Ghost Dogs Not Orange-Colored*

***

This happened in the late nineties. Of course, we had jobs back then—how could we not? But we didn’t have salaries. Six months, a year—just promises. Many people went to work simply because things were even more hopeless at home. At least there was some hope that they would pay us. And, surprisingly, sometimes they did. What a joy that was! You could pay off your debts and start waiting again for the next small payout.

My acquaintance Nastya, a proofreader by profession, decided to break out of this vicious circle. She had always been a desperate sort. After quitting the newspaper that fed everyone only rotten news, she got a job as a vendor. That is, a salesperson. Standing at the market in frost and sunshine, she earned money from the day’s takings. The owners, former shuttle traders who had made it big, had set up their own knitwear workshop. For those times, the clothes were excellent: any pattern or model, no matter how complex, could be created on imported machines equipped with computers. Sales in Krasnodar were slow, and exclusive items required connoisseurs, so they started taking the knitwear to Moscow. After going to the capital a couple of times, Nastya invited me along.

“These market women are such crooks,” she complained, as always rolling her r’s in a French way and not pronouncing the letter properly. “They’re always cheating me. But I trust you. Quit the institute—let Pushkin work there for free. He’s a monument; he doesn’t need food. Doesn’t matter that you’ve never sold anything, I’ll teach you—it’s simple. We’ll split the profits. We’ll bring back good money.” By that time I hadn’t been paid for half a year, and my husband had lost his job too. It was a way out.

How our Moscow trading went is a story in itself. By then my Nastya had become quite the businesswoman and psychologist. She could pass off defective goods, shortchange customers, or double the price if she saw that someone liked an item or was used to throwing money around. “If you’re honest, you’ll go bankrupt in a flash,” she answered my bewildered remarks. “Just don’t interfere.” As they say, if you’ve taken up the load, climb into the cart. My job was to lay out and pack the goods, count on the calculator. And keep quiet.

For vendors who came to Moscow in pairs on shifts, the company rented a two-room apartment near Podbelskogo metro station. In the larger room there was the merchandise and Nastya lived there; in the other, tiny one, I stayed. The apartment was clean and well renovated, but for some reason it was cheap. And not without reason.

On the very first night I was shocked. I had just begun to fall asleep when I heard someone scratching loudly at the door. Then it flew open, and a pack of dogs burst into the room—enraged mongrels of various colors. Growling and barking, with foam at their mouths, they rushed at me. There was nowhere to go: a wall behind me, bars on the window (it was the first floor), and the snarling pack blocking the door. The situation felt so real—the moon in the window, darkness in the corners, the smell of dog—that I immediately understood: this was not a dream. These were… ghosts.

Keeping the tremor out of my voice, I said sternly: “Quiet! Where is your owner? Go to her! You can’t be here!” The dogs froze warily, their intelligent eyes glinting as they listened to my voice. Then the biggest, blackest, shaggiest dog turned toward the door and left; one by one the others followed. But the door remained slightly open. I lay there in fear for a long time, but the apartment was quiet.

In the morning over tea I told Nastya about my vision, and she mockingly replied:

“Pfft! You too!”

“What do you mean, too?”

“Our girls complained they couldn’t sleep because of the dogs. Told the boss, fools. Said the apartment was bad, haunted. He told them—find another one just as cheap if you don’t like this one. I think it’s mass hysteria. I, for example, haven’t seen a single dog. Because I’m a rational person.”

I was stunned by her words.

“Did you try to find out about the dogs?” I asked. “Talk to the owners? The neighbors?”

“As if I’ve got nothing better to do!” Nastya snorted. “I came here to earn money, not to have dog conversations! Come on, don’t sleep—let’s go to the stall!”

And we rushed to the metro, wandering through the confusing stations in search of our sales spot. Usually we found it; sometimes not right away.

That evening, sweeping the apartment, I gathered onto a dustpan… a tuft of fur. It was red, black, gray. Just like the dogs in the nighttime pack.

I decided to get to the bottom of it. Soon the landlady came for the rent—a full, respectable-looking woman in glasses—and, smiling politely, I cautiously asked:

“Why is there fur in the apartment? Did a dog live here?”

She grew embarrassed and, lowering her eyes, answered:

“And not just one. The neighbors must have already gossiped that my mother lost her mind in old age and lived like a homeless person?” She sighed. “She kept saving money, and then in the default it turned into worthless paper. And they probably told you she picked up stray dogs?” The woman’s face twisted ungracefully. “Damn them… Yes, it used to be not an apartment but a stinking den! Ugh, those mutts! She had about fifteen living here, and they slept on the couch with her. When she barely left the house anymore, my brother and I wanted to get rid of the dogs and move her to my place so she could live decently in her old age. But no! She drove us out and stopped opening the door to us. And then that story happened…” The woman looked down guiltily. “You’ve probably heard… The dogs were howling terribly, and the neighbors had to break the door down… They found her dead. A stroke. We cleaned everything out afterward, even tore the plaster down to the laths and stripped the floors to the concrete. Where would any fur come from? And it’s been five years already.”

“Did you know that the ghosts of your dogs run around the apartment at night and scare people?” I decided to take the bull by the horns.

“I’ve never heard that before! The neighbors must have put it in your head,” she babbled, avoiding my gaze. “Well, I have no time! Goodbye!”

And she rushed out the door, her plump sides jiggling undignifiedly.

Nastya listened to our conversation with her mouth open.

“No way!” she exclaimed when the door slammed behind the woman, then quickly turned to me. “I told you—it’s been five years! Forget it!”

I silently pointed to the dustpan lying nearby, filled with multicolored tufts.

“That’s women’s hair! Look—yours is red,” she said stubbornly, and went into the room and kicked the dustpan over.

“Yeah, and yours is gray,” I sighed. For the record—Nastya was a lightened brunette with hair the color of an orange, and mine was mahogany. No four-legged creature, even through millions of years of selective breeding, could achieve such rich, juicy colors.

But this canine riddle didn’t occupy me for long, since the dogs stopped bothering me. And I had other things to think about. We left at six, our sales spot was far away—at that time at the Tushino market—and we returned after dark. And there were still accounts to settle.

But one day the “dog” topic came up again. That evening, on the way back, Nastya for some reason bought a shovel handle and, frowning, got on the metro with it. When she was in that mood, I preferred not to bother her.

“What’s that for?” asked an acquaintance riding with us, who sold linen goods at the neighboring stall. “Taking it to Krasnodar? They must’ve already cut down all the forests there.”

“I’m going to chase dogs away here!” Nastya answered grimly. “No living with them!”

“Ah,” the woman nodded knowingly, “they’re even attacking people during the day now,” and began telling a horror story about dog packs in the Moscow region. I just watched.

Soon Nastya gave in herself. As we walked from the metro to the house, tapping the stick like a staff, she said angrily:

“Yeah, now the old lady’s dogs are bothering me too! Do you think they’ll be afraid of my stick?”

“Unlikely. Don’t you get it? They’re not real—they died long ago.”

“I’ll put it next to me on the couch,” she muttered, not listening. “I’ll whack them! They’ll scatter in a flash! They used to be afraid of the light, but now—not a bit, they come even in the light! They’ll tear someone apart, honestly! Or someone will drop dead from fright!”

“Don’t you understand that fighting them is useless? This is their home, and you’re a stranger—they’re trying to drive you away. Your couch probably stands where the old woman used to sleep.”

“Then why don’t they chase you?”

“I don’t know. I’m not afraid of them. I feel sorry for them.”

“And I am afraid. For three nights now I’ve been scared to fall asleep,” Nastya sniffled.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I was ashamed. I didn’t believe you, and now myself…”

“Listen, let’s move your couch. Maybe they’ll leave you alone?”

“Oh, let’s!”

We spent half the evening hauling knitwear bundles out of the corner, then dragged the heavy couch there. In the morning Nastya said she had slept like the dead. After that, according to her, the dogs sometimes came to her. But after sniffing the empty corner, they disappeared.

Two months later I returned to Krasnodar with a good amount of money for those times. But no matter how Nastya called me, I didn’t go back into trading. I didn’t like it. And soon my husband found a job. I also found a position at a construction company.

What happened later with the dogs from that Moscow apartment near Podbelskogo station, I don’t know. Once, when we met, Nastya happily told me that the boss had found them housing closer to the sales spot. Later, after losing her health to street commerce, Nastya returned to her dust-free proofreading work, where they had begun paying regularly.

And the old woman’s dogs may still be looking for their owner, disturbing the peaceful sleep of the tenants of that little apartment.