Free Faithful Ruslan by Georgi Vladimov

spent in prison, so I’m due for a pension—the same as they pay a transpolar airman who’s flown a million kilometers.”
    “That’s fine, but money isn’t a cure-all. If I were you, I’d have waited till now and given myself some nice little wound. Helps a lot, you know; then they give you a disability pension as well.”
    Master gave him a hard stare.
    “I thought we’d agreed not to go on talking like that. You sit here and drink with me, yet you still give me all that crap. It’s called ‘lack of proper respect.’ ”
    “What—me? Not show you proper respect?” laughed the Shabby Man. “After all these years spent learning it? Don’t get riled—you’ll sort yourself out soon enough. You’re young; life’s still in front of you.”
    So saying, he did something that might have cost him his life: he leaned across the table and patted Ruslan’s master onthe shoulder. Ruslan sprang to his feet and lunged headlong at the Shabby Man, moving almost soundlessly except for the scraping of his claws across the floor.
    Swinging around in a flash, Master stopped Ruslan just in time with a punch of his clenched fist. Though aimed at his jaw, the blow struck Ruslan on the nose and almost sent him rolling away with a howl of pain; but he stood his ground in silence, lest the Enemy see how much it hurt him, and instead only growled at the Shabby Man, whom he could hardly see for tears.
    “My God,” said Master in amazement, “so it’s you, is it, you brute? Scrounging food in restaurants already?”
    Still growling, Ruslan rubbed his nose on Master’s knee and felt a little better, but when Master stroked him the pain went altogether.
    “Does he always act like that?” asked the Shabby Man, who had not even had time to be frightened.
    “Like what? Is he always so touchy, d’you mean? Yes, he and I stand up for each other. Don’t we, Ruslan? That was how we used to go for anybody if they tried any funny business.” Everyone in the restaurant was looking at Ruslan, as though expecting him to do some trick, or perhaps because he was still handsome enough for people simply to admire him, as they had in the past when his master had been so proud of him. Unfortunately, the barmaid was not so pleased with him:
    “Citizen,” she announced to Master from a dim, smoke-filled corner of the restaurant, “you should take your dog somewhere else. This isn’t the camp, you know. It’s a restaurant. He’s supposed to wear a muzzle in public places.”
    “What for?” Master smiled at her. “He’s never worn one in his life and he’s managed O.K. without it. You can have him yourself, if you like.… Why shrug your shoulders?He’ll earn his feed—he won’t let the public health inspector through the door!”
    “The inspector doesn’t worry me. But I’ve given you an official warning. If that dog bites anyone, you’ll have to pay a fine. Plus the cost of antirabies shots.”
    “Hear that, Ruslan? Take note. You’re running around without a license.”
    Ruslan twitched his ears slightly, creased his forehead into a look of suffering and shifted from paw to paw. If people were expecting a trick, they were virtually seeing one now, so eloquent and clear was the message that Ruslan was able to express: that he found it strange for people to be talking such nonsense about him, that he was embarrassed by this stupid woman who was being nasty to his master on his, Ruslan’s, account and that he wanted to get out of here as quickly as possible but was waiting until his master was ready.
    Leaning back in his chair, Master gave a belch of repletion and took out his cigarette case. He could feel hostile looks directed at him and was slightly unsure of himself; on such occasions the lighting of a cigarette turned into a complete ritual: he spent a long time selecting a cigarette, tapped it on the lid with its engraved picture, blew into it with a whistling sound and then, scrunching the cardboard mouthpiece, rolled