Galina Petrovna's Three-Legged Dog Story Read online

Page 14


  Katya clanked a green metal bucket down between Mitya’s shaking legs and brushed his sticky hair across his forehead, her warm fingers licking the damp from his skin. She put the tip of her index finger to her lips and sucked it gently. ‘You’re in a bad way. I think I should call an ambulance.’ She lowered her hips to the floor and squatted, warm and low, looking across at him, taking in his bruises and pallor. Mitya turned his head away, unable to look at her directly, squeezing his hands between his knees in an effort to stop them shaking.

  ‘Don’t do that. I don’t need a doctor. I just need to sleep.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know. What if you croak in the night, eh? I couldn’t live with myself. You might choke on your own vomit or something. It happens.’

  Mitya opened both fat eyes a fraction to look at his angel, just momentarily, with an attempt at cool. He didn’t know it, but it was just like the look a dog, recently kicked, gives anyone without boots on. She paid no attention: she was digging in her bag for a cigarette and talking in her lisping, slightly accented voice.

  ‘OK, look, here’s the deal, puppy. I’ll stay with you for an hour or so, until you’re a better colour, and you completely stop puking. You know, like living flesh kind of colour. You’re still really pale. And I don’t think I can leave you like that.’ She found a soft pack of Pall Mall in her bag and extracted one. ‘I don’t think you should smoke, even if you want to. Really, I know men like to smoke and be macho and all that but I don’t think it will make you feel better. Do you have any iodine?’

  ‘No.’ Mitya could only manage the one word, and this time his voice emerged clotted and thick. His brain roved slowly behind his eyelids, trying to make out what she was doing, and eventually he slid another glance along the floor in her direction, letting his eyes creep slowly from her naked brown ankles to her knees and then towards her belly and breasts, barely covered by her very small skirt and T-shirt.

  ‘What happened in there, puppy? Did you forget to pay your bill or something?’

  Mitya’s eyes snapped back down to the shiny mustard lino, unusually trailed with his own saliva, and he clasped his hands across his knees again.

  ‘It’s not … you wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Katya blew smoke over her shoulder towards the open window. ‘You sure I wouldn’t understand?’

  ‘It was nothing to do with a bill. No-one understands.’

  ‘Aw shucks, Mitya, no-one understands. You bet, baby. Especially if you don’t tell them about it.’

  Katya tutted, stubbed out her cigarette and reached into the pressed card wardrobe, eventually pulling out a brown blanket emblazoned with huge posies of garish red roses. She snuggled herself into it for a moment, turning her head to breathe in its scent, and then unwound it from her shoulders and placed it carefully across Mitya’s back.

  ‘There, that’ll keep you warm. I think you’re in shock, you know. I remember something about that from school. You should lower your head and raise your legs.’

  ‘I’m not raising my legs.’ His tone was decisive.

  She shrugged. ‘OK, it’s up to you. It would make you feel better. But keep the blanket on for a while. It’s something to do with blood pressure, or something.’

  ‘You’re not a nurse then, Katya?’

  ‘No, I told you: I’m studying to be a teacher – kindergarten. But I’ve done lots of things. Anyway, if you’ve got no iodine, we’re a bit stuck. Probably tea is what you need. Tea is a great healer, isn’t it? Or is that time? Maybe both?’

  Mitya didn’t reply. His head was pulsating and the noise coming through the wall from Andrei the Svoloch’s room was interfering with his ability to think or feel. It was taking over his mind, in ripples, and drowning out Katya’s words, although he was trying to listen, and wanted to hear. His eyelids closed as the beats thudded from the wall through his chest and into his brain, dragging him under with their awful currents, making him sleep like he would never wake up.

  ‘You said, when I found you … you know, on the pavement … you said something about finding your daddy?’ Katya looked at Mitya from under her lashes, and saw him start as her words reached him.

  He jerked wide awake again, the blood draining from his face and his ears tingling, burning hot. A frown pulled his mouth and eyebrows into a deep, grim X as his eyes fastened on the edge of the bucket, driving rivets into it. Katya looked around his orange box room for some tea, and cups, and sugar.

  ‘No tea. No questions. Just leave me!’ Mitya pulled the blanket tight across his shoulders and laid his head on one of the garish red roses.

  ‘Don’t shout at me, puppy. I just saved your life, don’t forget. And you need some tea. But I didn’t mean to pry. We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.’

  She started to hum, a comforting sound just audible above the noise from next door. The brief rush of adrenaline faded as quickly as it had come, and Mitya found he was too weak to argue. He realized after breathing in, with a sharp pain, and breathing out, with a dull ache, that he didn’t want her to go anywhere. He eased himself away from the bucket again and leant back against the vibrating wall. He was aware this time of Andrei the Svoloch’s voice in the room on the other side, braying among the pounding disco beats, bleating like a cloven-hoofed Benny Andersson. Garish visions surged into his head and he could almost feel himself being pulled into the nightmare next door by invisible hands sprouting through the orange wall and gripping him with childish fingers under the rough brown blanket. He struggled to keep his eyes open and avoid the dream, but it was getting dark around him, and the arms were small, but wiry and very strong. His breath choked in his throat as he tried to open his eyes, to shout out, but found himself paralysed.

  ‘Hey, you really like Depeche Mode, I guess?’

  Again, Katya’s words brought him back from the brink, and again he was ready for a fight. His jaw clenched as his eyes swivelled and focused on her, ready to fend off sarcasm, irony and disapproval. Mitya was wholly unprepared for what he saw: she was leaning over his tape collection, sincere, enthusiastic, long hair hanging in golden ropes around her perfect, sunny face. She looked up and smiled.

  Mitya realized, with a dull thump of the heart, that he was deeply in love, and his life was over.

  ‘Like is not the word … Katya,’ he began in a low voice. ‘Like is not in my vocabulary. I don’t like things. Liking is—’

  ‘I love them too. I went to see them play in Moscow a couple of years ago. It was fantastic. The best day of my life.’

  Mitya shut his eyes and imagined the best day of Katya’s life. He liked it. He loved it. He could feel it in his bones and see it before him just like he had been there. It was a sunny day in the bright capital, spent with friends and candy-floss and flags and Depeche Mode and hot dogs and clean jeans and new socks and order and fresh air and neatness and love. In short, it was a day full of laughter and certainty. But it wasn’t his. It had never been his, and could never be his. His best day had involved dog extermination. He was sure it had.

  ‘You should go now.’

  Katya turned, startled, and the spoon in the cup she was holding rattled.

  ‘Go on – I don’t want your tea, or your pity. Fuck your best day! You don’t fucking love Depeche Mode!’

  She looked at him intently, holding his gaze until he had to look away. His breath came in a half sob and Mitya ground his teeth to try to stop it.

  ‘You can be rude, that’s fine: you’re upset about something. You may even have a head injury and contusions. But you’re getting tea whether you like it or not, Mitya. You need something to settle your stomach. I’ll go when it’s made. And for your information, I do love Depeche Mode.’ Katya turned away after her speech, busying herself with tea preparation and humming a disjointed medley of Depeche Mode songs that battled for Mitya’s attention against the beats coming through the wall.

  He felt small. He sat perfectly still listening to the sounds of the girl making tea. H
e dreaded the moment the sounds would end, and hated himself for it. He knew he couldn’t bear for her to go, couldn’t bear the thought of sitting there alone, in his orange box, with the spattered lino and the sounds of Andrei the Svoloch shagging broken child-whores next door. He couldn’t bear to sit comparing her best day with his best day in a contest that might well have him prising himself out of the window frame and splatting on to the cool hard tarmac four storeys below before the dawn broke. He couldn’t bear for her to look at him, couldn’t allow himself to look at her.

  A teaspoon tinkled in a cup.

  ‘Here you go. Drink it while it’s hot.’ Katya put the steaming mug on the floor next to him with a careful hand, and got up to collect up her things. She moved slowly, methodically, and he watched her surreptitiously, willing her to move more slowly, to turn in to slow motion, to become a permanent fixture, just to stay. Momentarily he imagined her waking up next to him, and wondered what she would look like, smell like. But before he knew it she was heading for the door, and a feeling close to panic covered his skin with goose bumps and brought bile to his throat once more.

  ‘Katya, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean what I said.’

  ‘I know, puppy.’ She turned and put her head on one side, and waited.

  ‘I … I do want … your help. Can you help me?’ It came out as a hoarse, high-pitched whisper, and Mitya struggled to clear his throat, too late, as ever.

  ‘Yes, of course I can. What’s the problem?’ Katya the angel came back, and shone her light on him.

  Mitya’s eyes filled with tears, and he looked up at the ceiling, blinking furiously. ‘I’m not sure. I can’t really tell you. But there are things I need to do. And I think I need to do them now.’

  Katya’s eyes were round and wide, and she salivated slightly as she replied, ‘Cool. I’m cool with adventures. And I’d like to help you, of course. My life is so boring, really.’

  Mitya glanced at her face, looking for any trace of sarcasm. There was none.

  ‘But why, Katya?’

  ‘You are my friend, Mitya. You’re a funny guy. You come over all tough but … I saw your face when we were saving those puppies. I saw the care you took with them. You’re a good man.’

  Mitya thought about this, and closed his eyes again. He heard her come back towards him, drop her bag and sit down on the floor. He listened to her clicking through his cassette collection, humming, and decided that he liked it. It was strange, but also weirdly familiar, as if she had always been there, doing that, but just in the next room, just out of reach, just out of his earshot.

  ‘Where are you from, angel? You don’t live here, do you? I’m sure I’ve never seen you here before this week.’

  ‘I’m here staying with my cousin: she’s got a room at the top of the hall. She’s the big lumpy girl with bad skin and several chickens – you might have seen her? Her name is Marina. To be honest, I don’t really like her. But I needed a place to stay while I study, and she’s all I’ve got.’

  ‘What do you mean, all you’ve got?’

  ‘I’m an orphan. I’m a no-one.’

  ‘Where are you from though? You’re not from Azov? I’ve never seen you here before. I think I would have … remembered.’

  ‘No. I sort of grew up everywhere, but I’m from nowhere really. I’ve lived in lots of places: lots of homes; lots of towns. I like Azov though. I wouldn’t mind coming from Azov. It’s a friendly place, isn’t it, puppy?’

  ‘Don’t call me puppy, Katya. You can call me Mitya.’

  ‘Mitya-the-Exterminator. Yes, I know.’

  ‘You know?’ Mitya was stunned.

  ‘My cousin told me that was your name. I prefer puppy.’

  Mitya looked at his feet under the blanket, and the worn patch in his white sock, and wondered just what the cousin had told Katya about him.

  ‘What do you exterminate, Mitya?’

  Mitya hesitated for a long moment.

  ‘Memories, Katya. Memories.’

  She looked at him and unleashed her lopsided grin. ‘You’re a real Russian man.’

  ‘You think? I don’t even drink vodka.’

  ‘A man who can be maudlin without a drop of spirit, is a Russian man indeed,’ she laughed. Mitya smiled back, and as the muscles in his face stretched and moved, he realized he could not remember the last time he had smiled for real, at another human being, sharing something.

  ‘So, Mitya, are we going to have a little adventure?’

  ‘Adventure? I’m not sure. I have to get it straight in my mind. And I can’t think with this excuse for music going on so loud!’ He banged the wall with his fist, and winced as the scabs forming on his knuckles made contact with the orange wallpaper and left tell-tale rosy smears on its surface.

  ‘I have headphones. Look – take them from my Walkman, plug them in here, listen to Depeche Mode, plan our adventure. It’s not so hard, Mitya. Don’t give up before you’ve started.’

  Stretching out a stiff arm, Mitya took the headphones and put them on. Why had it never occurred to him before? Instantly, Andrei the Svoloch was banished from the room and Dave Gahan and the lads were in the centre of his brain. Katya passed him a pencil from the desk and he started, slowly, to draw up a list of things to do, to make him sane. Mitya didn’t put pen to paper often: the writing was spidery, and the list was necessarily short.

  When the track ended, he took off the headphones and was transported back to the crushing despair of Andrei the Svoloch’s reality. He dropped the pencil.

  ‘Well, there’s the list, angel, but you know, actually, it’s all shit.’

  ‘What is, puppy?’

  ‘My life. It’s too late. I’ve fucked it all up. It’s not like it’s meant to be. We all hate each other. It’s all a waste of time: a waste of life.’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, like there can be a happy ending.’

  ‘There can be.’

  ‘No, you don’t understand. There can’t be a happy ending. I’m just incapable now of making any sort of ending of this mess. I don’t deserve better, and I can’t make it better.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  Mitya looked away from her, turning to the wall.

  ‘Everyone can make things better.’

  ‘You’re naive.’

  ‘And you’re making yourself into a loser.’

  ‘No, they made me into a loser. They did it.’

  ‘They, whoever they are, just made a start, and you are doing the rest yourself. It doesn’t have to be like that. I don’t care who you are: it’s not a done deal.’

  ‘Maybe it’s all I deserve. You have no idea of the thoughts that go through my head. I scare myself sometimes. You don’t know me, and I don’t know what I’m capable of.’

  ‘And you have no idea what goes through my head. You call me angel: I’m no angel, puppy. But I know I’m worth more than this. And so are you. We all are, Mitya.’

  Katya swigged a mouthful of his tea and rubbed her forehead with her short, slightly bent fingers.

  ‘We’re all worth more. You have to respect yourself … you know, I work with little kids, and they all deserve to have good lives.’

  ‘They won’t get them though, will they?’

  ‘Some will …’

  ‘And some will become alcoholics, and some wife beaters, and some fraudsters, and some hooligans.’

  ‘And some doctors, and teachers, or, you know, architects and things like that. Interior designers.’ Katya was looking around the room again. ‘I guess you like orange, puppy?’

  ‘It reminds me of the sun,’ replied Mitya, unsmiling. He screwed up the paper he had been writing on and threw it at the bin.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s just a list. Forget it. There’s no point.’

  Katya picked up the ball of paper and smoothed it out carefully.

  ‘Don’t read it!’

  ‘Well I can’t read it, can I, puppy? Your writing’s all
over the place! So you’ll have to tell me, Mitya – where do we start?’

  Mitya drank down what was left of his tea and grimaced as it hit his empty stomach. He stifled a belch with his fist and looked, for a long time, at the angry red marks on his knuckles.

  ‘I told you, Katya, there’s no point. It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘And I told you that there is, and it does. I’m not going till you tell me where we start. Really! Stop playing with me. You called me back: now deal with it. I can’t just leave you now. You remind me of some of the kids at the school, the really naughty ones, all brave and tough but actually …’ Katya knelt and leant towards him, showing her little white teeth in a smile that crinkled her eyes but was lit by the glow of determination rather than laughter, ‘… but actually, they need my help more than anyone else. Although it nearly kills you to ask, eh?’

  It was a look that Mitya recognized from the other significant women in his life: namely his grandmother, mother and his former primary school teacher, Miss Kryzhanovskaya. He wiped a blob of congealed blood from the inside of his nose, and realized further resistance was futile.

  ‘OK, OK, whatever. If you really want to waste your time … We start, sweetness, with a visit to the SIZO, if you’re really … up for it.’

  ‘The SIZO?’

  ‘The remand prison.’

  Katya laughed. ‘I know what a SIZO is, thank you, puppy. I’ve been before, but not in Azov. Tell me where it is, and I can take you there on Saturday, if you’re well enough. I have a car.’

  Her face took on the mystical aura of an ancient saint at the announcement of her ownership of a car.

  ‘Where did you get a car from?’

  The saintly look snapped off, and Katya frowned slightly.