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The dog is small and fluffy and the colour of Buxoro persimmons. His ears are two sharp equilateral triangles, dark against the light smooth fur on his head. His tail is round like a well-baked kalach.
He looks at Rhoden, head tilted to one side, and gives a slight whine.
“C’mere, then,” says Rhoden, and makes a come-hither gesture with his good hand. The dog bounces towards him and stops just short of the tips of his Lenwest shoes, as if unsure of what to do next. He bends down a little and reaches behind one of the soft triangular ears to scratch his lower jaw.
The reaction this elicits is odd. At first the dog recoils and almost trips over himself; then he suddenly leans into the touch, blinking up at Rhoden with his dark wet eyes.
“What’s the matter with you, punapea?” he asks. “Never been petted before?”
He can’t help the way one half of his mouth curls up. Animals are normally Rubinstein’s specialty, not his, but Ginger here is such an endearing little creature. And damn it, Rhoden has a heart, too.
“I wish I could offer you something more. Alas, my canine friend, my current life is not conducive to pet ownership.
“Human politics. You wouldn’t understand.”
Sometimes Rhoden wishes he didn’t understand, either. He stuffs his hands deeper into the pockets of his coat and turns away, the ice slurry crunching wetly under his feet.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I am not a happy man, and it wouldn’t be a happy home for you.”
He begins to walk towards the canal and makes it as far as the granite statue of General Vlasin two blocks away before he notices that the dog is following him.
“Quit that,” he says irritably, stopping in his tracks.
The dog whines again, softer and lower-pitched this time. His tail moves hesitantly from one side to another, once, twice, and then stops. He doesn’t seem to have a very good grasp of tail-wagging.
Something in Rhoden wavers at the sight of this innocent incompetence. “Oh, very well,” says he, with affected gruffness. He brushes the wet snow off a curved wooden bench, sits down, and pats the seat next to himself in a gesture of invitation. The dog doesn’t need to be asked twice; he runs towards the bench, his little feet leaving deep imprints in the snow crust, and leaps up.
Rhoden scoops him closer. He imagines the dog must be cold. Or perhaps it’s he who’s cold.
Vlasin looks at them unsympathetically over the rims of his round glasses. The sun is setting down over the Nyen river, painting the Kronstadt cityscape an icy pink. The air is full of tiny snowflakes and the smoke of makhorka tobacco.
“I have this student, you know, punapea,” Rhoden says, absently rubbing one of Ginger’s fat warm ears between his thumb and his forefinger. “Kind of the same hair colour as yours.”
The dog barks in response. Rhoden shakes his head, rummages through his pockets, and produces some rye bread and salami wrapped in crunchy brown paper. The salami is of dubious provenance, but he doubts Ginger will mind.
He extracts a little circle of salami from between two slices of bread, shakes off the wet sharp-smelling crumbs, and dangles it in front of the dog’s nose. Ginger takes it from him carefully, politely, his flat pink tongue leaving a smidge of saliva on Rhoden’s glove. Then he lets out a little snort and nudges the rest of the food away, closer to Rhoden’s other hand.
Rhoden frowns, bemused. Refusing food for someone else’s benefit isn’t the behaviour of any dog he’s heard of. Then again, he’s not Rubinstein.
Maybe Ginger just hates the salami.
“I also have an apple,” Rhoden informs him. He takes it out, a wrinkled deep red fruit still smelling of summer, and meticulously slices it apart with a penknife. “Do dogs eat apples?”
Once again, Ginger takes one apple slice from Rhoden. There’s a crunch and a trickle of apple juice runs down his sharp fox-like muzzle. Once again, he refuses to eat any more. Maybe it’s Rhoden’s overactive imagination, but somehow the dog’s expression looks almost insistent.
“I’m not hungry,” Rhoden sighs. Ginger flicks one ear as if in doubt, and rests his plump head against the back of Rhoden’s artificial hand. Even through the suede leather of the glove, he radiates warmth, and what remains of Rhoden’s wrist feels as though it’s been wrapped in a woollen scarf.
“I haven’t seen him in a few days now,” Rhoden continues, and runs his thumb over Ginger’s cheek. “I’m a little worried, to tell the truth.”
Perhaps more than a little.
Ginger makes a small sound, something betweek a sigh and a whimper.
“Yes, rather,” Rhoden agrees, flicking the penknife closed. Then he frowns and closes his fingers around the knife, just this side of too tightly. “I’ve become very fond of him – too fond. Such a damn stupid mistake, in my circumstances. I’m sure you’ll think I’m an old fool who worries for nothing, but I wish- gods, I wish I knew where he was.
“I should have never let myself think of befriending the kid. I cannot forgive myself for that. If anything happens to him that I could’ve prevented–”
It’s less of a process of transformation and more of a sudden shift, like someone changing the slides in a projector. One moment, Rhoden is pouring his heart out to a fluffy little dog; the next, he’s half-holding Alexander Steinberg, shivering, dishevelled, and for some reason barefoot.
“Ah,” he exclaims, and positively jumps away. “Steinberg!..”
The kid looks dazed, like he’s not entirely there, and somehow happy and sad at once. “Dr Rhoden,” he says, voice uneven with disuse.
Rhoden stands up, carefully tips Steinberg’s head back, and studies him with some concern. There doesn’t seem to be any visible injury; when he puts two fingers to the kid’s carotid artery, his heartbeat appears reassuringly steady, if a little fast. Rhoden decides that a hospital won’t be necessary. If Steinberg needs somewhere to recuperate, his flat will do.
Him being barefoot does present something of a problem, however.
“Put your arms around me,” Rhoden instructs, leaning down to bring himself level with Steinberg. The kid hugs him awkwardly, his hands grabbing fistfuls of Rhoden’s coat.
“I meant so that I could carry you,” he amends, sighing a little. He’s clearly more out of it than I thought.
“Oh,” says Steinberg, and adjusts his hold so that his arms are around Rhoden’s neck. That’s more workable, and Rhoden gently lifts him up from the bench.
Steinberg isn’t very heavy; hardly more difficult to carry than three or four of those small finds crates Rhoden has become accustomed to lugging around digs. Still too thin, thinks Rhoden worriedly, as he sets off along the canal in the general direction of his quarters.
The kid’s head is lolling a little, his right parietal occasionally colliding with Rhoden’s ear. He remains conscious, however, which Rhoden is happy about. He’s less happy that Steinberg insists on demonstrating this by carrying a conversation.
“So,” Steinberg mutters into Rhoden’s collar, slurring his words. “We have rather a lot to talk about, don’t we.”
Rhoden groans wordlessly in response. I don’t suppose there’s any chance that he’ll fall asleep and wake up not remembering anything. That only does happen in Western novels.
“Your salami was disgusting,” Steinberg continues, undeterred. Rhoden ignores this, even as he unfastens his cape with one hand and pulls it over the kid’s shoulders.
Steinberg stirs a little and tightens his hold on Rhoden. “A dank, doctor,” he says quietly, and Rhoden isn’t sure whether this refers to the cape, the salami, or something else altogether.