‘Oh, look! “RETRO PARTY here every third Friday”,’ he read from a poster. ‘“Come in retro fancy dress for a chance to win a guided trip to North Korea, a holiday to Cuba or an excursion to Moscow, including a night visit to the mausoleum.” Cool!’ Kolyan turned to his friend, his eyes ablaze with excitement. ‘Can you imagine? A night in the mausoleum! You, alone in the dark . . . with Lenin! Eh?’
Igor shrugged. His mind was elsewhere.
‘Can’t you just show me?’
‘No, I’m not going to show you anything on an empty stomach,’ insisted Kolyan. With a final glance at the poster, he started walking again. Five minutes later they arrived at Cafe Borshch.
‘So, what are you having?’ asked Igor, knowing that Kolyan was going to take pleasure in keeping him in suspense, watching his growing irritation and milking the excitement and impatient curiosity that were written all over his face.
‘Let’s see now . . . I’ll have a Russian salad, okroshka soup and some fruit cordial,’ said Kolyan.
Igor relayed this information to the waitress and sat down opposite Kolyan, without ordering anything for himself.
‘Aren’t you having anything?’ asked Kolyan, surprised.
‘I’m already full with curiosity. Anyway, your appetite’s enough for both of us.’ Igor gave a forced smile. ‘So, are you going to show me or not?’
‘All right, here you go.’ Kolyan held the tube of paper out to him.
Igor opened it up. The printout was black and white – or rather, grey and white – but perfectly comprehensible. Stepan’s shoulder was no longer visible, but there were words and an image. The letters looked unsteady, shaky, ready to dissolve again at any moment into a random agglomeration of dots.
‘“Ochakov, 1957, Efim Chagin’s House”,’ read Igor. There was an image of an anchor beneath the words. ‘Where’s Ochakov?’ asked Igor.
‘Don’t you know?’ asked Kolyan, surprised. ‘On the Black Sea, somewhere between Odessa and the Crimea. Berezan Island is just off the coast . . . You know, where Lieutenant Schmidt was shot. Or haven’t you ever heard of Battleship Potemkin either?’
Igor nodded, picturing the approximate location of the little town on a map of Ukraine.
‘Did he seriously not know what the tattoo said?’ asked Kolyan.
Igor smiled. Now his friend was the one itching to know more.
‘He had no idea,’ said Igor, shaking his head.
Half an hour later, they went their separate ways.
‘Hey, don’t forget it’s my birthday in two weeks! I’m expecting a present!’ Kolyan called after his friend.
‘I’ll be there,’ promised Igor, turning round for a moment. ‘As long as you remind me nearer the time!’
Igor bought a loaf of Darnitsky rye bread before getting the minibus back to Irpen. On the way home, he kept looking at the printout of the reconstructed tattoo. His imagination was on fire, and even Radio Chanson could not tear his thoughts away from the words and the anchor. He had gone to Kiev with one mystery, and he was coming home with another. Well, it was essentially the same mystery, but knowing more about it only made it more fascinating.
Igor went through the gate and straight round to the back of the house, to the shed. Stepan was inside, sitting on a little stool up against the wall. He was reading a book.
‘What are you reading?’ asked Igor.
‘Just something about the war,’ answered Stepan, getting up.
He closed the book and put it on the stool with the cover facing down, as though he didn’t want Igor to see the title or the name of the author.
‘Well, I’ve managed to decipher your tattoo!’ declared Igor, with childish pride.
‘Have you now?’ the gardener asked in surprise. ‘What does it say, then?’
Igor held out the piece of paper.
‘“Ochakov, 1957, Efim Chagin’s house”,’ Stepan read aloud slowly. Then he froze, his eyes fixed on the words.
Igor stood waiting for the gardener’s reaction.
‘Go on now,’ said Stepan, his voice suddenly cold. ‘I need to be alone for a while, to think about everything.’
‘Such a thinker,’ Igor muttered scornfully, as he turned away. He went into the house. As he left the bag containing the loaf of bread in the kitchen, he glanced at the old set of scales that stood on the windowsill. One pan of the scales held the weights, which ranged from 20g to 2kg. In the other, elevated pan lay the electricity pay book, which was held down with a weight as if to stop it flying away. Not only did his mother use them to weigh out ingredients when she was cooking, even though she was probably more than capable of cutting 100g of butter or scooping out 200g of flour by instinct alone, but she also kept all her paperwork and important documents in the pans. The scales were like her office desk.
Igor poured himself a glass of milk and went into the living room to watch television. There was a detective film on the New Channel. Under normal circumstances Igor would have sat happily and watched it to the end, but today nothing seemed to hold his attention. Nothing, that is, except the enigmatic printout. After sitting in front of the screen for about quarter of an hour, Igor put his shoes on again and went out into the yard. He walked over to the shed and glanced inside, but Stepan wasn’t there. He wasn’t in the garden either, or the vegetable patch.
Igor went into the shed to see if the gardener’s things had disappeared. They hadn’t – his rucksack was hanging on a nail above the bed, and his clothes, folded as though they’d just been ironed, lay neatly next to the woodworking tools on the old wooden shelf unit.
3
THAT NIGHT IGOR went back to the shed, hoping that Stepan would have returned. He still wasn’t there.
Puzzled by the gardener’s disappearance, Igor went to bed. He lay there for a long time, closing his eyes and turning from side to side, but he just couldn’t get to sleep. Something – either excitement after his trip to Kiev, or some vague, niggling anxiety – was keeping his body alert. A couple of times he thought he heard footsteps in he yard. He got up and went to the door to investigate, only to be greeted by silence – the kind of silence that was full of nocturnal noises. Somewhere out there, an aeroplane was flying high up in the dark sky. Somewhere out there, a drunken tramp was bewailing his loneliness. Somewhere out there, a foreign car was racing through Irpen at top speed.
To eliminate all distractions Igor shut the little top window, and eventually sleep overcame him.
In the morning, his lack of sleep was further exacerbated by a mild but persistent headache. He’d always had headaches like this, ever since he was a child. He was used to the pain. Sometimes he barely even noticed it.
‘Are you up yet?’ called his mother from the kitchen. ‘Come and have breakfast.’
Igor ate a fried egg, drank a glass of milk and then made himself a mug of strong tea. While he was drinking it, he noticed the telephone bill in the raised pan of the scales, held down by a weight. With a smile, he took a second weight from the other pan and put it on top of the bill.
‘Can you make Stepan a cup of tea too? And take him some bread and salami,’ said Elena Andreevna.
Igor nodded automatically, then remembered the previous evening.
Maybe he’s back already, he thought. If he is, then he’s bound to appreciate a mug of tea and a sandwich. Hopefully it’ll put him in the mood to talk.
The Darnitsky bread was still perfectly fresh – Elena Andreevna always kept it sealed in a plastic carrier bag. Igor cut two thick slices, spread them thickly with butter and placed a slice of salami on each.
The door to the shed was ajar. Igor couldn’t remember whether or not he’d shut it the night before. He knocked anyway. There was no answer.
Leaving the mug of tea on the doorstep, Igor went inside. Everything was exactly as he’d left it. Stepan clearly hadn’t been back.
Igor picked up the mug again and shut himself inside the shed. His eyes came to rest on the gardener’s rucksack. The only
source of natural light in the shed was a small window to the right of the door, and the strange, unnatural gloom created a rather mysterious atmosphere. Of course, there was nothing to stop Igor flicking the switch and revelling in the brightness of the 100W light bulb that hung from the ceiling. He could have brought the reading lamp over too, as the shed had been fully adapted for the use of power tools and boasted three electrical sockets. The tools themselves lay on the shelves and in two wooden boxes.
But Igor preferred the mysterious atmosphere, perhaps because Stepan himself had disappeared so mysteriously after reading what had been tattooed on his shoulder . . . Or perhaps because, in spite of the gardener’s disappearance, part of the mystery was still here, waiting to be discovered. But where? Could it be in the rucksack?
Igor had been brought up to respect other people’s property, whether it was fixed or movable or even jumped and barked, like their neighbour’s dog Barsik. But he was in the grip of an urgent, insistent curiosity, which would not allow him to take his eyes off the half-empty canvas rucksack. Moreover the rucksack had been left open, its buckles undone.
Eventually Igor lifted the flap and cautiously looked inside, but he couldn’t see anything at all. He switched the light on and looked into the rucksack again. At the bottom of the rucksack lay a box with a picture of an electric razor on it, along with various items of clothing, some socks and a pair of canvas shoes.
Igor paused for a moment to listen to the outside world, then took the cardboard box out of the rucksack and carefully opened it. It did actually contain an old-fashioned razor, complete with instructions and a spare set of rotating blades. Igor turned the razor over in his hands. It seemed odd that Stepan should choose to use such an antique. Then again, Stepan himself was something of an antique, at least in comparison to Igor. Not in any way rare or valuable, but still a relic of the twentieth century. People like him were always hoarders, hanging on to things that were familiar from their childhood.
As he went to put the razor back, Igor noticed something sticking out of the instruction booklet in the bottom of the box. He lifted the instructions up with one finger and took out an envelope, which was also from the previous century. The postmark was clearly visible: 19.12.99.
Suddenly he heard a noise outside in the yard. Panicking at the thought of being caught in the act, Igor thrust the box containing the razor back into the rucksack. Only then did he realise that he was still holding the letter. He hurriedly stuffed it into his trouser pocket, switched the light off and left the shed.
But Igor had no need to worry as Stepan was nowhere to be seen. Igor heard the noise again and realised that it was coming from the yard next door, where their neighbour was attacking an old cherry tree with a chainsaw. He was evidently stocking up on firewood ahead of the winter – for the sauna, not the house. His house, like the one Igor and his mother lived in, was heated by a gas boiler.
Holding the chainsaw away from the trunk of the tree, which was already lying on the ground, the neighbour called out to Igor, ‘How’s it going?’
‘Not bad,’ answered Igor, his voice unusually loud. ‘Everything’s fine!’
‘For now, maybe, but it’s going to start getting colder next week.’ After sharing this piece of information, the neighbour turned his attention back to the job at hand. The chainsaw resumed its high-pitched whining. Igor nodded and hurried into the house.
‘How’s Stepan? He’s not too cold out there, is he?’ asked Elena Andreevna.
‘He’s not there. I don’t know where he is, but I think he’s been gone since yesterday.’
To Igor’s surprise, his mother did not react at all to the news of the gardener’s disappearance. Well, he thought, I suppose he’s left all his things here so he can’t have gone for good. Noticing with relief that his headache had passed, Igor decided to stop worrying about it and made himself another mug of tea.
Elena Andreevna looked into the kitchen a few minutes later, dressed in a smart outfit. ‘When he gets back, ask him to sort through the potatoes again,’ she said. ‘And he can start taking them down to the cellar.’
‘Where are you going?’ asked Igor.
‘To the post office, to pick up my pension, and then to the cobbler’s – it’s time to fix my winter boots.’
The front gate was visible from the kitchen window. Igor watched his mother leave, then took the envelope out of his pocket. Inside was a New Year’s greetings card, which read: ‘Dear Papa, I hope the new millennium brings you happiness and joy! I wish you good health, your Alyona.’
Igor looked in surprise from the card to the envelope. It had been sent by Alyona Sadovnikova, 271 Zelenaya Street, Lviv, and was addressed to Stepan Iosipovich Sadovnikov, 14 Matrosov Street, Brovary, Kiev Region.
Sadovnikov, that means ‘gardener’, he thought, smiling. So, he’s followed his destiny!
Igor sipped his tea and looked out of the window again, at the young apple trees that had been planted in front of the house three years previously. He noticed, possibly for the first time, their yellowing leaves. They were a late-cropping variety, and the rosy-cheeked apples that still hung from their branches would keep well in storage until April.
Torn scraps of wispy cloud were racing across the sky. Rays of sunlight, their warmth and brightness already fading, fell through them and among them to the autumn ground.
Igor felt like going for a walk, but first he copied both addresses from the envelope into a notebook. Then he went to the shed and put the card and the envelope back where he’d found them.
A cool breeze blew into Igor’s face. He walked as far as the bus station, where he brought himself an instant coffee from a kiosk for one hryvna. He moved to the side of the kiosk and stood there, enjoying the way the thin disposable cup burned his fingers. He would have to wait three or four minutes before he could drink it. Igor looked around, watching the cars as they drove past.
A minibus from Kiev pulled up at the station. As the passengers began to get out, Igor suddenly spotted Stepan among them. Stepping down from the minibus, he stopped to light a cigarette. He looked preoccupied, maybe even depressed. When he finished his cigarette, he threw the stub to the ground and crushed it with the toe of his boot, then set off down the street towards their house.
Igor took his time finishing his coffee, then followed the gardener home. On the way he remembered that he had left the bread and salami and the mug of tea in the shed. The tea would be stone cold by now, of course. The bread and salami would be fine, though – unless the mice had eaten it.
About twenty minutes later, holding a fresh mug of tea, Igor knocked on the door of the shed.
‘What are you knocking for?’ Stepan asked in surprise as he opened the door. ‘It’s your house, not mine.’
Nevertheless he was glad of the tea and seemed to enjoy the sandwiches too, smacking his lips with pleasure as he ate.
‘I went to visit an old friend of mine,’ said Stepan. ‘I was going to ask him for money for the trip. I saved his life once, so he owed me one. But he never got the chance to repay me – turns out he’s dead. He moved in with a good woman in Boyarka about ten years ago and she kept him off the drink, which always used to be his weakness, but he died anyway. It was his heart, apparently. I have to get the money somehow . . . I have to go back there.’
‘Go back where?’ asked Igor.
‘To Ochakov, of course! To Chagin’s house. My father was definitely there at some point. Maybe I’ve still got some relatives there, and I can finally found out the full story. I don’t suppose you could lend me a bit of money, could you?’
Igor thought about it. He did have some money, since he’d been saving up for a motorbike. But there was no point buying a motorbike until the spring.
‘Can I come with you?’ he asked.
‘If you like. I’d be glad of the company. What if we find treasure there?’ asked Stepan, smiling. ‘We can split it between us. No, that wouldn’t be fair . . . You’re half my age, so I
’ll give you a third of the treasure!’
A cunning smile played on Stepan’s unshaven face, with its prominent cheekbones.
‘We won’t need much cash,’ he continued. ‘Just the cost of the minibus to Kiev, train tickets to Nikolaev, the minibus to Ochakov, and food and accommodation when we get there.’
‘All right,’ Igor nodded. ‘When are we going?’
‘As soon as possible . . . Tomorrow!’
Igor shook his head. ‘My mother wants you to sort through the potatoes and take them down to the cellar. And you’d better tidy the garden and the vegetable plot up a bit too, otherwise it’ll start to bother her.’
‘That’ll only take a couple of days,’ promised Stepan. ‘And I’ll come back here afterwards, for as long as you’ll have me! At least until the spring.’
‘All right,’ said Igor, looking closely at Stepan. ‘I’ll phone and book the train tickets. But I’ll need to give both our surnames . . .’
‘My surname is Sadovnikov,’ said Stepan.
Igor couldn’t help smiling. He felt childishly triumphant, as though he’d managed to catch someone out. He already knew Stepan’s surname!
‘What’s so funny?’ Stepan asked mildly. ‘Everyone should try and live in accordance with their name. If your surname means cobbler, you should become a shoemaker, and if it’s Sadovnikov, you should become a gardener. That’s all there is to it. What’s your surname?’
‘Vozny.’
‘“Carter”, but you haven’t got a horse or a cart!’ Now it was Stepan’s turn to smile.
‘I’m buying a motorbike in the spring,’ Igor declared earnestly. ‘Or maybe earlier, if we find treasure in Ochakov.’
‘A motorbike? Good for you,’ nodded Stepan. He had suddenly grown serious too, only more genuinely so than Igor.
4
IGOR TOLD HIS mother about the trip to Ochakov three days later, on Friday. Elena Andreevna was in good spirits, either purely by chance or because the house and garden were both looking tidy. She was only mildly surprised to learn of her son’s planned trip to Ochakov with Stepan.
The Gardener from Ochakov Page 2
