By way of introduction, see ‘Sad Stories Always Make Me Blue‘.

Galina Nikolaevna speaks faultless French. She is one of those truly gifted linguists, a simultaneous interpreter. If she lived in New York, Galina would be pulling down a heavy salary at the United Nations. But living in Naberezhnye Chelny, only the odd job from the Kamaz truck factory supplements her
teacher’s pay.

There’s an air of studious calm about Galina’s apartment. Somehow, she contrived to have three children who don’t jump on the furniture or trail boots and toys across the floor. Instead, they fill their exercise books with disturbingly neat handwriting and always get fives for homework.

So, all in all, it comes as a surprise when you discover, from the graffiti covering the staircase, that Galina Nikolaevna is the biggest whore in Chelny and that someone should pour vitriol on her tits.

It was about five years ago when Galina Nikolaevna first met Vladimir Marchenkov. That was when she agreed to give him French lessons on Tuesdays and Thursdays. At the time, Vladimir was living in a dismal one-room flat, a couple of blocks along Moskovsky Prospekt from Galina and equally a couple of blocks from his estranged wife and two daughters. Like many Russian couples, the Marchenkov’s just hadn’t got around to an official divorce. In any case, Vladimir had his time pretty well filled. Kamaz trucks were entering the Paris Dakar rally and Marchenkov had been appointed driver mechanic. French lessons formed part of the team’s meticulous preparation.

On his way home from the factory, Vladimir couldn’t believe how well his life was going. The rally truck was the most exotic thing ever seen in Chelny. It promised him Moscow, Paris and the continent of Africa. Its decals dripped with a lifestyle he would soon indulge. Moreover, every Tuesday and Thursday, he was now visited by an exotic, French-speaking woman. Pushing forty yes but, all the same, she still had a good figure and Vladimir told her so. Perhaps that was a mistake. Things stopped going well for Vladimir when Galina got pregnant.

Few on Moskovsky Prospekt knew or cared about the Paris Dakar rally but they had a lot to say about local events. Obviously, the pregnancy was deliberate. Well-meaning neighbours told Vladimir not to be blackmailed and to ditch the scheming tart. But Vladimir argued against the idea of a marriage ploy. After all, Galina already had two children from different fathers and neither of them had married her. How could she possibly imagine that such a ruse would work?

With the talent that all Russian men have for critical decision making, Vladimir quickly put out of his mind his two daughters, the two illegitmate sons, his wife and the kid on the way. He was then able to focus on the real issue: that he had a miserable apartment, most of which was taken up with a bed without a woman in it. The next day he divorced his estranged wife properly and moved in beside Galina.

It was then that the phone calls started. Vladimir’s ex started calling Galina every day. Slut, whore, bitch. Three bastard kids. Three bastard men. Slut, whore, bitch. Spit, spit, spit. The calm order of Galina’s home exploded. The children got fours instead of fives for their homework. Respite only came when it was time to leave for Moscow and to parade the Kamaz contender in Red Square, a final flagwaver before the rally proper. Fired up and feted, the team moved on to Paris. Galina accompanied them as the official interpreter.

When Kamaz won the truck class on the Paris Dakar, there were no street parties in Chelny. The closest Vladimir got to a heroes welcome was from the police. Returning home, he was able to drive the truck over the speed limit without getting a fine. This, he said, was the highest accolade, ‘because you have no idea how much Russian police like money.’ But it was really said to cover up his feeling of disappointment, deepened by the fact that all the prize money was pocketed by the Kamaz directors. By now he had remembered about supporting two daughters, two illegitimate sons, a new wife and a kid on the way.

The real reception in Chelny, however, was waiting at Galina’s apartment. Vladimir’s ex-wife had paid it a visit. The furniture had been trashed and the curtains shredded. The walls and windows spewed paint. The words Slut, Whore and Bitch were repeated as regularly as a wallpaper pattern. Only a few pieces of jagged glass were left in the framed picture of the world-beating truck, presented to Vladimir by Kamaz management before they set out.

These days, in the street in Chelny, some people may point out Vladimir Marchenkov to you. But still it’s never to say, ‘hey, that’s one of the guys who won the Paris Dakar’. They point him out as the stupid sod with the crazy wife who lives with that whore Nikolaevna. Someone should really put vitriol on her tits.