been removed and was being passed from dancer to dancer to try for size: Zoya was dancing in her bra, girdle and purple lycra leggings. Galia shuddered.