The Gardener from Ochakov

by Andrey Kurkov

  ‘Only the bosses?’ The seller’s voice was playful, teasing. She seemed to have forgotten all about the fish.

  ‘What’s your name? It wouldn’t by any chance be Valya, would it?’

  ‘Why “by any chance”? Cats are named by chance, not people! So, five Black Sea flounder, was it?’ she asked briskly. Her face had lost its light-hearted look.

  Igor nodded. The seller wrapped the fish in newspaper and took the note from Igor’s hand.

  ‘I’ll be right back,’ she said.

  Igor watched her walk to a neighbouring stall. He saw her friends change the money for her and listened to her laughter. When she came back she put some coins and a pile of notes into Igor’s hand, placing two ten-rouble notes on top.

  ‘If you enjoy them, come back for more!’ she said. Her eyes were already over Igor’s shoulder, looking for new customers.

  ‘Would you like to go for a coffee?’ Igor asked cautiously. Her green eyes immediately looked back at him, wide with surprise.

  ‘Go where? What do you mean, for a coffee?’

  ‘Or tea, or cocoa,’ stammered Igor, growing flustered. He could feel his cheeks burning in the heat radiating from her eyes. ‘Or champagne?’

  ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, temporarily nonplussed. ‘Why?’

  Igor spread his hands helplessly.

  ‘So we can talk . . . Get to know one another . . .’

  ‘Is this part of your job?’ she asked warily.

  Igor shook his head. ‘No! I’m . . . new here, in Ochakov . . . I don’t know anyone.’

  ‘Where do you usually work?’

  ‘In Kiev, mainly. I’m here on business.’

  ‘Well, people don’t go for coffee round here,’ she smiled. ‘Or cocoa. And as for champagne – you have to go to a restaurant for that, and I don’t go to restaurants.’

  ‘All right then. Never mind,’ replied Igor, desperately wishing that the ground would open up and swallow him. ‘Goodbye . . . and thanks for the fish!’

  ‘I’ll pass your thanks on to my husband. Come again!’

  Igor made for the exit, feeling a surge of awkward emotion. He felt as though he’d behaved inappropriately. Was it the feisty redhead who had made him feel so unsettled? He walked quickly and restlessly, full of pent-up energy, as though he were trying to get away as fast as he could without breaking into a run, but he let his feet lead him back to the street where Vanya Samokhin lived. Igor recognised certain familiar landmarks on the way – a particular house, a dark blue fence, the ‘Fashion Studio No. 2’ sign affixed to the cracked plaster of an imposing building that extended right out onto the pavement, while the other buildings stood modestly back from the street, behind fences and front gardens where traces of green still remained.

  When he spotted Igor lingering by the gate, Vanya went out onto the front porch and beckoned him inside.

  ‘I thought you’d get lost,’ he said, closing the front door behind Igor. ‘What have you got there?’ he asked, nodding at the newspaper parcel.

  ‘I bought some fish,’ said Igor. ‘Can I put it in the fridge?’

  ‘We don’t have a fridge,’ grinned the lad. ‘This isn’t a meat-processing factory! I can take it down to the cellar, if you like?’

  ‘No, don’t worry about it,’ Igor replied. He looked pensively at Vanya. ‘Is your mother here?’

  ‘Why would she be here? She’s still at the market.’

  ‘In that case, I’m going to lie down for a bit,’ said Igor. ‘But first, we need to have a little chat. Can you put the kettle on?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you prefer wine?’

  ‘I thought you had to go to work this afternoon.’

  ‘The whole factory smells of wine. They never smell it on us!’

  ‘All right then, why not?’ agreed Igor. ‘After all, you usually drink it before you go to bed, don’t you?’

  They sat down together in the little kitchen. Igor took a hundred-rouble note from the bundle in his right-hand pocket. He laid it on the table between them. Glancing at Lenin’s portrait on the banknote, Vanya immediately tensed up.

  ‘Do you have a camera?’ asked Igor.

  ‘Why would I have a camera?’ Vanya shrugged. ‘I’m not a photographer.’

  ‘How much do cameras cost in Ochakov?’

  ‘Same as where you’re from, I expect.’ Vanya scratched his forehead with the fingers of his right hand. ‘They’re not cheap. Maybe five hundred, maybe a thousand . . . I don’t know.’

  ‘Do you know how to use one?’

  ‘I can learn, if you want me to. It’s not complicated, is it? You just have to focus, then press a button. My friend showed me once.’

  Igor took ten more notes from the bundle in his pocket and placed them on the table.

  ‘There, use that to buy a camera and a film.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘Then, when you’ve got some free time, find yourself somewhere to hide near Chagin’s house and photograph all the people who come and go. I’ll pay you for every photograph. Understood?’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘If the person’s face is visible, then . . . twenty roubles.’ Igor paused, checking Vanya’s reaction to his proposal. Vanya was nodding gravely, indicating his acceptance of the terms. ‘And if not, then nothing. I need faces.’

  ‘I could take a picture of you and Red Valya, if you like?’

  ‘Good idea,’ agreed Igor. ‘Get one of her husband too!’

  ‘Why do you want one of him? That would just be a waste of film.’ Vanya gave a condescending smirk.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, he’s just a fisherman. Belarussian Petka calls him an “old rag”. He’s not a real man. He’s always ill, never drinks—’

  ‘I see,’ Igor interrupted his garrulous host. ‘Well, to your good health!’ He raised his glass, which Vanya had filled generously with wine.

  They drank.

  Igor stood up. ‘Right, I’m going to bed,’ he announced.

  ‘You won’t be here when I get back, will you?’

  ‘No, I’ll be gone by then,’ Igor confirmed. ‘But I’ll be back in a couple of days. What’s your mother’s name? Just in case?’

  ‘Aleksandra Marinovna.’

  Igor left the kitchen and went into living room, where he put the parcel of fish on the floor next to the bed and began to undress. He folded the uniform neatly and put it on the stool, placed the belt with the holster and the peaked cap on top of it, and lay down under the quilted blanket. He still had the trace of a sour taste in his mouth from the local wine. He saw an image of Red Valya, her green eyes ablaze. Her voice rang in his ears. Unable to find a way out, the warmth of Igor’s body began to accumulate under the heavy blanket. Once his energies were restored he would emerge like a butterfly, full of life, ready to make the most of the new day.

  12

  ‘WHY ARE YOU still in bed?’ cried Elena Andreevna, standing over her son. ‘You’ll suffocate in your sleep one of these days!’ She pulled back the blanket that was covering Igor’s head. ‘It’s nearly half past twelve!’

  Igor raised his head and looked at his mother.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ she asked in surprise. ‘Were you drinking yesterday?’

  He could feel the sour taste of the Ochakov wine in his mouth and there was a rocking, swaying sensation inside his head, which was preventing him from thinking clearly. Igor lay back down on the pillow. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed the newspaper parcel on the floor by his bed.

  ‘Take that,’ he mumbled, pointing at the parcel. ‘We can have it for lunch.’

  ‘I’m cooking buckwheat for lunch,’ said Elena Andreevna, but she picked up the parcel and sniffed it.

  ‘Why didn’t you put it in the fridge? It’s fish, isn’t it?’

  Igor nodded. ‘I was too tired,’ he admitted in a slightly hoarse voice.

  ‘All right, you stay in bed,’ his mother said graciously. ‘I’ll call you
when it’s ready. What’s that doing there?’ Elena Andreevna’s eyes had come to rest on the peaked cap and the neatly folded police uniform. ‘Have you got a job as a security guard?’

  ‘No, I just wore it for a laugh.’ Igor waved his hand dismissively. ‘Kolyan had a retro birthday party.’

  This explanation seemed to satisfy Elena Andreevna’s curiosity. She left the room, taking the parcel of fish with her.

  As soon as he was alone again, Igor got out of bed. First he hid the police uniform in his wardrobe, then he put on a tracksuit and a pair of fur-lined leather slippers. They were soft and comfortable, and this pleasant sensation spread from the soles of his feet throughout his entire body; even his head started to feel better. Everything was back to normal. Apart from the taste in his mouth.

  Igor spent a full five minutes cleaning his teeth. He brushed them with a hard toothbrush and thought about the tooth powder he’d used at Vanya Samokhin’s house.

  Should I tell Stepan about everything? wondered Igor, glancing at himself in the mirror above the sink as he listened to the flow of water. He decided Stepan would never believe him. Unless he could prove it . . .

  His face broke into a smile. He felt rather pleased with himself.

  ‘Lunch is ready,’ his mother called from the kitchen.

  As soon as Elena Andreevna tasted the fried fish, her face softened.

  ‘Oh my goodness, that’s incredible! Just a minute, I’ll be right back,’ she cried, jumping up from the table.

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked Igor in surprise.

  ‘I’m just going next door to fetch Olga. It’s so delicious! Just like it used to taste when I was a little girl!’ Muttering to herself, she hurried out into the hallway. Igor shrugged as he heard the front door slam. He put some butter on his buckwheat, then wrapped a crispy piece of fish skin around his fork and put it into his mouth.

  She’s right, he thought. It is pretty good. But it’s hardly worth running off like that!

  His mother returned with their neighbour Olga about three minutes later and immediately started bustling about, placing another plate and fork on the table. She spooned some buckwheat onto Olga’s plate and placed a fried flounder next to it.

  Olga tried the fish first, and her face froze in an expression of deep concentration. Or rather, most of her face froze. Her lips were moving slowly, indicating the focus of her attention. Olga swallowed her mouthful and nodded.

  ‘Where did you buy this fish? At the market?’ she asked. ‘Was it still alive?’

  ‘No, but it was freshly caught,’ explained Igor.

  ‘How can it have been freshly caught? It’s a sea fish, it would need to be transported.’ Olga beamed at him. ‘They must have seen you coming! It’s obviously been frozen.’

  ‘What about the flavour?’ asked Elena Andreevna, mildly disgruntled. ‘What do you think of the flavour?

  Olga shrugged. ‘They’ve probably added something to it. They put all sorts in food these days. Chemicals, MSG . . . They can make it taste like something else altogether!’

  Elena Andreevna sighed heavily and put her fork down on the table. Igor glared at their neighbour.

  ‘Please forgive Mama for bothering you. I’m sure you were busy before she came round and interrupted you, and for something so trivial too . . . Why don’t you go back to what you were doing?’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. I’m here now, aren’t I?’ Olga waved Igor’s concerns away, oblivious to the sarcasm in his voice. Unable to hide her enthusiasm, she turned her attention back to the food.

  Igor finished his fish and helped himself to another from the frying pan in the centre of the kitchen table.

  His mother picked up her fork, but she seemed to have lost her appetite.

  Igor glanced at their neighbour. He noticed that she was eyeing the last remaining flounder. Igor stood up and took the frying pan from the table, covered it with a lid and placed it on the hob.

  As Igor sat down, he and Olga looked at one another.

  ‘Sorry,’ he shrugged. ‘Mama thought you’d like it.’

  ‘But I do!’ said Olga, pursing her lips. ‘I love plaice!’

  ‘It’s not plaice, it’s Black Sea flounder,’ Igor corrected her irritably.

  Olga looked down at the unfinished buckwheat on her plate.

  ‘How are things working out with the gardener?’ She asked suddenly, hoping to steer the conversation in a more favourable direction by alluding to her own part in the arrangement.

  ‘He disappeared a couple of days ago and we haven’t seen him since,’ Igor replied on his mother’s behalf. ‘He’s probably found a drinking buddy somewhere.’

  ‘But he doesn’t drink!’ exclaimed Olga.

  ‘He’s been a great help,’ said Elena Andreevna, turning to her friend. ‘Thank you for introducing him to us.’

  Olga smiled, mollified, and on that positive note she decided that it was time for her to leave. Igor and his mother drank their tea together.

  ‘It’s a shame you didn’t buy more,’ said Elena Andreevna.

  Igor stood up. He took the lid off the frying pan, put the last fish onto a clean plate and placed it near his mother.

  She smiled, put her cup of tea to one side and began eating again.

  ‘It wasn’t too expensive, was it?’ she asked.

  Igor shook his head. ‘I’ll buy more next time,’ he promised.

  In the afternoon, Elena Andreevna went round to Olga’s house to make sure there were no hard feelings after their lunchtime disagreement over the fish.

  Igor went out to the shed and contemplated the padlock on the door with irritation. He thought about breaking it, but he couldn’t justify actually doing so. There wasn’t anything in the shed that he specifically needed. Besides, the fact that Stepan had padlocked the door seemed to suggest that he was planning to come back at some point. The treasure – or at least part of it – must still be inside.

  The sun made an unexpected appearance the following morning. A few birds that had not yet flown south for the winter started singing. As Igor’s mother moved about the house, the wooden floor creaked beneath her feet. The morning was fresh and full of life. Igor got out of bed. Just at that moment, he heard a familiar cough from outside, although he couldn’t be sure whether it came from the yard or from the street. He looked out of the window and saw Stepan walking towards the house. He was wearing a new dark green jacket, and a half-empty canvas rucksack hung from his shoulders. Stepan didn’t notice Igor looking out of the window. Whistling a Russian folk song, Stepan went straight to the shed.

  Igor got dressed and sat down at the kitchen table. He waited for his mother to make him tea and heat up some leftover buckwheat for breakfast.

  ‘It’s a pity you didn’t come to Olga’s with me yesterday.’ Elena Andreevna glanced quizzically at her son. ‘We had a lovely time. She’d baked a gooseberry pie, and it was delicious. She sent a piece for you too – it’s in the fridge.’

  ‘Stepan’s back,’ said Igor, nodding at the window as though the gardener were standing right there, on the other side of the glass.

  The news seemed to distract Elena Andreevna. She fell silent.

  ‘Why don’t you warm something up for him? I’ll take it out,’ said Igor.

  Armed with a plate of buckwheat, Igor approached the shed. He stood and listened outside the door for a moment, but he couldn’t hear a sound. The shed seemed to be empty.

  Igor knocked once and opened the door. The gardener was standing in front of the shelf unit, wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt and looking into a square mirror that was resting on the top shelf. He was holding his hand to his chin and the side of his face, as though he’d been contemplating whether or not to shave.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Igor. He looked around, wondering where to put the plate.

  ‘Good morning to you,’ nodded Stepan. ‘Though it might not have been,’ he added darkly.

  Igor suddenly noticed that the gardener’s lef
t hand was wrapped in a bandage.

  ‘You can leave it there,’ Stepan said, nodding at the shelf unit. To Igor’s great astonishment he proceeded to turn his rucksack upside down, emptying bundles of 200-hryvna notes all over the bed.

  ‘There,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Now my life can begin again, with a clean slate. It’s just a pity I’m not eighteen years old any more!’

  He thought for a moment, then he picked up one of the bundles and held it out to Igor.

  ‘There you go. That’s for your motorbike . . . For all your help.’

  Igor weighed the bundle in his hands. ‘How much?’ he asked expectantly.

  ‘Depends how you look at it. There might be more where that came from . . . It might include an advance payment,’ smiled the gardener.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Various things. I’ve got a daughter. She lives in Lviv. I want you to go and visit her, for a start. Take her a letter from me. See what her place is like, who she’s living with. And tell her something good about me.’

  Igor was delighted by Stepan’s proposal, although he didn’t show it. He thought about the two bundles of Soviet roubles in the pockets of the police uniform. Having a wad of cash in your pocket, does that make you rich? he wondered, stuffing the bundle of 200-hryvna notes into one of his tracksuit pockets.

  ‘When do you want me to go?’ he asked, looking up at the gardener.

  ‘You might as well go today. There are plenty of trains to Lviv. Get an overnight train from Kiev, and another one back the following night. You’ll be home the day after tomorrow.’

  Back in the house Igor took his time counting the money Stepan had given him. Not because he was interested in the total amount, but because he was fascinated by the sheer number of notes. He’d never had so much money at one time before. The banknotes were crisp and new and seemed to whisper when Igor flicked through them with his fingertips. He enjoyed playing with the money so much that he decided to take out both bundles of Soviet roubles too. The Soviet hundred-rouble notes were bigger and more impressive than the Ukrainian 200-hryvna notes, but that seemed to make sense: the USSR had been much bigger than Ukraine. If they printed banknotes in proportion to the size of the country, then Igor would probably have been able to fit several bundles of Ukrainian money in the palm of his hand, not just one. This thought amused him. Comparing the two currencies again, Igor decided that the Soviet notes were more pleasant to touch and hold. The way they rustled in his hand felt somehow more impressive, more authentic.