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

But there was no sign of life: not human, and not animal. They surged into the site office to harangue the officials, but came to a sudden halt when they realized that it was entirely deserted, a browning apple-core shivering atop a huge pile of official blue papers the only sign that habitation had occurred in the room that day. They looked at each other, eyes searching eyes, and then their eyes began softly to creep away towards the corners of the room, the ceiling, the windows, their own shoes.

‘Once more!’ Galia cried, and again they swept through the yard and the workshops, the bins and the lockers. They poked their noses into every nook and corner they could find across the site. But there was not a sign of any dog at all. Not a single collar, or blanket, or ball of hair. And all the while the huge incinerator chimney hissed quietly in the corner of the site, coughing occasional sparks into the afternoon sky that snapped orange before dying into the grey-yellow smog that cocooned the site, the street, the town. A fine dust was settling on all the searchers. Katya smoothed a blob of soot from Galia’s forehead as they stood together in the doorway of the deserted office.

‘There are no dogs here. There’s nothing living at all. Maybe we’re too late, Galina Petrovna?’

‘It seems so, Katya.’ Galia’s eyes were empty.

‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘You don’t need to say anything. We did our best. I blame no-one but myself. All she needed was a collar: an owner, and not a house-mate.’

‘I’m sorry, Galina Petrovna,’ said Mitya. Galia pressed his hand, unable to speak.

As they slowly came back out into the yard, a slouching figure with a pot belly hanging over his belt and unruly, matted hair appeared from around the corner. He was oblivious to the collection of people standing in front of the office and continued on his way, whistling and picking his nose with a knobbled index finger.

‘Hey, you, man!’ Mitya called out across the tarmac as still the operative failed to look up from his boots and snotty finger.

Slowly, the man raised his head and cast dull eyes towards the office: he was stunned by the sight of the odd bunch that stood there waiting for him. Momentarily, he regretted the pickles he’d gulped down at lunchtime with the glass or two of vodka, as a sudden queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach squeezed itself down towards his colon. Had something been found out? The uniforms, those angry looking babushkas, and – was it? Yes it was: a girl.

‘Hey! Stop gawping and come over here!’ Mitya commanded in his best official voice, clipped and firm. There was no squeaking now, no coughing.

‘I’m trying to work. And you’re not allowed in here. It’s forbidden. Get out!’ He turned his back on the crowd, hoping they would go away if he pretended they weren’t there, and made to shuffle off in the opposite direction.

‘Come here and answer one question.’

‘What’s it about?’

‘A dog for destruction. Came here this week some time.’

‘We get lots of dogs coming through here.’ Again he made to slope off.

‘A dog with three legs, brought here accidentally.’

‘Three legs?’ He stopped and looked back over his shoulder. ‘Was it in a wheelchair?’ he sneered.

‘Where is it, you waste of space?’

‘How should I know?’

‘You work here, man. Think!’

The man mimed the act of thinking, scratching his head and looking towards the sky.

‘Nah. No three-leggers today, or any other day this week. All we had come in today was a host of mongrels – all with four legs, like any other day. And a Yorkie pup.’

‘And where are they now?’ asked Galia, and immediately regretted it.

‘Khkhkh!!’ mimed the man, drawing a finger across his neck. ‘You see that dust on your collar. That’s probably one of them! Yeah look – hello, Rex!’ and he stepped forward as if to pat Galia’s shoulder.

‘You’re disgusting,’ said Katya, ‘and drunk!’

‘Yeah, and you think you’re some kind of princess,’ he retorted.

‘Oh, guys, there’s no point talking to this steaming piece of junk anymore,’ broke in the Kommandant, ‘I don’t think he can help us.’

The operative slouched off in the direction of the offices, picking his nose and smirking to himself.

The group watched him go in silence. Katya reached out for Mitya’s hand, and he held it tightly. Galia looked to the dust at her feet, and felt the pang of loss.

‘She’s not here,’ she said.

‘No, Galia, she’s not. But you know, there’s no need for that operative to lie: she has not been here, it seems, so maybe she’s, you know, still alive somewhere. Take heart, my dear.’ Zoya put her arm around Galia’s broad shoulders.

‘Maybe, Zoya. But that doesn’t really do me any good. What can I do without her? What is to become of me?’

‘I’m sorry you don’t have Boroda, Galia, but you do still have us, for what it’s worth. And you know that I – and Vasya – love you, don’t you?’

‘Thank you, Zoya, my oldest friend. I know you’ll look after me. And I’m sure I can look after Vasya if I put my mind to it.’ Galia gazed into her friend’s face, and smiled slightly. ‘It’s been a difficult week, Zoya. I want to go home. And I want to go to the vegetable patch.’

Zoya smiled and led her friend back across the broken tarmac to the waiting KAMAZ truck, and Vasya Volubchik, who was crying steadily.

A week or so later, Vasya and Galia were standing by the table, arguing good-naturedly over whether her tomatoes, or her cucumbers, or both, were the best this side of Kharkov. There was even talk of melons, but at this Zoya closed her ears and attempted to doze off.

‘Galia, don’t you think this old man deserves a little drop of beer after the hard day we’ve had? I swear, I’ve never seen such tomatoes – and those apricots!’

Vasya wiped his handkerchief around the back of his neck and then stuffed it back in his pocket. He liked to be clean.

‘Old man? I see no old man, just a man who needs his dinner,’ Galia smiled.

‘I won’t argue with that.’

A sudden noise in the corridor outside the flat, like angry geese riding piglets, cut short the conversation. Galia bustled away through the hall and flung open the apartment door, to find out what sort of assistance might be required on this occasion. She was just in time to see the door of Goryoun Tigranovich’s apartment being slammed shut, and tiny Baba Krychkova banging her forehead on it as a result.

‘Ooch, Baba Krychkova, do you want a cold compress for that?’

‘Stuff your cold compress! Open up you fiend!’ The old lady was clearly disgruntled and hammered so hard with her tiny fists on the door that Galia was afraid she was going to snap her wrists.

‘Baba Krychkova, be still! Do not upset yourself.’

‘Do you know who he’s got in there?’

Galia’s face was blank. What could the Elderly Citizen mean?

‘Do you know? Only that Drozhdovskaya woman! Yes! The merry widow herself! And he’s going to give her two marrows! She told me herself! Garlic, no doubt, too! Before we know it, she’ll be wearing his gold!’

‘Really? Sveta Drozhdovskaya? Well, that’s good, Baba. It’s about time he had better company than those silly white cats, don’t you think? Come away and have some vareniki with us, Baba. We’d love to have you. And later we’ll play cards and Zoya can tell us some stories. You know her stories, don’t you? They’re generally quite dirty, but they’re all made up.’

Baba Krychkova’s face relaxed a little, and the wrinkles around her mouth quivered into a soft smile.

‘Well, I don’t know… I haven’t finished my crossword yet, and I like to get them done, you know.’