The Gardener from Ochakov

by Andrey Kurkov

  Igor glanced at the wet window. He didn’t feel like setting foot out of the house, let alone travelling to Kiev, but he couldn’t exactly say that to his best friend without offend-ing him. It was already too late to try and get out of it by pleading a cold or an upset stomach. If he’d wanted it to sound plausible, he should have said it right at the start of the conversation.

  ‘OK, I’ll think of something. I’m drinking a brandy in your honour as we speak,’ said Igor. ‘Any specific requests, as far as presents are concerned?’

  ‘Presents? Oh, you know me – I’ll be happy with anything. Apart from flowers. I can’t stand cut flowers. It’s like watching your money wilt. No, I’d prefer hard cash!’

  ‘Do you take roubles?’

  ‘Roubles, dollars, it’s all the same to me!’

  Igor smiled, thinking about the Soviet roubles in the suitcase.

  ‘Fine, roubles it is then! See you later!’

  8

  IGOR’S HEAD WAS buzzing slightly from the brandy. He stood looking at the police uniform, which he’d laid out on his bed. The leather boots stood on the floor, shiny and proud. Nearby, on the bedside table, lay the bundles of Soviet hundred-rouble notes. They were held together with bands of paper.

  I could take it with me and get changed there, thought Igor. He gave a sigh, then waved his doubts away. Oh, what the hell! I can put my anorak over the top. It’s dark outside anyway, no one will be able to see.

  Igor pulled on the boots, realising immediately that they were at least a size too big. He found some thick woollen socks, put them on over the thin pair he was already wearing and tried the boots on again. Now they seemed to fit.

  ‘OK,’ he nodded decisively. ‘I’m a retro police officer for the evening. And I’ll pay for everything with retro money!’

  Igor put on the tight-fitting breeches and the tunic. He tightened the belt around his waist and went over to the mirror, leaving the gun and its holster on the bed. A smile crept over his face. He liked what he saw.

  ‘Nice one,’ he murmured. ‘The girls are going to love it!’

  Taking the gun out of the holster, he turned it over in his hands as he contemplated taking it with him. Common sense penetrated the brandy fog.

  He stuck the gun under his mattress and closed the empty holster, then picked up the gold watch and put it in the left-hand pocket of the breeches. He would show it off in front of the birthday boy, if he got the chance. He looked out of the window. It was no longer raining. He went out into the hallway, trying to make as little noise as possible. His mother was watching television in the living room.

  Looking down at his feet in order to avoid the puddles, Igor walked out of the gate and headed towards the bus station. As he walked he ran his hands over the pockets of the breeches, enjoying the way they bulged with the bundles of roubles. If only they were full of hryvnas, or – even better – dollars! The evening seemed darker than usual. Igor looked up at the heavy sky. Never mind, he thought, the party at the Petrovich club should be fun. He just had to make sure he didn’t miss the last train home, as the shared minibuses could be pretty unreliable late at night.

  The darkness seemed to wrap itself around Igor for a few seconds. It seemed strangely impenetrable. Either that or something was wrong with his eyes. In this ‘dark’ moment Igor suddenly remembered that his uncle had died from drinking fake brandy. First he went blind and started crying out, ‘I can’t see anything!’ Then he stopped speaking altogether, lay down on the sofa and died. Or so Igor had been told – he hadn’t witnessed it first hand, of course. But ever since then he’d checked the smell of opened bottles of brandy before drinking from them.

  Igor was still able to feel the hard surface of the road with every step, so he brushed off his alarm and kept walking. Suddenly the darkness released him, and he saw lights in the distance. He looked around, trying to work out whether his eyes were playing tricks on him or whether the street lamps had simply gone out. It happened sometimes. You could be sitting watching television at home, when suddenly – snap! Complete darkness. Sometimes it lasted for five minutes, sometimes several hours.

  Behind him was a solid wall of darkness. Nothing was visible except the lights up ahead. Must be a power cut, thought Igor. He nodded decisively and carried on walking.

  Igor suddenly felt a little wave of pleasure as he thought about the boots. They were so comfortable! They’d been at least a size too big when he’d first tried them on, but now they felt as though they’d been made to measure by a master cobbler. His delight abruptly changed to suspicion. He stopped and looked down at the boots but found that he could hardly even see them. He cleared his throat and quickened his pace, hoping to reach the lights more quickly.

  I should have reached the bus station by now, and that’s always brightly lit, thought Igor. It’s surrounded by kiosks too, and what about that little bar? He peered into the distance, feeling increasingly anxious. The lights weren’t where he expected them to be.

  Igor started to feel hot, either from anxiety or from the strange feeling of disorientation, and he broke into a nervous sweat. He took his anorak off and threw it over his shoulder, hooking his finger into the loop inside the collar.

  ‘Hey, lieutenant! What’s the hurry?’ a woman’s voice suddenly called from behind him. ‘Have you got the right time?’

  Igor stopped and glanced over his shoulder. He couldn’t see anything.

  ‘No,’ he said warily, peering into the darkness. ‘I’ve got a watch, but it’s not working.’

  ‘Lucky you!’ The woman’s voice contained the hint of a threat.

  ‘Manka, you idiot! Are you blind? He’s a policeman, not a soldier!’ Her male companion’s voice was an urgent whisper. ‘Come on, let’s go! Hurry up!’

  Igor heard footsteps hurriedly receding. Now he was scared. He started walking towards the lights again, as fast as he could. He reached them eventually and came to a halt in front of some well-lit gates, behind which he could see grey factory buildings.

  ‘“Ochakov Wine Factory”,’ Igor read aloud and looked around.

  Something stirred in his pocket, and the sensation unnerved him. He put his hand in and felt the golden watch. Its heart had started beating. Surprised, Igor took the watch out, and when he brought it to his ear he heard a loud ticking sound.

  What the hell’s going on? he thought. How can a watch suddenly start working, just like that? And what’s this Ochakov Wine Factory doing here in Irpen? Maybe they’ve just built it, I guess. That’s what it’s like these days . . . new buildings are going up as fast as old ones are coming down.

  He suddenly heard a familiar tune from behind the fence, followed by a man’s voice. ‘The time is midnight in Moscow.’

  Igor shook his head and frowned. He opened the watch’s protective gold cover. Both hands were pointing straight to twelve.

  Suddenly he heard a door slam, followed by the sound of footsteps behind the gates. Igor quickly darted to one side, just as a small lorry with a covered wagon drove out of the gates. It was an old model, the kind Igor had only ever seen in films set in the past. The lorry drove out onto the square, turned right and slowly drove away, its headlights illuminating the road ahead. The gates closed after it, and then everything was silent once again.

  Igor looked around. The lorry had disappeared into the night. Igor’s eyes were drawn back to the factory entrance, now the only source of light, and beyond them to the roof of the security guard’s booth and the grey factory walls.

  Igor contemplated knocking and asking the security guard where he was, but before he had the chance one of the gates swung ajar. Igor heard an urgent whisper, and then a head poked out of the gap between the gates. It paused, apparently listening.

  ‘Go on, get a move on!’ urged a man’s voice from behind the gates. It was loud enough to reach Igor, who had retreated back into the darkness.

  A young lad emerged, with a strange bulky sack thrown over his shoulder. He looked around, w
aved back at the security guard and took several awkward steps away from the gates. Then he stopped and adjusted the sack. The gates closed again behind him, and there was a heavy metallic sound as the guard drew the bolt.

  Igor emerged from the darkness and walked briskly towards the lad, intending to ask for directions to the bus station.

  Seeing a policeman striding purposefully towards him, the lad threw the sack to the ground and froze. The sack barely made a sound as it hit the ground but lay there shuddering, as though it were alive. It seemed to be made of leather.

  ‘I . . . uh, it’s the first time I . . .’ began the lad, stammering in fright. ‘Please don’t . . . It’ll kill my mother if she finds out! She’s got a weak heart . . . My father fought in the war, came back a cripple . . . died a year later . . .’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’ asked Igor, astonished. The lad’s incomprehensible fear had immediately put him in control of the situation.

  ‘The wine,’ the lad whimpered hopelessly. He looked down at the leather wineskin.

  ‘How far is it to the bus station?’

  The lad stopped snivelling and looked up at the man in the police uniform, not quite understanding the question.

  ‘About twenty minutes’ walk,’ he said, his voice a little steadier.

  ‘What’s in there?’ Igor prodded the leather sack with the toe of his boot. It yielded easily to the pressure and then quickly regained its strange form the moment he removed his foot.

  ‘I told you, it’s wine . . . It’s the first time . . . It’s Rkatsiteli . . . I’ve never done it before . . . Don’t arrest me!’

  Igor suddenly understood the reason for the lad’s alarm, and the reason he was acting so guilty. He smiled.

  Noticing the smirk on Igor’s face, the lad grew nervous.

  ‘I’ll take it straight back!’ he said, looking pointedly at the sack.

  ‘Hang on, let’s not be too hasty,’ replied Igor, trying to imitate the wine thief’s peculiar intonation. The lad didn’t sound like a local. ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘From Ochakov. I grew up here. My mother works at the market and I work here, at the wine factory.’

  ‘From here? From Ochakov?’ repeated Igor, puzzled. ‘Hmm, there’s something funny about all this.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ the lad asked cautiously.

  ‘It’s just that . . .’ said Igor, looking around. ‘It’s a bit dark, isn’t it? How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-one. My name’s Ivan Samokhin. My patronymic is Vasilievich.’

  ‘When were you born, Ivan Vasilievich Samokhin?’ Igor began to speak more slowly, carefully enunciating every word. He noticed that his own intonation sounded a bit different too.

  ‘The eighth of May . . . 1936. It’s a pity I wasn’t born a day later, then my birthday would have been on Victory Day.’

  Igor thought about it. But it couldn’t be 1957 – that was ridiculous! Igor looked at the wine thief, then at the sack of wine.

  ‘How come you drink so much?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s not for me! I used to be really good at sport . . . I even represented our region in cross-country running. No, it’s to sell at the market,’ said the lad. Then he stopped abruptly, beating his right temple with his fist in frustration at his own indiscretion.

  ‘I see,’ said Igor, beginning to nod.

  ‘How long will I get?’ whispered the lad. ‘Ten years in prison? Or more?’

  ‘What date is it today?’ asked Igor, ignoring the wine thief’s question.

  ‘The third of October.’

  ‘Come on then,’ said Igor, as though he’d had an idea. He pointed to the wineskin. ‘Pick that up, and let’s go.’

  Vanya Samokhin picked up the leather sack and threw it over his shoulder. He looked back at the policeman. ‘Where are we going?’ he asked, apparently resigned to his fate.

  ‘To the bus station!’ Igor motioned with his hand to indicate that the lad should walk in front, as though he really had been arrested.

  Vanya Samokhin walked slowly. His burden was heavy and awkward. It would have been different if the wine had been his, but it wasn’t any more. He wanted to stop and look back at the policeman, to appeal once more for mercy, and to offer him the sack of wine for his kindness. Unfortunately this particular lieutenant was clearly a man of integrity. Neither his eyes nor his voice gave any indication that it would be worth even trying to negotiate with him.

  They walked along in the darkness for about five minutes. The silence was broken only by the soles of their boots against the cobbles. Suddenly Vanya Samokhin stopped.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ The policeman’s voice struck him in the back.

  ‘I’m worn out.’

  ‘Is it much further?’

  ‘About ten minutes.’

  ‘All right, have a little rest,’ said Igor, his voice somehow softer, more human. Vanya Samokhin immediately felt a spark of hope. This was the first time the policeman had spoken as though he weren’t wearing a uniform.

  Vanya Samokhin carefully lowered the sack of wine to the ground, then straightened up and took a few deep breaths.

  ‘Is it all right if I smoke?’ he asked.

  ‘Go ahead,’ replied Igor.

  ‘Er, I haven’t got any cigarettes,’ admitted Vanya Samokhin.

  Igor took out a packet of cigarettes, opened it and offered him one.

  ‘I don’t recognise these,’ said Vanya Samokhin, unable to hide his surprise. ‘You’re not from round here, are you?’

  ‘No.’ Igor shook his head.

  ‘So where are you from?’

  ‘Kiev.’

  ‘The capital!’ exclaimed the lad, fear returning to his voice. ‘Did they send you here to investigate the wine factory?’

  ‘Why, are things really that bad?’ Igor’s lips curled into a half-smile. ‘Have you and your friends cleaned the place out?’

  ‘No! Well, sort of . . . But the management aren’t involved!’

  ‘No, I’m not here to investigate the wine factory,’ said Igor, deciding to play along with the conversation. ‘I’m here for a completely different reason.’

  ‘A completely different reason?’ repeated Vanya Samokhin, inhaling the smoke from his cigarette. ‘Because of the gangs?’

  ‘Exactly,’ nodded Igor, looking straight into the lad’s eyes.

  ‘Yeah, they’re everywhere these days. Are you after Chagin?’

  Igor flinched involuntarily at the sound of the familiar surname. This made Vanya flinch too, as though the policeman’s reaction had alarmed him: had Fima Chagin’s reputation grown to such an extent that even policemen from the capital were afraid of him?

  ‘Why, do you know him?’ asked Igor.

  ‘Everyone knows him! Well, I’ve seen him around, but I don’t actually know him. Why would I? I’m an upstanding citizen!’

  Igor started laughing, quietly but with genuine amusement. His shoulders shook as he pointed at the sack of wine.

  ‘But I’m not a real thief . . . I’d never kill anyone,’ whined Samokhin. ‘This is the first time I’ve ever taken something that doesn’t belong to me!’

  ‘I somehow doubt that.’ Igor’s voice sounded colder now. It had put the police uniform back on again, and even Igor could hear the difference. ‘Your mother works at the market . . . I catch you taking wine from the wine factory . . . Tell me, what does your mother sell?’

  Vanya Samokhin seemed to choke on his answer and started hiccuping. The cigarette fell from his mouth and hit the ground, sending a shower of sparks across the road. Vanya bent down and picked it up. Still hiccuping, he wiped the end with his fingers and put it back in his mouth.

  ‘Let me see . . . Does she, by any chance, sell wine?’ Igor asked with a smile.

  ‘Yes,’ nodded the lad. ‘We make our own. Our whole yard is covered in vines.’

  ‘You make some, and you take some,’ Igor remarked laconically. He noticed that Vanya Samokhin’s eyes wer
e darting from side to side, as though he’d decided to make a run for it and was trying to decide on his escape route.

  ‘Pick up the wine!’ ordered Igor.

  Vanya Samokhin’s eyes immediately stopped darting about. With a heavy sigh he picked up the sack of wine and heaved it onto his shoulder. He looked back at Igor.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Igor. ‘I’m not going to arrest you.’

  The lad’s mouth fell open, and the unfinished cigarette fell out of his mouth again. This time Vanya made no move to pick it up. He just stared at Igor.

  ‘You’ll have to write a declaration, though, and I’ll expect you to help me with some information. Shall we shake on it?’

  Vanya bit his dry lips and paused before answering.

  ‘You’re an upstanding citizen, aren’t you? You just said so! Well, upstanding citizens help the police with their inquiries.’

  Vanya nodded.

  ‘Like I said, I’m here for a specific reason,’ continued Igor, entering into the spirit of his performance. ‘I’m not interested in your petty crime,’ he said, nodding at the sack. ‘Take it home and give it to your mother.’

  ‘So what are you interested in, comrade lieutenant?’ Vanya Samokhin asked, warily but at the same time rather obsequiously.

  ‘Chagin and his gang . . . Actually, mainly his gang.’

  Vanya nodded again. ‘I’ll do whatever I can to help.’

  ‘Good. Can I spend the night at your place?’

  ‘I thought you were going to the bus station.’

  ‘There aren’t any buses at this time of night, are there?’ asked Igor, with a barely perceptible smile.

  ‘No,’ answered Vanya, flustered.

  ‘So what would be the point of going to the bus station? Can I spend the night at your place?’

  ‘Of course! In that case . . .’

  Vanya set off again, leaving his sentence unfinished. He walked with renewed vigour and seemed to carry his stolen burden with greater ease. Igor fell into step a few paces behind him, as though subconsciously keeping a safe distance. They entered the sleeping town unnoticed and unobserved. Fences appeared along the sides of the road, and behind them detached houses made dark silhouettes against the grey sky. Ochakov was fast asleep. Lights flashed somewhere in the distance, but the windows of the houses were dark. About fifteen minutes later they turned into a courtyard that was overgrown with vines. Vanya took the sack of wine into the shed, then cautiously opened the door to the house and let Igor in.