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

The cloudy eyes looked in to his, and the hunched shoulders shrugged.

‘If it’s your name, it’s you we want. Ponchikov doesn’t mistake names. Follow me. Hands out of your pockets, back straight, eyes front.’

The cell door slammed behind them, and they set off on a ragged march down the corridor, the sound of their footsteps echoing off its dimly glowing orange walls.

‘So, anyway, enough about you already. I’ve been thinking. We need a make-over. Oh yeah, no really! It’s three months since I took over here, and I’ve had a really good look around, and well – the place is a mess, you know? Yeah, it’s like we have a bad reputation, and people don’t like us. The staff don’t like it here, and the prisoners sure as hell don’t. I know it’s a bit left-field and some of the old fuddy-duddies at head office won’t like it, but, Grisha, I want to make my mark, and I want this SIZO to be somewhere that Azov District can be proud of. A centre of excellence. I want to see our name in lights!’

Kommandant Krapivin was having a good day. He’d been in the office since seven-thirty that morning and had already had over a dozen Good Ideas that had been met by amazed silence by most of his staff. Some of the Good Ideas he knew they just would never grasp, given their poor educational background and lack of general knowledge, but others he thought would just take a little time to sink in – like the idea for a staff talent show, and the one about growing free-range marrows for distribution to the poor. Kommandant Krapivin liked to talk to his friend Grisha, Kommandant at another SIZO down the river, every morning at about eleven while he sipped his Turkish coffee and tucked in to a piece of fresh, ripe fruit picked from the SIZO garden.

‘Oh, and that reminds me. I know we have to stick with the old SIZO No. 24 Southern Section title, but I want a strap-line, and I’ve thought of a great one. No, hang on, wait, you’ll love it…’

Kommandant Krapivin’s secretary flounced into view on the other side of the little glass hatch that kept her separated from his office, and tapped viciously on the pane. She was waved away with a white hand, a smile and a cheeky wink. Krapivin would deal with the hum-drum of typical SIZO business after his coffee and fruit: nothing was allowed to come between him and his elevenses ideas fest. He inhaled deeply and meditated for a second on the warm scent rising from under his collar: lavender soap, made with home-grown lavender and tallow from the SIZO’s own stock of cows. Who knew such wondrous scents could be produced from a bunch of cows and herbs: Kommandant Krapivin knew.

‘Anyway, the strap-line is… The Sunshine SIZO ! Oh yeah, you love it, don’t you? I can tell you love it. I love it too! I think it sums up our ethos here: we’re in the sunny southern region, but that’s not all: our remand prisoners and staff totally embody the positive energies of the sun. Oh yeah – you know, it’s the sun that makes things grow, it’s the sun that gives life, and we can be the same: restorative, regenerative, happy, you know! And yes, Grisha, that is a word: regenerative. Go look it up if it’s giving you a headache.’

Again the secretary tapped on the glass, this time pressing her face into it and rolling her eyes wildly. The glass steamed up. Kommandant Krapivin shooed her away and swivelled in his chair to face the window and the SIZO garden, where trusties were scraping hoes across bone-dry soil in a less than energetic manner.

‘Grisha, you wouldn’t believe the size of the grapes these guys can produce! No really, they’re the size of golf balls! And so juicy! We’re missing a trick: we could supply farmers’ markets, or have our own farmers’ markets right here at the Sunshine SIZO! How about that then? And maybe have orphans—’

Kommandant Krapivin broke off and swivelled round on his chair as his secretary minced into the room, coming to a stop right in front of him, and glowering.

‘Kommandant, there are people waiting to see you and I cannot contain them any longer.’

‘People? What people? I’m on the phone to Grisha, we’re talking fruit—’

‘Kommandant, really, they’re upsetting me!’

‘OK, OK, I can tell when you’re cross with me. Grisha, listen, I’m going to have to go, there’s some sort of visit going on here and I’m needed to smooth a few furrowed brows, it seems. I’ll catch you later. Ciao!’

Krapivin replaced the receiver on the white Bakelite phone and turned to his secretary.

‘OK, Masha, what’s the problem here. Who are these visitors?’

‘Kommandant, my name is Julia. JULIA.’

‘Oh yeah, I’m sorry, chick, you just look like a Masha. I’ll get it eventually.’ Kommandant Krapivin paced the room as he spoke. ‘Anyways, what’s the beef?’

‘Well, Kommandant, there are two old ladies—’

‘Two old ladies? Marvellous!’

‘You haven’t met them yet! They appear to be mad, or at least senile. They smell of booze, and they keep clucking and tutting and talking about the Deputy Minister, Southern Section Non-Caucasus—’

‘Glukhov?’

‘Roman Sergeevich, uh-huh.’

‘Interesting. Go on – what do they want?’

‘They say they are here to free a prisoner.’

‘Oh really? How fabulous! Which one?’

‘Volubchik.’

‘Volubchik? I’ve never heard of him.’

‘He only got here on Tuesday.’

‘Is he trouble?’

‘No, Kommandant, he is old.’

‘Old! Another old person: terrific! But he’s a prisoner: what is he supposed to have done?’

‘Attempted to bribe a police officer, and had a dog dangerously out of control.’

‘Oh, you’re kidding me! No! Seriously? I don’t believe it. Bribing a police officer! He must have been out of luck that day. Who was the arresting officer?’

‘Officer Kulakov, Kommandant.’

‘Oh, now you’re killing me! That’s hilarious! OK, well, so you don’t know what they want to see me about, but it is all to do with this old fella, Volubchik.’

‘Er, yes Kommandant. And a dog.’

‘We don’t have dogs in here, do we?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Well, I can’t deal with the dog issue then. But actually, that gives me a fabulous idea, Masha! We should have dogs here! Oh yes, we could breed them. Pedigree dogs, and train them. Oh yes, I can see that catching on. With the rich and influential up in Rostov, or even, you know, up in Moscow: ex-con dogs, trained to protect. And they could have tattoos. Oh yeah, they’re really going to be something. Write that down, would you, Masha—’

‘Julia.’

‘Yeah, for tomorrow’s call to Grisha: ex-con dogs with tattoos and attitude.’

Kommandant Krapivin sat back on his chair and took a few spins, chewing on a pencil as he did so.

‘Yes, Kommandant. But can we get back to the visitors now,, please? They are cluttering up my reception and, well, they smell.’

‘Ha, Masha, you’re a scream. They smell! In that case, you better show them in. I’m fascinated. And have them fetch Volubchik from his cell, just in case. Keep him down the corridor for the moment.’

‘Yes, sir, I thought you might say that, so I’ve sent for him, sir.’

‘We’ll see what the Sunshine SIZO is going to bring us this morning, Masha. God, I love this job!’

‘Julia.’

‘Whatever you say, boss!’

In the waiting room, the thick air hung between the elderly visitors like shrouds of lead. Galia sat with a fist on each floral knee, breathing steadily and deeply, and keeping her eyes fixed on the polished floor in front of her. Zoya, hangover now a fairly dim memory, paced to and fro, her tiny feet tapping out a staccato rhythm as she went. The two ladies had said little to each other during the taxi ride from the airport: Galia had decided to save her strength for the coming meeting, and Zoya recognized that any further discussion of Pasha was probably unwise. Galia slapped a mosquito on her calf and launched Zoya into the air with the shock of the noise. The latter took a deep draw on her smelling salts.