You have stolen my dog! Galia tried again, finally straightening her legs, although somewhat tentatively. The noise of the dogs in the back of the van filled her head with the sounds of nightmares. Among the howling, barking and growling, she could make out the sound of Boroda, crying softly.
Citizen, let me explain, said Mitya the Exterminator softly, all the dogs I take have no owner. It follows, therefore, that your dog is not with me. Mitya put his excrement knife back in his bum-bag and turned his back on the old woman with funny knees. He hoped she would now disappear as quickly as she had appeared. She gave him the creeps. And he had unfinished business to attend to.
You have stolen my dog! Shes grey and has three legs and a small, pointy beard, and she is in the back of your van! I can hear her. Boroda! Boroda! Im here, darling! Dont worry; well get you out, lapochka!
Mitya smiled slightly to himself. The three-legged dog had been a very easy catch, once hed got out of the bin.
Citizen Old Woman, I only take stray dogs, diseased dogs. Dogs that should not be. I never take a dog with a collar. And your dog must have a collar, if it is genuinely your dog. So it cannot be in my van.
No. You dont understand
Has your dog got a collar, Elderly Citizen?
No. You dont understand
Has your dog got a collar, Elderly Citizen?
No.
There was a pause in the barking and growling, a silence filled only by the sound of Vasya panting as he made his way across the courtyard. He finally reached them and leant against the side of the van to catch his breath. Mitya the Exterminator turned to Galia and smirked.
No collar? Then Citizen Old Woman, you have no dog. You need to familiarise yourself with the legislation, perhaps. End of discussion. Mitya turned away to deal with the dogs.
No, she is my dog. She lives with me. Boroda! Boroda!
No, Citizen, it is a stray. As set out in Presidential Decree No. 32 of 1994, Section 14, paragraph 3.2 go home and read it.
So you admit youve got my dog? You scoundrel!
Now, now, Galia, my dear, I am sure Mitya, I mean the Exterminator, is a reasonable man. Maybe we could recompense you for the return of the ladys dog? Wed be happy to make a donation to any charity youd care to name, or to cover any personal costs. Vasya squeezed a wad of worn bank notes from his pocket and fanned them out for Mitya the Exterminator to see. Enough for some vodka and the dried fish to go with it, Vasya thought.
Mitya stared at the money for two seconds and then glanced into Vasyas face, his nostrils flaring as if the stench of dog had finally sliced into his olfactory nerves. No, Citizen Volubchik, I dont want your money. I enjoy my job do you understand? Not everyone is motivated by money, even in these days of freedom and democracy.
Vasya began to stutter a response, but the Exterminator cut across him.
No, Elderly Citizen! These dogs have no place in freedom and democracy. These dogs are strays, and they are unhygienic. And I will deal with them. It is my service. Now go home.
No, please! Galia stepped purposefully between Mitya the Exterminator and the van. Mitya thought about shoving the old citizen roughly away, but the thought of having to touch her made his stomach shrivel. He decided that the non-standard issue Taser might be the best weapon for this particular job. Vasya gasped as he saw the Exterminators hand reach for his holster, and made a dash, on legs still coming to life, to protect Galia.
Galia saw Vasya launch himself at her at the same moment as Mitya the Exterminator fumbled with a holster. She felt afraid, but didnt know why. Surely he wasnt going to shoot her?
A second later a screech as if from Baba Yaga herself ripped through the night. All three protagonists froze, with fear squeezing each and every heart. Only Mitya seemed to know the likely source of the chilling wail, and his head jerked towards the entrance to the flats. In a flash, a tiny old woman with a bristling chin and a brightly coloured headscarf darted out of the stairwell with something gleaming raised above her head. It took Galia a second or two to work out what it was: a sickle.
Go to hell you son of a bitch! she screeched in a pitch so high it set all the neighbourhood dogs off as she lunged at Mitya the Exterminator with a wicked, slashing motion. Galia and Vasya ducked on instinct, but the old woman hadnt even seen them. Her terrible eyes tracked the Exterminator alone.
No! he shouted, backing away, hands outstretched.
Murdering bastard, get out of here! Again she lunged, and the Exterminator lost his footing slightly, backing away, scrabbling like a chicken about to lose its head.
Mother, no! Drop the sickle! Its me, Mitya! Ive come for some washing!
Vasya and Galia stared at each other, dumbfounded for a moment, unable to take in the spectacle of David and Goliath that was unfolding in front of them as the tiny woman chased Mitya the Exterminator around the courtyard, screeching like a banshee with the sickle held high over her head.
A chorus of barking from the back of the van reminded Galia that shed come here to do more than just gawp at suburban madness. Pulling the vans battered doors wide, she peered into the murk, her ears ringing. Inside she could make out a patchwork of small cages, each stacked on the other, each housing a miserable dog, each miserable dog just a blur of heaving fur interspersed with white teeth that flashed in the moonlight. Hardly daring to touch the nearest cage, which wobbled about as if on its own accord, she spotted Boroda near the back, small and scared. Galia began to claw out the other cages one by one, placing them on the ground as gently as she could while also withdrawing her hands from the feel of claw and drool as quickly as possible. The stench of the stray dogs caught in her throat and she coughed and gagged as the cages came out.
At last she reached Boroda and heaved out the cage. Glancing over her shoulder to make sure Mitya the Exterminator was still thoroughly occupied with what was apparently his mother; she tugged back the bolt and grabbed the shivering dog.
What about these poor wretches, Galia? Vasya pointed to the vibrating cages and their contents, strewn about the courtyard floor. What shall we do with these? We cant just leave them!
Do as you think best, Vasya, I can only care for my dog! Galia replied over her shoulder, running for the motorbike with Boroda in her arms. Just do it quickly, for heavens sake!
Vasya looked at the miserable cages and their frenetic contents, and decided quickly. Moving them roughly round so that all the cage doors faced in the same direction, he grabbed the Exterminators bag of fat bits from the back of the van, strew them on the ground in a brief trail leading away from him, and then, leaning over the cages from behind, drew back all the bolts and flung the doors as wide as he could. Without waiting to look, he then took to his heels and, with an energy he hadnt felt since the previous decade, hobbled unevenly across the courtyard to where Galia waited for him on the motorbike.
Galia folded Vasya back in to the sidecar and placed the terrified dog in his lap. She felt like a girl again, a feeling she could almost taste, which rose from the pit of her stomach all the way up: she had outwitted the enemy and might live forever, or just till tomorrow
As they turned a wide arc to return to town, Vasya glimpsed Mitya the Exterminator falling backwards down the cellar steps into the bowels of the building, the raving old woman following close behind, the moonlight licking the edge of her sickle as it crested above her head. Towards them heaved a pack of stray dogs, howling and yapping and hungry for vengeance. Vasya felt his stomach turn over, and turned his head away. Some things were probably best quickly forgotten.
5
A Visit
You say you know his mother?
Galia threw the question over her shoulder.
Vasya Volubchik was finally seated on a stool at her kitchen table, a place he had often yearned to be, but the circumstances this evening were far from how he had envisaged such a visit. His legs ached like he had been kicked by an apoplectic mule, so much so that Galia had had to half carry, half drag him up the stairs to her apartment. The evenings upsetting events had effectually driven all thoughts of romance, chivalry and honour from his mind. He felt a bit low, a bit stupid, and really rather old.
Yes, we were quite friendly, a long time ago. She was a happy little thing, bright as a button. She was always smiling, singing, dancing. She helped out at my school for some years. Vasyas green eyes became filmy, like still ponds in bloom, and Galia turned away again to frown at her hands as she filled the kettle. A small, semi-stifled tut escaped her, despite herself.
And that was his mother we saw tonight? Galia gave him a sideways glance, one grey eyebrow raised.
Yes. Vasilys gaze skimmed the floor, and a slight movement in his papery, transparent eyelids suggested that a little drop of moisture was escaping from each eye. Galia sighed and set the chipped enamel kettle on the stove. Her match lit the gas with a comforting pop and they sat in silence, save for the soft hiss of the burning blue flame and the occasional bumbling drone of a late-night, sleepy mosquito.
Vasily Semyonovich, I have to say, she didnt seem very happy to me tonight. In fact, she seemed
Yes, she appears to have changed somewhat since I knew her. I believe grief has a lot to do with it. Vasya cut her off, his tone a little clipped. Galia looked up sharply: she wanted to know more.
Grief?
Oh, its not an interesting story, Galia, really it isnt. Surely you are already familiar with it?
Galia shook her head. I dont know the lady at all. She must keep over at the East Side.
It was just a little small-town heart break, you know. Her husband ran off, a long time ago, and her son is a big disappointment, obviously. Thats the long and the short of it. Vasya harrumphed for a moment or two and sniffed, folded his lopsided glasses into his shirt pocket and daintily blotted his nose on the back of his index finger. Then, carefully rolling up his trousers to knee height, he pursed his ancient lips and began tending to his shins with Galias proffered iodine and cotton wool. Delicate blobs of green appeared on his dry skin, like moss on wintery silver birches. The pain was making him snappy, Galia thought, and the red blood spots on his trousers, now turning to a rusty brown, were also adding to his bad mood. She toyed with the thought of washing them for him, but the realization that he would be sitting in her kitchen for half the night with those shins on show quickly changed her mind. She felt bad for him, but she knew where to draw the line.