Galina Petrovna's Three-Legged Dog Story Read online

  ‘Galina Petrovna, I should have known that you would be here.’

  The girl with him was pretty but seemed slightly asymmetrical: she smiled at the old ladies and the smile was slightly goofy, slightly lopsided. She carried one shoulder slightly higher than the other, and seemed to walk on the toes of her left foot. But despite the couple’s odd appearance, they seemed, to Galia’s tired senses, to radiate something calm: was it happiness, or tenderness?

  ‘Well, young people, nice to see you! Masha, where’s that tea? Would you like lemon tea, young people? We make it ourselves.’

  ‘Yes please, Kommandant, that would be lovely,’ replied Katya with a slight lisp, and a wide grin.

  ‘Not for me, sir,’ said Mitya in a low voice.

  ‘OK, we’ll get that ordered and then we’ll all be right as rain. So, you’re here about Volubchik too, this old rascal, eh? You can’t be fellow members at the Azov House of Culture Elderly Club, can you, so, you know, what’s the link?’

  ‘Yes, Mitya, what’s the link?’ Galia fixed him with a surprisingly beady eye and leant forward in her chair, the creaking of her thighs against the plastic-leather loud as thunder in the silent room. ‘You were the last person I was expecting to see here today.’

  Mitya cleared his throat, and clasped his hands in his lap. ‘Well, Galina Petrovna, Kommandant and other Elderly Citizen, this week has been a very strange one, for me. You could say that it has been one of revelation, and on many levels.’

  ‘Don’t tell us you’ve found religion?’ broke in Zoya with a croak. ‘Because we won’t believe it. You’re bad, through and through. It’s a well-known fact.’

  ‘No, not religion as such, Elderly Citizen, but the things I thought were true, well, I can see now that they are not.’

  ‘This is fascinating,’ chipped in the Kommandant. ‘But young man – who are you?’

  ‘I am Mikhail Borisovich Plovkin, Kommandant, and I am a … a canine exterminator, by profession.’

  The Kommandant recoiled slightly as Mitya said the words.

  ‘You want us to believe that you’ve changed, Mitya?’ Galia’s voice waivered as she addressed him. ‘But I saw your eyes when you came to my door. They were empty.’

  ‘Galina Petrovna, I am sorry for my conduct. I realize that I removed your loyal friend, and it was the wrong thing to do.’

  ‘That’s putting it mildly!’ said Zoya. ‘Were you born without emotions, young man?’

  ‘I don’t think so, Elderly Citizen, but somehow they got buried. But I can change.’ Mitya glanced at Katya with a half-smile. ‘I can change.’ He pushed the words out, hoarse and low. ‘I went to see Kulakov, to get the charges dropped, but he refused to cooperate. And now I—’ Mitya broke off with a jerk as Julia kicked open the door, a tray of tea cups in one hand, and a grey tabby cat in the other. She jumped into the room as the door slammed shut again behind her.

  ‘My goodness, Masha, you pick your moments. Ladies, gentleman, this is Tabby, the SIZO cat. Say hello, Tabby.’

  The cat said nothing, flicking its tail viciously while swinging from Julia’s arm as she offered the tray of drinks around. ‘For the last time, my name is Julia.’

  ‘She’s right, her name is Julia,’ Zoya piped up, having taken a slurp from her lemon tea.

  ‘Julia, Julia, I am so sorry. You know what I’m like.’

  ‘Perhaps I should change my name to something more memorable, Kommandant?’

  ‘Oh Julia, you kill me. That’s funny. Anyway, was there something else?’

  ‘There is another visitor for Volubchik out in the waiting room, Kommandant. That’s why I’ve brought the cat in.’

  ‘Oh really? Wow, this is unbelievable. Is the visitor a dog or something – I don’t get the cat connection?’

  ‘No Kommandant, the visitor is—’

  The door flew back on its hinges as again it was kicked open with considerable force.

  ‘Dyeh! Dyeh!’

  The shrill and indecipherable shriek emanated from a tiny, frail figure, silhouetted in the doorway. The figure wore a huge, orange headscarf, and carried a sickle.

  ‘Mum!’ whispered Mitya.

  ‘Saints preserve us!’ whispered Galia.

  * * *

  ‘OK, well, now the gang’s all here, maybe we can start again. Erm, Elderly Female Citizen, maybe you could put the sickle down for a moment, just on the coffee table, that’s fine – and take a seat over there: yes, on the beanbag maybe? It is very comfortable.’ Kommandant Krapivin took the situation in his stride and eyed the new old lady closely.

  Baba Plovkina laid her sickle down as requested and, after a moment’s pause surveying the room, edged on to the sagging beanbag, but was obviously not comfortable. She could not rock properly while seated on a beanbag: it made her anxious. Her head rustled slightly under the bright orange headscarf as she worked her gums together, and her beady eyes darted from window to floor, to door, to her feet, to Mitya’s feet, and to the framed photograph of President Yeltsin on the wall opposite. All the while, her small, red-raw hands twisted a handkerchief in her lap. Her jaws moved, but she did not speak any decipherable words. And every time Mitya cleared his throat, she jumped slightly and glared at him for a moment.

  ‘Baba Plovkina, would you like a glass of water, or a cup of tea?’ Galia broke what had become a rather strained pause.

  ‘Nya!’ was Baba Plovkina’s response. Galia looked at Mitya, and caught his eye. She shrugged her shoulders, questioning. He hesitated, looked away and said firmly:

  ‘No water. She doesn’t drink water. Or tea. Ever.’

  ‘No tea?’ Galia’s eyes crinkled at the edges and she shook her head slightly. Katya watched Mitya looking at the old lady, and tried to spot a family resemblance between the two. There was none. He didn’t return her gaze: he watched his mother for a few moments, and then returned his eyes to the opposite window, refusing to peel them away from the bright light of the garden and the grapevines. Katya returned her gaze to the old lady, and squinted slightly. Baba Plovkina caught her stare.

  ‘Shtrumpeth!’ she called out clearly, tiny eyes wide and glittering, before snapping her jaws shut and again fastening her eyes on the framed photo of President Yeltsin.

  Katya laughed, the sound tinkling like a bell in the still air, and Mitya closed his eyes.

  ‘Mother, please …’

  Kommandant Krapivin sat down behind his desk and swivelled gently from side to side on his chair.

  ‘Well, we’re all a little quiet suddenly, aren’t we? Don’t let the SIZO get you down! This is the Sunshine SIZO, did I tell you? Don’t let it intimidate you. Be at ease. Come on, everybody, how about a big breath in, and a big breath out, all together one-two-three.’

  And the Kommandant led the group in a big breath in, and a big breath out.

  ‘There, is that better? Now, I think you all know who I am, but I’m not sure you all know each other, so maybe we could go around the room and all introduce ourselves. You know, a bit of an ice-breaker? I find it really helps break down barriers …’

  ‘Yeah, that sounds good,’ chirruped Katya, as the other members of the group either stared at the floor or glared at her. ‘Sometimes people can be so closed. It will help us all to trust each other.’

  ‘But, Katya—’ Mitya began.

  ‘Oh, good! Right, well, shall I start?’ the Kommandant didn’t need any further encouragement. ‘My name is Sasha Krapivin. I’m from Moscow, and when I was little, I wanted to join the circus! OK, you go next.’

  He indicated Katya to go next.

  ‘OK. Well, my name is Katya, I’m from Azov, and I have a psychological condition that makes me lie a lot.’ Katya giggled slightly, and then went quiet and cleared her throat. ‘I’m sorry, that was a lie. I don’t know why I said it. I’m nervous. I can’t think of anything interesting about me that nobody knows.’

  ‘Oh, you must do! Try harder!’

  ‘OK. Um, well … I once drank human pee by accid
ent.’

  This time a murmur went round the room.

  ‘Oh really? How fascinating, you must tell us more, but not now. We have to move on. Next, you, er, Elderly Sickle Lady?’

  ‘Yevgeniya Kirpichovna Plovkina, and I am that one’s mother, for my sins,’ and she pointed a crooked finger in Mitya’s direction.

  ‘And something nobody knows about you, Yevgeniya Kirpichovna,’ prompted the Kommandant softly.

  ‘I once stole apples from the collective farm!’

  Again a murmur went around the room, but all eyes remained on the floor. Outside the door, coming slowly along the corridor, the echo of footsteps could be heard.

  ‘Oh my goodness! What an adventure we’re having, and it’s not even midday! I must say, usually we aim for some sort of, you know, light-hearted kind of secrets. You know! Like, when I was young, I had a crush on Yuri Gagarin. No, I don’t mean me, obviously, that would be silly – but that kind of thing. Madam, you’re next,’ and the Kommandant turned to Galia expectantly.

  ‘Very well, Kommandant. My name is Galina Petrovna Orlova, and I’m from Azov too. My secret is that there is no secret: I was married to a man who was not a spy, or a homosexual, or an alcoholic. But he was annoying. That is all.’

  There was a short silence.

  ‘Is that really a secret?’ asked Kommandant Krapivin looking around, a little crest-fallen.

  ‘It appears to be something that precious few knew. It appears to me that sometimes, when people don’t know, or can’t remember, they make it up. I don’t know why they make up nasty things, Kommandant,’ all of a sudden, Galia could not stop talking. The words rushed out in a torrent. ‘Why not make up good things? Like the fact that they made nice tea, or were always punctual, or didn’t take more than their fair share of the cheese?’

  ‘Well, Galina Petrovna, let’s move on—’

  ‘No, Kommandant! Really: I want to know – why don’t people make up nice things?’ Galia leapt to her feet, bucket seat still firmly attached to her backside, and stood before the Kommandant, waiting for an answer.

  The Kommandant was silent.

  ‘It’s something peculiar to humans, Galina Petrovna. Making ourselves feel better, by being nasty about others: making up stories – giving ourselves reasons to hate.’ Mitya spoke the words in a soft voice, but did not look away from the window and the bright sunlight beyond.

  Galia nodded and smiled slightly, and sat back down with a sigh.

  ‘Right,’ the Kommandant turned to Zoya, with an oily smile on his face. Zoya looked like a sparrow at the end of winter: fragile, ruffled, and very sorry for herself. She sighed.

  ‘My name is Zinaida Artyomovna Krasovskaya. And I have to tell you that I used to be an informant to the KGB.’

  Everyone in the room sucked in their breath.

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘Shall I get more tea now, Kommandant?’ Julia the secretary broke the silence.

  Mitya scraped his shoes on the floor and cleared his throat. ‘I haven’t had my turn yet. Do you mind? My name is Mikhail Borisovich Plovkin, I am from Azov.’ Mitya’s face turned pale and his eyebrows rose, corrugating his forehead as he hesitated. Not a particle stirred in the room as the assorted group waited for him to speak.

  ‘You want something that no-one else knows?’ Mitya began in a husky voice and wiped his hands on his shorts. ‘Well – until this week, I never knew who my real father was.’

  There was a hollow knocking on the floor as Baba Plovkina fell off her beanbag and landed at the Kommandant’s feet. He bent down swiftly and propped her back up with deft hands, making sure her headscarf was straight and that she was breathing.

  Zoya let out a low laugh. ‘Well, Baba Plovkina, some chicks have come home to roost?’

  Galia prodded her pop-socked toe into Zoya’s shin as Baba Plovkina growled, the sound not a little unnerving, given the proximity of her sickle.

  ‘So where is he?’ squawked Baba Plovkina.

  ‘I’m sorry, Babushka, but I should explain a few ground-rules here—’ the Kommandant tried to break in.

  ‘Shut your mouth! Where is he, the old bastard?’ She propelled herself out of the clammy embrace of the beanbag with surprising speed and began to prowl the room, as if expecting her quarry to be hidden somewhere among the tea cups and bookshelves. All the while, her joints clicked slightly like knitting needles, and her jaws worked beneath her sharp cheekbones and tiny, glistening eyes.

  ‘Who are you after, Mother?’ Mitya too rose out of his chair.

  ‘Volubchik: I’m here to rescue him.’

  ‘No, no, no!’ Galia began. ‘What are you talking about, Baba Plovkina?’ she continued. ‘We’re here to rescue Vasya Volubchik. You have no business meddling with that. We have an official letter.’ And she squeezed herself out of her seat and raised her hand to waft the Very Important Piece of Paper in the air.

  ‘No, Galina Petrovna, you are mistaken,’ said Mitya, ‘I am here for your old goat Volubchik. We have to have a … very serious conversation, him and I. No harm will come to him, I can assure you.’

  ‘What, like the dog?’ crowed Zoya. ‘You’re not human, Mitya. We don’t trust you. Don’t trust him, Galia. A leopard can’t change its spots, and neither can a Taurus.’

  ‘No, Zinaida Artyomovna, I am human. But I’m only just finding out … what sort of human.’

  ‘Bring him to me!’ screeched Baba Plovkina, pushing Mitya to one side and reaching for her sickle.

  ‘Oh my!’ exclaimed Kommandant Krapivin. ‘A transformation story!’ and he propelled Baba Plovkina away from her instrument and back towards her seat with the dexterity and panache of a lion tamer.

  * * *

  Out in the corridor, Vasya’s ears were beginning to burn. He still wasn’t sure who it was who had requested to see him, but he was hoping against hope that it was Galia, and not the police for further questioning, or any of his former teaching colleagues: the shame would be unbearable. He sat on a wooden bench between the two guards and enjoyed his first glimpse of the sky for four whole days. He could almost taste the sunshine, and as he spied a corner of the gardens below, the scent of green peppers, garlic and apricots mingled in his nostrils. He thought he might be able to smell freedom, or maybe it was the smell of the future. Whatever it was, he liked it very much, and it filled his heart with the warm honey of hope.

  25

  Chickens Roost

  In a dank kennel, a dog with a narrow face and delicate limbs tufted with wiry grey hair sat very still. A noise somewhere far off to the left of her had startled her. It had wrenched her from a welcome dream, where she had padded gently around a clean, bright apartment with sunshine streaming in golden rays through netted curtains. Her dark eyes, tilted over high cheekbones, rested on her cell door. Through the bent and torn metal bars she sensed the corridor black as pitch, which stank of fear. All was quiet on the corridor. She was the last dog on the row. Her hopes of rehoming and a new old lady now seemed misplaced. She had realized, slowly, that nothing good could happen in this place. Boroda licked her forepaw and chewed at a flea for a second, and then rested her chin on the clean patch of fur. Despite the lack of exercise, she felt tired: bone tired.

  She shut her eyes again, and remembered her home, and her mistress, and the stars that speckled the southern night sky. She remembered bacon fat, and her cardboard box, and the children who made her little leaf headdresses and tickled her ears as they sat with her beneath the trees. She remembered the smell of cats, the scamper of rats, and the joy of finding a bread crust trapped between the flagstones. She remembered Galia, and her food bowl, and the pool of green light under the kitchen table as meals were being prepared. She remembered the quiet, and the clock ticking, and the sound of the front door clicking shut. She heard footsteps in the corridor, and a small whine squeezed out of her parched throat.

  She stood up as best she could in the tiny cage, and hung her head towards the cage door, listening intently. The footsteps
came to a halt in front of her, and she could see the outline of the decrepit black boots again, close to her nose. They were coated with disinfectant and other liquids too terrible to name. Her back legs began to shake violently as the bolt to her cage was drawn back with a sudden jerk. She backed away from the rough gloves that reached for her, pressing her tail into the bars behind her, and bearing back with all her weight. She growled slightly as she was dragged forward and her claws caught on the wire mesh beneath her, etching the air with a sharp scratching sound. The human cursed and caught her roughly by the scruff.

  A rope collar was placed over her head and tightened around her neck, and then she was tugged slowly along the long dark corridor. The human smelt strongly of spirit and decay: it filled Boroda’s nostrils, and she sneezed loudly as she walked hesitantly beside him. The man seemed to wobble as he walked, taking a zig-zag route and hiccuping as he went. He was talking to no-one, and seemed somewhat distracted. Towards the end of the corridor, his shoulder hit the wall with a smack and he swore as the impact swivelled his body and snapped his face into the concrete with a loud, wet sound. He dropped the rope lead as he reached up to stem the blood now dripping from his nose all over his black boots. Boroda felt the weight of the rope hit the floor, and saw the door at the end of the corridor standing ajar.

  * * *

  ‘Mitya, what sort of conversation can you need to have with Vasya Volubchik? Surely the business of my Boroda is being dealt with by the police? You’re not going to press separate charges, are you? He didn’t touch you, Mitya, you know that he didn’t. And I have a piece of paper—’