Galina Petrovna’s Three-Legged Dog Story. Andrea Bennett

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СКАЧАТЬ Not that there were many guests to be had at their nuptials, most of their relatives and friends being missing, dead, in prison or building Communism elsewhere in the huge Union. Pasha’s absence hurt Galia at first, but in a dull sort of way. She had expected a man who would be there, making demands on her, eating her food, sleeping with her, giving her ultimatums, making a mess and demanding her attention when she was busy. But mostly she saw the back of his head: as he sat at his desk in the main room, studying papers from the factory, fingers and stubble streaked with ink; or as he stood on the balcony staring out into the evening, smoke from his cigarette rising straight and listless into the still summer sky; or as he slept on the sofa, sucking air noisily out of the room and hiding it in the cavity of his chest like a miser hoarding candle ends. And then there was the quiet mockery of the click of the closing door, sometimes mid-sentence, sometimes just before a meal. Galia ate many meals for two alone. When she was lying on the bed waiting for him, wondering if there was something wrong with her, with her frizzy blonde hair and her pale skin, she’d finish off his pie, lick the fork, and tell herself it didn’t matter. Good food, honesty, timeliness, good neighbourliness: these were worthy enough causes.

      At first she would listen to the familiar bossy tones of the radio while she waited. Sometimes housework kept her occupied, or some mending. She’d watch the children playing in the courtyard between the brand new blocks of flats, occasionally shouting down half-hearted remonstrations. And she would cook, even on the evenings when he did not come home at all, she would cook. Her favourite was vareniki like her own mother had made. Often she bottled fruit or vegetables, and when she’d run out of her own produce she’d take in endless cherries, plums, cucumbers and tomatoes from her neighbours to do the same for them. Her life revolved around ceaseless movements and small busy tasks for the hands, her methodical steps around the kitchen comforting and repetitive like notes on the balalaika when she was learning to dance before the war, her mother looking on sternly. How had she forgotten that for so long?

      Galia gradually grew from a frail strip of a thing into a powerful, square-shouldered woman. She was not obese, and definitely not round: she had her corners, and a core of strength that underpinned all her movements. She ate her meals for two in quiet solitude, stolidly, slowly and with care. She became resigned to the fact that Pasha was having an affair, or maybe several. She never heard any gossip, and didn’t know who was involved, but had no other rational explanation. The woman behind the counter at the bakery always gave her a sly look. Then again, maybe it was one of the gypsy women who lived down by the river. Perhaps one of the women at the factory, one of the ones who wore trousers and smoked in the yard, had finally gained his attention. Heaven knew, young women outnumbered men four to one since the war, and some were not bothered where they scratched that particular itch. Perhaps it was her duty to share her husband? It was only her pride that was hurt, after all. But she could not get the thought to leave her head: why wasn’t his home enough for him?

      When Galia finally nodded off just before six a.m., her dreams were full of weird flashing scenes, strangely stilted and discoloured, as if she were back at the mobile cinema with the dirty cigarette smoke swirling about her like fog and the tinny speakers detached from the walls and clamped to her head. Faceless people talked nonsense, words coming out chopped up or backwards or speeded up, and nothing making sense. As she sat in the film dream she knew, with a creeping dread that rolled snail trails down her spine, that there was something vital she had forgotten to do. She couldn’t remember what, and was frantic with worry. She had caused a catastrophe due to her own stupidity. But then the feeling faded and the face of Pasha loomed in front of her. He was shoving at her, angry, with the veins in his forehead standing out and pulsating. All of a sudden a furious bark erupted from his mouth. Pasha lunged at her, teeth bared and arms outstretched, making directly for her face. Galia woke with a start, covered in a cold sweat.

      She shook herself free of the last remnants of the dream and, putting on the bedside light, made sure that her arms and legs were still in roughly working order. Her knees and ankles were stiff and puffy, and bruises had appeared up and down both legs. She needed to feel human, and needed some company. There were reasons why it was stupid to delve too deeply into the past, reason one being that the present was no place for the dead. She crept into the kitchen, made a cup of tea so strong she feared it may be poisonous, and looked at the clock. An acceptable hour to ring? Six-fifty was acceptable in Galia’s book, and she telephoned Zoya, for help and support and some kind of plan.

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