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

‘Oh my, Vasya, you bad boy! Did you leave her? Why? Tell us more! It’s good to talk, really.’ Kommandant Krapivin could not contain himself.

‘I was young and confused, Kommandant. I was already engaged to the lady who went on to become my wife, and I was not strong enough to make the right decision. I let fate carry me along, and I pretended that there had been nothing between us, didn’t I, Zhenya?’

Baba Plovkina said nothing, but ground her jaws lightly and looked towards the window with a glare that threatened to puncture the air as it wavered in the heat.

‘Zhenya came to me, a few weeks before my wedding, and told me some news… she told me that… she told me she was expecting a baby. I was thrilled, but also petrified, and… I couldn’t cope. I couldn’t call off my own wedding, I couldn’t bear to upset my fiancée, and to be honest, I could not face the scandal. So instead, I sent her away, but decided to support her in secret. It was our secret. I visited her often, both before the baby came, and afterwards. I gave him little gifts, that sunny little boy. But then… I watched her marry that sorry excuse for a man, and Zhenya, I saw how he mistreated you over the years. I knew things weren’t right, and I knew the boy was suffering, but I turned a blind eye. I pretended to myself that there was nothing I could do.’ Vasya paused and, after a short struggle, produced a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and blew his nose into it, long and loud. The sound echoed off the window frames.

‘Oh, stop!’ Baba Plovkina suddenly exploded like a firecracker off the beanbag and stood at her full, tiny height in the middle of the room. ‘Stop, stop, stop! I can’t bear it!’

‘I’m sorry, Zhenya!’ Vasya thrust his handkerchief back into his pocket and fell to his knees before the tiny old lady, burying his face in the hem of her floral skirt. Zoya sucked in her breath loudly as Galia bit her lip and looked away.

‘Get up, you old fool! Why do you think I’m here?’

Vasya slowly raised his head, his grey eyes looking non-plussed, and gave a vague shrug.

‘Erm…’

‘It’s not just you who has a confession to make.’

‘What, more?’ whispered Galia incredulously, and blotted her forehead with her handkerchief.

‘There’s always more, Galia. These peasants…’ and Zoya shook her head towards Baba Plovkina.

‘Vasya, you old fool, you old… treasure. I… I…’

‘Go on, Mother, say your piece,’ encouraged Mitya with surprising gentleness.

‘Vasya, I…’ and with those words, Baba Plovkina also dropped to her knees. Vasya took her brittle, red hands in his and looked into her cherry-pip eyes.

‘Vasya, my pigeon, understand,’ her voice was soft, whispered, ‘I lied to you. It wasn’t true, you see. I told you that you were Mitya’s father, maybe, because I really wanted it to be true. But it wasn’t. It was that old scumbag who I married, for my sins. But once I had lied to you that night, I couldn’t stop. I wanted you to visit. I wanted it to be you.’

Vasya dropped her hands as his face first faded into white, then shot through with purple, then became tinged with green. His breath came in short, understated rasps, his mouth working with a twitching motion, but no sound coming out. Galia feared that this time a stroke, or even worse, was totally unavoidable. She pushed herself to her feet to fetch water, but found Julia the secretary already several steps in front of her, clinking glasses and fruit bowls, while Kommandant Krapivin drooped by his desk open-mouthed, eyes glistening.

Vasya closed his mouth slowly and his eyes, shiny and wide as those of a small child, looked into the depths of Baba Plovkina’s shrivelled irises.

‘All those years?’

‘All those years. Yes.’ Baba Plovkina looked away and shrugged her shoulders. ‘I came to say sorry today. I heard you’d been arrested, and that my so-called son was involved, so I thought… in case you die in here, you know… I should put things right.’

Vasya nodded slightly. ‘Put things right. I see. In case I die here.’

‘So, I’m sorry, Vasya. There, I’ve said it. You’ll get nothing more, mind.’ Baba Plovkina gave Vasya a long, hard look, and then jumped to her feet. She arranged her headscarf, took up her sickle from the coffee table, nodded to the Kommandant, made a disgusted, tutting sound at her son and Katya, and scuttled for the door.

‘Zhenya, wait! We need to talk!’ Vasya struggled to push himself to his feet, wallowing in the clutches of the beanbag and flailing with desperate hands.

‘Mother!’ Mitya leapt from his chair, but stopped as she turned in the open doorway, held frozen in the air by her stare.

‘We’ve talked. The truth is known. That’s all there is! Don’t trouble me more!’ and with that, the elderly little citizen slammed the door behind her.

‘All those years,’ said Vasya again, and collapsed face down into the recently vacated, still-warm beanbag, gasping like a landed carp.

‘All those years,’ echoed Mitya. ‘I can’t believe it. He really was my father. It’s just… so wrong. I was ready…’ Mitya remained a statue in the centre of the room.

‘Kommandant Krapivin, I think we need more lemon tea, quickly. Please, could you provide some? I’m worried about my… comrades, here,’ as Galia spoke she motioned Katya to help her raise Vasya from where he had fallen. Together, the two women gently drew the old man back to his feet, straightened his shirt and shuffled him across the room to Galia’s leather tub chair, carefully folding him into it. He whimpered slightly.

‘There, there, Vasya, a little sit-down and a cup of lemon tea will soon have you right.’ Galia didn’t know whether this was really the case, but the words had to be said on an occasion such as this.

‘My goodness, this morning has been so… emotional! I feel drained – but exhilarated. Do you find it cathartic, Galina Petrovna, this kind of thing?’ The Kommandant was almost frothing at the mouth and Galina was glad when she heard the door slam after him as he went to fetch the tea.

Mitya still stood by the red door, staring at the space where his mother had briefly stood. Katya took his hands in hers and softly moved her thumbs over the sticky brown scabs that decorated most of his knuckles. ‘It’s OK, puppy. Does it matter who your daddy was? It’s you who makes you.’

‘But I was ready to think…’ Mitya couldn’t complete the sentence.

‘Did you really want Vasya to be your daddy?’

‘I don’t know. I just thought… that was the truth. It felt right! It felt better than…’ Mitya stopped and turned his face away. ‘He killed my Sharik, Katya. He put him in the well.’

She gently led him away from the door and laid him down on the warm beanbag, sitting down beside him and cradling his face in her hands.

‘I know. Sharik must have been a very brave dog. But the brave are always with us, Mitya. He’s always been there, in your heart. Can you feel him?’

‘I don’t know. For a long time there was nothing, Katya: nothing at all. But now – I think I can feel him. I’m sure I met him this morning, you know, when we stopped to pee. Sharik came to me – in a butterfly. Under that tree.’

Katya put her head on one side and probed Mitya’s eyes with her own velvet gaze.

‘Well, that’s lovely, Mitya. He’s still there for you, then.’

‘My head hurts.’ Mitya closed his eyes and nuzzled his face in to Katya’s armpit. She smelt of soap and cigarette smoke and the sea.

‘OK, everyone, here’s the tea! And I want everyone – no exceptions – to have some this time. Julia, you be mother, and give everyone sugar too: we could all use a sugar hit. I know I could.’