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Galina Petrovna’s Three-Legged Dog Story

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Год написания книги
2019
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21. Of Butterflies, Dogs and Men

22. Rov Avia

23. Vasya’s Pussy

24. The Sunshine SIZO

25. Chickens Roost

26. The End of the Beginning

27. The End

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

Glossary (#ufcc2544a-d8a8-513d-a6e9-3c79813728c0)

Baba – short for babushka

Babushka – Granny, often used as a term of address of any elderly woman

Blin – a mild substitute exclamation, like “flip!”

Boroda – beard, and pronounced barada

Dacha – wooden country residence, ranging from a hut to a mansion

Dedya – Grandad, often used as a term of address of any elderly man

Duma – the Russian parliament

KAMAZ – a make of Russian truck

Kasha – porridge

Kefir – a fermented milk drink

Kroota – cool

Kvass – a fermented non-alcoholic drink made from rye bread

Laika – the stray dog sent in to orbit by the USSR in 1957

Lapochka – sweetie, term of endearment based on the word for paw, and used for small children and dogs

Lubyanka – HQ of the KGB in central Moscow

NKVD – the People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs, or secret police (forerunner of KGB)

Perestroika – a political movement for reformation of the Communist Party during the 1980s

Sharik – little ball, it is a common dog’s name in Russia

SIZO – stands for Sledstvenny Izolyator, and is a remand prison

Skoraya – ambulance

Spetznaz – Russian Special Forces

Svoloch – bastard, git

Vareniki – small stuffed dumplings

Vint – a domestically produced stimulant drug, usually injected

1 (#ufcc2544a-d8a8-513d-a6e9-3c79813728c0)

A Typical Monday Afternoon (#ufcc2544a-d8a8-513d-a6e9-3c79813728c0)

‘Hey! Goryoun Tigranovich! Can you hear me?’

A warm brown hand slapped on the door once more, its force rattling the hinges this time.

‘He’s dead, I tell you! He’s probably been eaten by the cats by now. Four of them he’s got, you know. Four fluffy white cats! Who needs four fluffy white cats? White? Ridiculous!’

‘Babushka, can you hear any cats mewing?’

The two ladies, one indescribably old and striated and the other only mildly so, waited silently for a moment outside the apartment door, listening intently. Tiny Baba Krychkova bent slightly to put her ear to the keyhole, closed her eyes and sucked in her cheeks.

‘I hear nothing, Galia,’ she replied after some moments.

‘So that’s good, isn’t it, Baba? That means that Goryoun Tigranovich has probably gone on holiday to the coast, or perhaps to visit friends in Rostov, and has left the cats with someone else. And that means he isn’t lying dead in his apartment.’

‘But Galia, maybe they’re all dead! The cats and Goryoun Tigranovich! All dead! Maybe they found him too tough to eat and they starved! It’s been several days, you know.’

The older lady’s face crumpled at the thought of the starving cats and the dry, wasted cadaver of Goryoun Tigranovich, and she began to sob, rubbing a gnarled red fist into her apple-pip eyes. Other doors began to creak and moan along the length of the dusty corridor, and slowly other grey heads studded with curranty eyes bobbed into view, to peer curiously down the hall towards the source of the noise and excitement. A vague hum stretched out along the length of the building as the elderly residents rose as one from their afternoon naps, whether planned or unplanned, to witness the drama unfolding on floor 3 of Building 11, Karl Marx Avenue, in the southern Russian town of Azov. Galia sighed, and offered her handkerchief over, and made compassionate tutting noises with her tongue.

‘Baba Krychkova, there is nothing we can do out here in the hall. I am sure that Goryoun Tigranovich is in the best of health. He’s such a sprightly fellow – and a regular traveller, you know. Just last month he was in Omsk.’

Galia didn’t trip over the words, pronouncing them firmly and evenly, but to her own ears they sounded unconvincing: the last time she had seen the gentleman he had resembled a piece of dried bark dressed in a suit. ‘I am sure I saw him last week, down at the market, and he was buying watermelons. People who buy watermelons are not about to die: they are enjoying life; they are robust, and hopeful. Watermelons are a sure sign. He was probably taking the melons as a present for whoever he has gone to visit. I am confident he will be back soon.’

Melons or no, Goryoun Tigranovich was a very private person, and he would not welcome being discussed in the hallway by his entire entourage of elderly neighbours. Galia tried to encourage the older lady to go home.

‘Why don’t you go and have a nice cup of tea, and I can bring you one of my home-made buns. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’
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