Galina Petrovna's Three-Legged Dog Story Page 20

  ‘Jesus,’ the girl whispered, ‘the circus must be in town.’

  ‘OK guys, you can go on up, but I really don’t think it will be your thing. Try not to scare anyone, eh?’

  Zoya clutched Kolya’s arm as he attempted to melt away down a neighbouring alleyway, and propelled him through the door and up the dark, narrow stairs in front of them.

  Galia wondered to herself whether the Deputy Minister Glukhov, Roman Sergeevich, was really going to be found in a place like this. It seemed like a normal old ramshackle apartment block, apart from the loud thumping beat that shook the staircase ominously and, to Galia’s mind, threatened something both thrilling and unwelcome, like thunder on a summer afternoon, or a brush with a nasty infection of some sort. At the top of the stairs they came to a wide wooden door, dented and poorly covered with something similar to silver foil. Kolya pushed the door open slowly, and all at once Galia’s fears were realized.

  The massive room, once no doubt an elegant boudoir, pulsed with light and sound. The ceiling seemed to undulate as fronds of music sprouting from speakers the size of tractors beat gently against it. There were a few young people dancing, making weird angular movements with their arms and barely moving their feet. Their faces were sweating profusely, eyes clouded with joy or pain; the on-lookers weren’t sure which. A youth wearing yellow trousers huddled over a collection of boxes, wires and small blinking lights on a home-made platform at the far end of the room. Galia wondered what he was doing: he appeared to be fiddling with a set of small knobs. Around the walls, young people lounged in small groups, their glassy eyes reflecting the pink, orange and green hues of the dance-floor lights.

  Grigory Mikhailovich stood gigantic in the doorway, looking for all the world like he had just woken up, and found himself in a dream. Galia put her hands over her ears and tried to keep a track of where Kolya had got to: the boy was striding across the room, heading for a doorway and a darkened corridor beyond it. Zoya stood at the edge of the dance floor transfixed, eyes shining, staring at the bright projections on the wall and nodding her head in approximate rhythm with the scintillating beat. Galia grabbed her friend’s hand and tugged her along through small shoals of warm bodies with googly eyes, following Kolya as he made his way through a maze of corridors and antechambers towards his ultimate goal: the bar. Grigory Mikhailovich remained shipwrecked in front of one of the speakers, the hair on the back of his neck standing up as he felt the noise of the speaker behind him thud through his chest and into his heart, but didn’t understand why.

  ‘Have you seen him yet?’ yelled Galia to Zoya over her shoulder as they waded towards the bar.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Deputy Minister Glukhov, Roman Sergeevich, of course!’

  ‘I don’t know what he looks like.’

  ‘Well, does Grigory Mikhailovich know what he looks like?’

  ‘I doubt it, my dear. Don’t think he’s ever met the fellow.’

  ‘What about Kolya?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘Well how on earth are we going to find him then?’

  ‘A Deputy Minister of the Russian Federation will be quite easy to find in a place like this. Look around you Galia: use your brain. I intend to. But first, I think a little drinkie is in order. To increase the synapse connections, and all that. And put a fire in your engine!’ Zoya was chirruping at full throttle.

  They reached the bar, and Galia clung on for dear life. Zoya bobbed by her side and ordered four vodkas from the midget bar tender. Then she sent the reluctant, shrinking Kolya back to reclaim Grigory Mikhailovich from the speaker’s grasp. The boy looked sulky, but did as he was asked.

  ‘Look, Zoya!’

  The drinks had arrived in crystal glasses shaped like winter felt boots. Galia smiled: she had once had the very same set, a very long time ago.

  ‘Down the hatch, and bottoms up!’ Zoya grinned.

  Galia chinked glasses and downed her vodka in one, returning her little glass boot to the bar top with a thud. Usually, she would have demurred, but on this occasion the fiery cold was most welcome. Its effect was almost instantaneous: her belly burnt, her cheeks flamed, and each limb relaxed, disengaged from her core and floated off in a different direction. Her brain buzzed, and a light sweat broke on her forehead.

  ‘Hey, maybe that’s him!’ she giggled to Zoya.

  A serious-looking, middle-aged man wearing a polo-neck and smoking a pipe was sitting at a mushroom-shaped table in a side-room off the bar, playing chess with a small, bored-looking dog. Apparently, the dog was losing. As the ladies watched, it began the careful process of chewing its own king’s head off.

  ‘I never met a Minister who could play chess, even against a dog,’ was Zoya’s response.

  ‘Have you met many Ministers, Zoya?’

  ‘That’s classified,’ replied Zoya smugly.

  Galia was pondering this response with a slight frown when she witnessed Grigory Mikhailovich’s approach cutting a swathe through the revellers like hot dog pee through snow. Young women recoiled, spilling their drinks over themselves, and young men turned to stare, incredulous, earnest discussions forgotten. He had removed his ruffled shirt and the filthy vest beneath to reveal his chest, tufted in curly grey hair, breadcrumbs and scraps of yellowed newspaper, and it glistened in the heat. He was roaring, singing some long-forgotten song, as huge tears rolled out of each of his bright-burning eyes.

  ‘Goodness me, Kolya, what has happened here? Grigory Mikhailovich hasn’t even drunk his glass yet.’ Zoya hopped around her cousin, examining him for evidence of foul play or injury.

  ‘Oh the road is long!’ sang Grigory Mikhailovich in a full bass voice.

  ‘I think, Zinaida Artyomovna, that someone has been sharing their drink with Grigory Mikhailovich, and that it hasn’t entirely agreed with him,’ Kolya smirked, and manoeuvred the old man slowly and carefully backwards into a vacant armchair covered with an enormous furry throw.

  ‘With dust and fog, and hardship,’ continued Grigory Mikhailovich, before looking around wildly for a second, and then relaxing. He started to stroke the chair with the back of one hand, as if it were a cat.

  ‘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 f
rom 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.

  Roma gave the cat-chair a stroke. ‘Galina Petrovna, I have to tell you, I couldn’t really make head or tale of what Grigory Mikhailovich and his cousin, the little sparrow lady there, were telling me. However, I understand you wanted to speak to me about a spot of bother that a friend of yours is in?’

  Galia nodded long and vigorously, so much so that her bandana flew off her head and plopped into Roma’s drink.

  ‘It’s no bother, really, don’t worry. There’s more beer. But I’m afraid your bandana is ruined.’

  ‘I don’t care about the bandana, Roman Sergeevich. You see, I’m not really a Bohemian. I just want my friend, Vasily Volubchik, to be freed from the SIZO: he’s an old man, and he’s never done anything wrong. He’s an ex-teacher, and he has four grandchildren! Goodness knows, he’s done so much for Azov’s elderly people, with his club and his Lotto and his talks on vegetable matters—’

  ‘Calm yourself, Galina Petrovna. Perhaps another vodka, and a small beer to go with it? And a gherkin or two: let’s have some gherkins!’

  Roman Sergeevich Glukhov raised his hand imperceptibly, and the midget hostess on roller-skates was by his side instantaneously.

  ‘So, tell me more? This is all happening in Rostov, is it?’

  ‘Azov, Roman Sergeevich. Much nicer than Rostov. And better cabbages,’ said Galia.

  ‘I’m sure the cabbages are fine. But I hear a dog is involved in this story, unless I am much mistaken, and I am a serious animal lover, Galina Petrovna. I myself have a dachshund called Eric.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Oh yes. So I want to hear everything, my good lady, from start to finish.’

  The drinks and gherkins arrived, and Roman Sergeevich pulled up a chair. He then stood and raised a toast to long life and faithful animals. Galia echoed the toast, downed her vodka and blotted her mouth
delicately on the end of her bandana.

  ‘Everything,’ she nodded, somewhat in awe. ‘Well, let me tell you about my dog Boroda, so named because she has a fine, pointy beard—’

  ‘It is important to know every detail.’

  ‘Oh it is, Roman Sergeevich, it is. The devil is in the detail, I find.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ concurred Roman Sergeevich with a smile, ‘that’s what I always say to my bureaucrats.’

  ‘Quite. Anyway, I found her a few years ago, outside the station. Well, she found me, to be honest, in that way that dogs have …’

  And so the elderly jodhpur-wearing Bohemian told her story to the charming Deputy Minister with the interesting scar, and together they sketched out the whole history of Azov, dogs, humans, the Great Patriotic War, Volgograd, the factory, thousand-eyed serpents, crooked policemen, annoying husbands, cabbage root fly and old ladies with sickles as big as the moon. In a room full of goggle-eyed fish-humans who danced on legs only recently evolved for that purpose, they made sense of the world, and set out to right a wrong.

  And in another room, Grigory Mikhailovich, gyrating as best he could to the beats, winked conspiratorially at Zinaida Artyomovna, and the latter winked back.

  19

  A Dog’s Life

  A dog’s life is not all bad. It’s not all good, but it generally has a balance, depending on the humans around, the time of year, how many toes you’ve got to scratch with, and what kind of woof you can produce.

  Boroda had enough toes to scratch with, enough legs to run with and teeth enough to eat with, so she counted herself a contented dog, in the greater scheme of things. She had had a life: she had warmed her bones by radiators thick with green paint; wrapped her tongue in sticky-sweet fudge wrappers; contemplated the wide southern skies and enjoyed the exquisite squeak of the refrigerator door opening. At some point there had been rats as big as cats to chase, and deep cool rivers to swim in. There had been different humans, and different boxes to sleep in. At times there had been no box at all, and occasionally no food. She licked her paw.