The Gardener from Ochakov

by Andrey Kurkov

  ‘What are you going to do there at this time of year?’ she asked. ‘The sea’s too cold for bathing.’

  ‘Stepan used to have family in Ochakov,’ replied Igor. ‘He wants to find their house, to see if anyone’s still living there.’

  ‘When’s the train?’

  ‘Tomorrow night, at seven.’

  ‘Well, tell Stepan that he can join us for dinner this evening. I bought a whole chicken.’

  Stepan’s face had a bluish tinge from shaving just before dinner, and his shoes were freshly polished. He looked quite smart, in spite of his creased trousers and his baggy black sweater.

  Elena Andreevna straightened the yellow tablecloth that covered the round table and set out plates and glasses. She took from the dresser an opened bottle of vodka and a small bottle of home-made wine that their neighbour had given them. Then she went to the kitchen and came back carrying a deep earthenware dish, which contained a roast chicken and braised potatoes. She carved the chicken herself and served it out.

  ‘Please, help yourself,’ she said to Stepan, indicating the vodka with a nod of her head.

  ‘Thanks, but I don’t drink,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Would you prefer wine?’ she asked, looking at him kindly.

  ‘I’m better off not drinking at all,’ said Stepan, a little more loudly this time. ‘I’ve already drunk more than my fair share, as they say. I prefer to keep my mind, body and soul in balance these days.’

  Igor shook his head in astonishment. He sounded just like the Baptist they knew, who lived three houses down.

  Elena Andreevna fetched a large jar full of home-made cherry juice.

  ‘There you go,’ she said, passing it to Stepan.

  Stepan calmly poured some for himself and then turned to Igor. Igor held out his glass. Elena Andreevna decided to treat herself to a glass of home-made wine.

  She wished them an enjoyable meal and began eating, with an occasional surreptitious glance at the men to check that they were indeed enjoying the food.

  ‘Will you be gone for long?’ she asked, after a pause.

  ‘A couple of days,’ Igor shrugged. ‘We’ll call you.’

  Her gaze came to rest on Stepan, who suddenly seemed uncomfortable. He ran his hand awkwardly over his freshly shaven cheeks.

  ‘I’ll make up for it when I get back,’ he said. ‘I mean, if I end up staying a bit longer.’

  ‘Don’t be silly!’ Elena Andreeva waved her hand. ‘I didn’t mean that. I just get a bit bored here on my own.’

  After lunch the following day, Stepan and Igor took the minibus taxi to Kiev. The gardener’s half-empty rucksack lay at his feet. Igor’s bag contained a sweater and a parcel of food that Elena Andreevna had prepared for the journey. Radio Chanson was blaring out of the minibus speakers.

  Igor glanced at Stepan, who was sitting next to the window.

  ‘Where are we going to stay?’ he asked.

  The gardener flinched.

  ‘We’ll find somewhere . . . It won’t be a problem finding a bed for the night. Let’s just concentrate on getting there, for the time being.’

  After drinking a cup of tea in the glass-fronted cafe at the station, they sat for about two hours on a hard bench in the waiting room. Finally there was an announcement to say they could board their train. Stepan threw his rucksack over his shoulder and glanced back at Igor.

  They were the first ones in their compartment.

  I hope we’ll have it to ourselves, thought Igor, shoving his bag under the little table by the window.

  Sadly, Igor’s hopes were dashed just a few minutes later when two business travellers stumbled into their compartment, both of them around forty years old. They asked Igor to stand up and stowed two identical suitcases into the space beneath the bottom bunk. They also had a large carrier bag full of clinking bottles, which they left standing in the middle of the floor.

  ‘Are you guys going all the way to Nikolaev?’ one of them asked.

  Stepan nodded.

  ‘In that case we’ll have no problem passing the time,’ promised the business traveller. ‘We’ve got enough beer to go round, and if it runs out we can get hold of something stronger from the carriage attendant. We’re on first-name terms!’

  Igor noticed Stepan frown and turn to look out of the window. Meanwhile, the business travellers wasted no time emptying the bag of its contents: five bottles of beer, half a litre of Nemirov vodka, a whole salami, a loaf of bread and a small plastic bag full of salted cucumbers. The compartment immediately began to smell like a drinking den.

  ‘Hey, why don’t you go and get some glasses from the carriage attendant’s compartment?’ the second business traveller suggested to Igor.

  ‘He’s not there. He’s checking everyone’s tickets.’

  The second business traveller narrowed his eyes knowingly. ‘Don’t worry, he’s still on the platform – he won’t start checking the tickets until the train leaves.’

  Igor reluctantly went to the staff compartment. The door was open, and there was no one inside. He took four glasses from the shelf.

  ‘There you go, see? And you said he was checking tickets!’ the second business traveller exclaimed happily.

  It suddenly occurred to Igor that the two passengers might be brothers, so alike were they in their ordinariness and lack of distinguishing facial features. Each of them had a moustache, two eyes and ears, a nose and a mouth. And that was it! Their faces were completely generic, as though they had undergone some kind of surgical procedure to remove anything that might be considered worthy of note. Or was it simply the result of back-to-back business trips, chronic sleep deprivation and too much to drink?

  One of the business travellers had already opened a bottle of beer and was pouring it out into the glasses. The movements of his hands were smooth and practised, and his face was frozen in an expression of anticipation.

  ‘Not for me,’ Stepan said curtly, looking up.

  ‘Why, are you ill?’

  ‘Worse.’

  ‘It’s only a glass of beer!’ The business traveller waved his objection away and looked at Igor. ‘What about you?’

  ‘Just a little,’ said Igor. ‘We’ve got to work tomorrow.’

  ‘Really? We’re going dancing!’ The man burst out laughing. ‘This isn’t a holiday for us either, you know. Two days of underwater welding, half a litre each to warm us up, and then back again!’

  Igor was impressed by the phrase ‘underwater welding’. The one with the bottle held his hand out to Igor.

  ‘Vanya,’ he introduced himself. ‘And this is Zhenya,’ he indicated his colleague.

  ‘I’m going for a cigarette,’ said Stepan. He stood up and left the compartment.

  The train began to move. Zhenya poured a shot of vodka into his colleague’s beer and his own, then indicated that Igor should do likewise. Igor declined.

  The carriage attendant looked into their compartment and asked for their tickets, greeting the business travellers as though they were old friends.

  ‘Just do me a favour, OK? No singing tonight,’ he remarked amiably on his way out.

  When Igor finished his glass of beer, he decided to go and look for Stepan. He found him standing in the covered section between their carriage and the next one.

  ‘Surely it wouldn’t have hurt you to wet your lips, just to be polite,’ he said.

  ‘If I were to so much as wet my lips, as you put it, then no one in the carriage would get any sleep,’ smiled Stepan. ‘No, I’m happy sticking with tea.’

  ‘What’s going to happen if we find some of your relatives in Ochakov?’ asked Igor. ‘Do you think you might move there and live with them? Or will you stay with us?’ He immediately felt embarrassed by the question.

  ‘Who knows?’ Stepan shrugged. ‘Well, let’s say I do find someone . . . But why would they want anything to do with me? I haven’t got any money, and I’m not legally registered anywhere. I’m not looking for help or friendship, o
r anything really. I learned to stand on my own two feet a long time ago. We can just introduce ourselves, and that’ll be it. At least I’ll know that my daughter and I aren’t alone in the world. But I doubt I’ll discover any relatives there . . . You don’t need a tattoo to help you find your family. No, it must be to do with something else.’

  To their surprise, when they returned to the compartment all the bottles on the table were empty and the business travellers were already lying on the top bunks.

  ‘Help yourselves to pickles! There are still a few left,’ one of them said.

  A row of minibuses stood on the square in front of the train station in Nikolaev, with the names of their final destinations displayed inside their windscreens. Igor immediately noticed that one of them said ‘Ochakov’.

  ‘What time are you leaving?’ Igor asked the driver, who was noisily cracking sunflower seeds with his teeth.

  ‘When we’re full,’ he answered.

  When they arrived in Ochakov, the sun was shining with all its might over the town. The grey Khrushchev apartment blocks near the unremarkable two-storey, glass-panelled bus station were illuminated in its rays, along with three kiosks and several old women selling apples on the pavement.

  Stepan looked around then made straight for the old women. Igor hurried after him.

  ‘How much for your apples?’ Stepan asked one of them.

  ‘Two hryvnas a kilo,’ she answered. ‘But I’ll let you have them for one and a half.’

  ‘Would you happen to know where we could find a place to stay for a couple of nights? Somewhere with reasonable rates . . .’

  Stepan’s abrupt change of subject didn’t seem to surprise the old woman.

  ‘Why have you come so late in the season?’ she asked, spreading her hands in a gesture of commiseration. ‘The only people in the sea these days are drunks and children.’

  ‘We’re ice swimmers.’ The gardener smiled. ‘No, we haven’t come to swim – we’re here to see the town.’

  ‘There’s nothing here to see!’ remarked the old woman. ‘Mind you, the church isn’t bad . . . and there’s an art museum somewhere in the centre. That’s worth a visit, so I’m told . . .’

  ‘We’ll certainly add it to our itinerary,’ nodded Stepan. ‘But first, we need to find a place to stay.’

  The old woman looked them up and down.

  ‘I’ve got a room . . . But I won’t let it out for less than ten hryvnas a day. And that’s without food, of course.’

  ‘Fine, we’ll take it,’ said the gardener, giving the impression that he was agreeing reluctantly to her terms.

  ‘Masha, can you sell mine for me?’ she asked, turning to her neighbour in the makeshift roadside market. ‘I’ll be right back.’

  Her neighbour nodded.

  Leaving the bus station and the Khrushchev blocks, they followed the old woman past a succession of detached houses.

  ‘Where are you from?’ she asked as they walked.

  ‘The capital,’ replied Stepan.

  They soon turned into the yard of an old brick house. Igor headed straight for the steps leading to the front door.

  ‘Hey, not that way!’ the old woman called from behind them. She led her guests round to the back of the house, where they saw two brick outbuildings. She removed the padlock from the door of one of the buildings and gave it to Stepan, along with the key; then she opened the door and showed them inside. The room contained two iron beds, which had been made up neatly. A little table and two chairs stood by the small window, and there was a wooden shelf unit against the wall, which was identical to the one in the shed behind Igor’s house.

  ‘Well, make yourselves at home,’ she said. ‘I’m going back to finish selling the rest of my apples.’

  She looked at them on her way out.

  ‘Would you mind paying me in advance?’

  Igor held out twenty hryvnas.

  ‘That’s for two nights. If we stay longer, we’ll pay you more.’

  After Stepan had smoked a cigarette, he and Igor went out to have a look round the town. The road they were walking along seemed to go on for ever.

  ‘I thought Ochakov was smaller than Irpen,’ Igor sighed.

  ‘It doesn’t matter which is bigger or smaller – they’re both the kind of town where everyone knows everyone else,’ Stepan declared confidently. ‘Which is not necessarily a good thing. People can immediately spot an outsider.’

  Their landlady’s name was Anastasia Ivanovna. That evening she knocked on the window of their room and invited them into the house for dinner.

  Anastasia Ivanovna’s house smelt of old clothes. It was a smell that Igor recognised from his childhood. His grandmother in the country had kept an old trunk full of dresses, coats and scarves, and whenever Igor looked inside he had been hit by the same peculiar, musty smell. It wasn’t an unbearable smell, or even particularly unpleasant – it was almost sweet, and something about it reminded him of fallen autumn leaves.

  Anastasia Ivanovna fed her guests braised cabbage with mushrooms. She didn’t offer them anything stronger to drink than tea, which she poured straight away from a large glazed teapot.

  ‘Have you lived here long?’ Stepan asked her.

  ‘Born and bred here, I was,’ said their landlady.

  Stepan’s eyes lit up.

  ‘You haven’t by any chance heard of Efim Chagin, have you?’ he asked in a clear, dry voice.

  ‘Fima Chagin?’ she exclaimed. ‘Of course I’ve heard of him! Half the town used to know Fima Chagin!’

  A dreamy smile appeared on her face.

  ‘Fima was handsome, he was, and smart. All the girls had an eye for him. Such a shame he was killed . . .’

  ‘How was he killed? When?’ asked Igor, unable to contain himself.

  Their landlady thought about it for a moment.

  ‘It must have been during Khrushchev’s time . . . Yes, that’s right. Just after Khrushchev sent Gagarin up into space. Or was it before that? After the satellite he sent up . . . I remember, everyone was whispering about space at the funeral.’

  ‘And the house he used to live in . . .’ Stepan began cautiously. ‘Is it still there?’

  ‘Of course,’ nodded Anastasia Ivanovna. ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

  Stepan looked at Igor. His eyes burned with excitement, and his lips spread in a barely perceptible smile.

  5

  IGOR DIDN’T SLEEP very well that night. The iron bedstead creaked every time he turned over and kept waking him up. Fortunately it didn’t disturb Stepan, who lay fast asleep and snoring in the other bed.

  Eventually Igor opened his eyes, rolled over onto his back and lay there staring up at the low ceiling, which was barely visible in the darkness. He thought about the evening they’d spent with their landlady. He remembered the way she’d broken into an almost girlish smile when she’d been talking about Fima Chagin. It had looked so strange on her wrinkled old face. Later on she’d let slip that she herself had been in love with Fima, as had many of the other girls in Ochakov. Apparently Fima Chagin had been a striking individual – tall and thin, with a prominent Adam’s apple and a sharp nose. He had just turned up in Ochakov one day, after the war. His grandmother lived in a big house, and when she was suddenly taken ill his parents had sent him from Kakhovka to live with her, so that when she died the house would stay in the family. According to their landlady, the grandmother recovered and shared her house with her grandson for the next ten years. They got on well, and their life together was certainly never dull. When Fima first arrived he had sought out the local troublemakers and picked fights, in an attempt to prove himself. He soon earned their respect and they began to consider him one of their own, as though he’d lived in Ochakov all his life. He went fishing with the other lads or down to the port to steal things, taking anchors from boats that belonged to outsiders and selling them at the market. Every now and then he was caught, but he would simply break free and run away. And he kept on running un
til the divisional inspector got him locked up for two years.

  When Fima came out he seemed much older, more aloof. He had stopped running. From that point on he walked slowly, with authority. People came to visit him from all kinds of far-flung places – from Taganrog, from Rostov, from Odessa. Sometimes they would stay at his house for several weeks and then simply disappear, but others came in their place, all of them thin and wiry. He grew rich. The divisional inspector would greet him in the street, turning a blind eye to it all. This went on for five or six years, maybe even longer, until one day he was found stabbed in his own home.

  Igor thought of the flame that had burned in the old woman’s eyes when she told them about Fima Chagin’s murder. Fima had been found, she said, lying on his back in the middle of his living-room floor, a knife sticking out of his chest. Near his body they’d found two bundles of roubles and a note that read: ‘For a proper send-off’.

  The old woman had promised to show them the house the following day.

  Igor eventually dozed off just before morning, but in no time at all the birds began chirping and squawking right in his ear, or so it seemed, and his eyes snapped open. Stepan had opened the window, letting in the sounds of the clamorous autumn morning that was coming to life in the warmth of the rising sun.

  Greeting him with a nod, Stepan went out into the yard wearing just his underwear. From the yard came the sounds of a bucket being lifted and water being poured from the well. Then the gardener made a loud spluttering sound and ran straight back inside, wet to the waist.

  After shaving, Stepan went out into the yard again. He returned immediately holding two large apples, one of which he threw to Igor.

  ‘Breakfast!’ he announced, taking a bite out of his own apple.

  About quarter of an hour later the familiar voice of their landlady called to them from the yard. She hadn’t asked for their passports the previous day, or even their names. So when she knocked on the window, she just called, ‘Gentlemen!’

  The ‘gentlemen’ left their room. Stepan secured the padlock and checked it twice.