The Metro Dogs of Moscow by Rachelle Delaney

Author:Rachelle Delaney
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tundra Book Group

“The Pushkin Literary Museum honours Alexander Pushkin, often considered the greatest Russian poet who ever lived,” Boris explained as they walked on, bellies full of stuffed potato. “Pushkin was born in 1799 and died in 1837, but within that short time, he changed the face of modern literature.”

Beatrix listened intently while keeping a safe distance, obviously concerned about fleas. Robert, meanwhile, was lagging behind, more interested in Fyodor’s attempts to steal food out of passing grocery carts than in the man who changed the face of Russian literature. Fyodor seemed to appreciate the attention, even allowing Robert to try it himself. Pie still stuck close to his brother’s side and didn’t make a peep.

JR watched them over his shoulder and couldn’t help feeling a bit sour in his belly, just as he had the previous night watching Sasha and Ania. Robert had only known Fyodor for half an hour, and already he was better friends with the stray than JR was. His ears still burned at the memory of his failed Bark-and-Grab.

“What’s this?” Beatrix asked Boris, nodding at a crowd of people up ahead. They seemed to be inspecting the wall of a bus shelter.

“Easy pickings, that’s what,” Fyodor said. “C’mon, Robert. Let’s go get dessert.” He slipped into the crowd, and Robert trotted after him with Pie close behind.

“Looks like art,” Ania said, stopping beside JR. At three times his height, she had a much better view. “There are some big pictures on the bus shelter.”

“Ah!” said Boris. “Filip Filipov strikes again. Come, let’s go see.” He pushed his way into the crowd.

“Filip Filipov?” Beatrix repeated. “Is he very famous?”

“In some circles,” Boris replied. “He’s a very mysterious man. He never has traditional exhibits in galleries. Instead, he displays his art wherever he pleases. He rarely appears in public, and when he does, he’s always disguised somehow. Very few people actually know what he looks like.”

“Filip Filipov,” JR repeated. This must have been the “Phil” whose art George had seen the night before. He squeezed himself between a pair of tall boots and emerged at the front of the crowd.

Filip Filipov’s art was … interesting. He seemed to take photographs and alter them on the computer—like George did, but to greater effect. The result was a colourful mess of landscapes and people that didn’t look quite real.

“Filipov’s work always makes some statement on Moscow, or Russia, or humans in general,” Boris remarked. “JR, do you remember the art you saw last night?”

“Sure,” said JR, thinking of the paintings on the walls at Headquarters.

“Remember how they showed people working together, on farms and in factories? Filipov, you see, is doing the same thing.”

JR squinted at one of the pictures. It was indeed a farm landscape, but inside it were people who didn’t belong at all. One man wore a suit, a few more people were dressed in swimming trunks, and one even appeared to be dancing in a tutu. In the bottom right-hand corner were two bright blue F ’s, placed back to back.

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