‘Everything’s ready! The quality is magnificent, I’m sure you’ll be delighted,’ he said. ‘You’re welcome to come and collect them, preferably before two o’clock as I need to leave then – I’ve been commissioned to do a family portrait for one of the deputies.’
Why did he tell me that? thought Igor, surprised. Did he think I’d be impressed?
He slipped his mobile phone back into his pocket and looked at his watch. It would take him about an hour to get into town, to be ‘delighted’ by the ‘magnificent quality’ that awaited him there, and it was a full three hours until the photographer had to leave. Time was very much on his side, so there was no need to rush. The day felt like an echo of the night before – he didn’t have a headache or any other sign of a hangover, as such, but was consumed by listlessness.
He made himself a cup of tea, with three spoonfuls of sugar instead of his usual one. Then an instant coffee. Eventually he started preparing to leave, but when he was ready he looked at his watch and felt another wave of inertia – he didn’t even feel like moving, let alone going into town. He wandered out into the yard. The sky was gloomy and grey. He glanced over his shoulder then walked towards the shed. The door was slightly open, and there was a quiet, muffled noise coming from inside. He looked through the gap in the door and saw Stepan extracting nails from wooden boards with the end of a hammer. There were three separate piles of boards lying on the concrete floor.
Stepan glanced up at his landlady’s son.
‘You look rather the worse for wear,’ he remarked indifferently. ‘I dismantled an abandoned fence. I’m going to make a couple of storage crates. They might come in handy.’
First a new suit, now storage crates, mused Igor. ‘Where were you off to yesterday, dressed so smartly?’
‘I just went for a walk around the town. The first of many! I want people to get used to seeing me around. I’m starting a new life, and I’m here to stay.’
‘With us?’
Stepan smiled. ‘No, I’ve had enough of sleeping in sheds. I’m going to buy a house. I can afford it now. I seem to remember that you were planning on buying a motorbike, weren’t you?’
‘In the spring,’ said Igor, waving his hand airily. ‘There’s no point at the moment.’
‘True, a motorbike isn’t much use in winter,’ agreed Stepan.
By a stroke of luck, Igor was the last passenger the minibus taxi been waiting for, and it set off as soon as he got in. There was no Radio Chanson this time, but Igor barely even noticed. He was quite happy to let his mind wander – first he imagined himself buying a motorbike in the spring, then he started thinking about the photographer and his wife.
The photographer greeted Igor with a smile and offered him brandy with his coffee, which was rather unexpected. It would have been foolish to refuse such hospitality. Igor sat down on one of the soft leather armchairs and looked around the room. Over by the black screen he saw some photographs attached to a nylon cord with little multicoloured pegs. They were somebody else’s studio portraits.
‘My wife’s gone to visit her mother,’ said the photographer, approaching Igor from behind. He was carrying a tray containing two coffee cups, two brandy glasses and a bottle of Hennessy, which he placed on the coffee table. He poured brandy into the glasses, then fetched a long-handled copper coffee pot. Igor thought the coffee, as it was poured from the cezve, looked unusually thick.
The photographer brought five large envelopes over and put them on the table, then sat down in the other armchair.
‘I’m beginning to find you very interesting,’ he said. He picked up his brandy glass and turned to Igor, indicating that he should follow suit.
Igor lifted the glass to his nose and inhaled. It had a distinguished aroma, particularly after the home-made vodka he’d been drinking with Kolyan – although that hadn’t been at all bad! Igor smiled, remembering the previous evening.
‘These films,’ began the photographer. He sipped his brandy. ‘Look, I’m a professional and I know everything there is to know about photography. Well, almost everything. But I have to admit, I’m completely at a loss here. I’d love to know how you do it. You’re using old films, and taking old-fashioned photos, right?’
‘What do you mean?’ Igor stared at the photographer.
‘I assure you, my interest is purely professional. If someone showed me pictures like this on their computer, I would congratulate them on their Photoshop skills. But you brought me real films. Everything appears to be set in the past – at least the decor and costumes appear to be authentic – yet you’re in the photos yourself . . . Were they taken on the set of some historical drama? Do you work in cinematography?’
Igor shook his head and smiled.
The photographer took a sip of coffee and poured some more brandy into his glass. Then he pushed the envelopes across the table to his client. Igor took the photographs out of one of the envelopes and looked through them. He saw himself standing in front of Red Valya’s counter. He saw her wrapping the fish up in newspaper. He saw a man standing behind him, staring at Valya.
‘You could turn this lot into an excellent, and highly original, photography exhibition.’ Smiling broadly, the photographer looked at his client again. ‘You could use the same method in your advertising . . . I think you could make a decent amount of money, as well as a bit of a name for yourself. You seem to be quite an ambitious young man!’
Igor burst out laughing. Me? Ambitious? he thought happily.
‘It’s just a hobby,’ he said after a few moments, keen to maintain the good-natured atmosphere over the coffee table. ‘Maybe I’ll take a few more, and then we’ll see!’
‘What camera do you use?’
The question caught Igor off guard.
‘An old one,’ was all he said.
His answer was obviously music to the photographer’s ears. ‘I’m willing to develop and print your next films for free,’ he said. ‘On one condition.’
‘What?’
‘That if you do decide to put on an exhibition of your pictures, you come to me first. I’ll arrange everything for you. You clearly have an exceptional talent, and a great imagination.’
‘All right,’ agreed Igor. He reached for the bottle of Hennessy and poured some into his glass. ‘It’s a deal.’
With the envelopes tucked under his arm, Igor walked down Proreznaya Street to Kreshchatyk Street. When he got to the metro station he called Kolyan.
‘Hello?’ said a woman’s voice.
‘Oh, sorry, I must have got the wrong number –’
‘Don’t hang up!’ said the voice. ‘Who are you trying to reach?’
‘My friend Kolyan. I mean, Nikolai.’
‘He’s here, but he can’t talk right now. Can I give him a message?’
‘Where’s “here”?’ asked Igor.
‘The Accident and Emergency hospital on Bratislavsky Street. Your friend was the victim of a violent assault yesterday. He’s recovering in one of the wards.’
‘This is Igor. Tell him it’s Igor! I owe him some money,’ said Igor, then he stopped abruptly. ‘Can I see him?’
‘Of course,’ said the woman’s voice. ‘Fifth floor of the main building, Ward Seven.’ The woman gave Igor directions to the hospital, and the escalator carried him down to the metro.
Kolyan’s bed was up against the wall on the left-hand side of a six-bed ward. The door to the ward was wide open. Two large top windows were also open, and Igor was struck by a gust of wind that carried the smell of rotten autumn leaves. A length of clear plastic tubing, twisting and coiling like a snake, connected an intravenous drip bag to Kolyan’s right wrist. Igor was shocked by the sight of his friend – Kolyan’s face was partially covered with bandages, but the exposed parts were swollen and dark blue. His eyes were closed.
Igor noticed Kolyan’s mobile phone lying on the bedside cabinet. Fetching a chair from the entrance to the ward, Igor placed it next to his friend’s bed and sat down. He rea
ched out a hand, wanting to wake Kolyan up, to let him know he was there, but then he hesitated. Igor went out into the hospital corridor and looked around, hoping to see a doctor or a nurse, but there was no one about. He walked along the corridor, glancing through the open doors of the other wards. Some patients were reading books or newspapers; one young man with a bandage around his head was wearing earphones, his eyelids twitching in time with music only he could hear. Igor walked up and down the corridor several times, until he heard a mobile phone ringing in the ward next to Kolyan’s. Curious, he looked in and saw a phone vibrating on a bedside cabinet next to a patient with both arms in plaster, a bandaged head and mottled bruising around his eyes. When the man in plaster saw Igor, he jerked his chin up and tried to speak. Understanding immediately, Igor walked over and picked up the phone.
‘Hello,’ he breathed.
‘It’s Varya. Is that . . . the doctor?’
‘No. I’m just visiting a friend in the next ward.’
‘Is Kostya there?’ The woman’s voice sounded scared.
Igor turned to the man in plaster.
‘Is your name Kostya?’ he asked, reading the answer in the man’s eyes.
‘Yes, he’s here, but he can’t talk right now.’
‘I know. Just tell him . . . tell him that Varya called. I’ll come and see him this evening. Tell him that I love him!’
‘OK,’ Igor promised and put the mobile phone back down.
‘Varya called,’ he said to the owner of the phone. ‘She said she loves you, and that she’s coming this evening.’
The man’s face did not show any sign of joy. Nodding goodbye, Igor left the ward and noticed the sign on the outside of the door: Ward No. 5. That was strange – why wasn’t Ward No. 5 followed by Ward No. 6? He checked the numbers of the wards on the opposite side of the corridor, but they were all double digits.
‘Are you looking for someone?’ came a woman’s voice from behind him. It sounded familiar.
He turned round. Finally, a nurse! She was young and cheerful-looking, with dark hair. She was like an idealised image of a nurse, but for the colour of her uniform, which had been washed so many times it had long since lost its snow-white purity.
‘Yes. My friend’s here . . . in Ward Seven.’
‘Ah, the one they brought in last night?’
‘Yes. What happened?’
‘He’s got a CHI, concussion, bruises and suspected broken ribs.’
‘A CHI?’ Igor repeated in alarm.
‘A closed-head injury,’ explained the nurse.
‘Is he going to be all right?’
‘Yes. He’ll have to stay here for a couple of days, and then we’ll send him home,’ the nurse said gently. ‘Under supervision.’
‘Is he asleep at the moment?’
‘Why don’t we go and see?’ The nurse turned round and started walking towards Ward No. 7. Igor hurried after her.
Kolyan was lying with his eyes open, staring at the ceiling. He tried to smile when he saw the nurse and Igor, but instead his wounded lips grimaced in pain.
‘How are you?’ asked Igor, leaning over him.
The look in Kolyan’s eyes told him all he needed to know. Igor nodded and put the photo envelopes down on the floor.
‘I brought you the money I owe you, a hundred dollars . . . Shall I leave it with you?’
Kolyan shook his head. ‘No,’ he murmured. His swollen, cut lips were making it difficult for him to talk.
Igor waited until the nurse had left the ward, then sat down on the chair next to the bed. ‘Who did this to you?’ he asked urgently.
‘I didn’t see,’ whispered Kolyan. ‘They got me from behind.’
‘After you left my place? In the street?’
‘No, in Kiev, in the lobby of my apartment building.’
‘Did they take anything?’
Kolyan moved his head slightly from side to side. ‘Not even my phone.’ He looked at the bedside cabinet.
‘They could tell it was a cheap one,’ said Igor.
Kolyan tried to smile again, without any luck.
‘My jacket’s in there,’ he murmured. ‘Take it out.’
Igor opened the bedside cabinet and took out the black canvas jacket that Kolyan had been wearing the day before. It was covered with pockets and rivets. He unfolded it and looked at his friend.
‘There’s some cash in the pocket,’ whispered Kolyan.
Igor started uncertainly groping the front of the jacket.
‘No, not there,’ his friend whispered urgently. ‘In the lining.’
Perplexed, Igor looked inside the jacket and found a secret pocket. He opened it and took out a thick bundle of hundred-dollar notes.
‘This?’ he asked.
Kolyan gave a barely perceptible nod. ‘Take it. You can give it back later,’ he said.
Igor put the money in his pocket, then folded the black jacket up again and put it back in the bedside cabinet.
Suddenly his ears were assaulted by the sound of Kolyan’s mobile phone. In the hushed silence of the hospital, the cheerful ringtone sounded farcical. Igor picked up the phone.
‘You’re still alive, then?’ asked a slightly affected male voice, almost playfully.
‘Are you calling to speak to Kolyan?’ asked Igor. ‘He can’t talk right now. Can I take a message?’
‘Tell him I’ll finish him off. He’ll know who it is. Who are you?’
‘A friend,’ said Igor, disconcerted.
‘Will you be coming to his funeral?’
‘What?’ gasped Igor. He hung up immediately and put Kolyan’s phone back on the bedside cabinet.
‘He said that he was going to “finish you off”,’ said Igor, looking directly into Kolyan’s eyes. ‘He said you’d know who it was.’
Kolyan was silent. He looked up at the ceiling, then closed his eyes.
‘Do you want me to leave?’ asked Igor.
‘Stay for a while,’ whispered Kolyan.
‘Who was it?’
‘One of three.’
‘Which three?’ Igor didn’t understand.
‘One of the three whose systems I hacked into,’ answered Kolyan. ‘Probably that woman’s husband.’
‘The one whose emails you copied?’
‘Yeah,’ sighed Kolyan.
‘Did you sleep with her?’ hissed Igor, bending down to his friend’s ear.
Kolyan didn’t answer.
‘I’m going,’ Igor said firmly. ‘I don’t like what you’ve been up to lately.’
‘Neither do I,’ mumbled Kolyan. ‘Will you come tomorrow?’
‘Yes. Bye.’
Igor picked his envelopes up from the floor. He looked closely at his friend, waved goodbye then went out into the corridor. He bumped into the nurse again outside the next ward.
‘Are you leaving already?’ she asked.
Igor nodded.
‘Can I ask you a question?’ He went right up to her, as though there was a chance she might not hear him otherwise. ‘Why do you have Ward Five and Ward Seven, but no Ward Six?’
The nurse beamed at him.
‘You noticed!’ she exclaimed, delighted. ‘Most people don’t. If we did have a Ward Six, we’d be inundated with complaints. One of the doctors arranged it that way. You know how planes don’t have a row thirteen, because no one would want to sit in it . . .’
‘Don’t they?’ Igor wasn’t convinced.
‘Of course not,’ the nurse assured him. ‘Well, Ward Six is the hospital equivalent.’
Still feeling confused, Igor walked down the concrete stairs to the ground floor and left the building. He looked back up at the window of the casualty department, then walked to the tram stop. He could hear rooks cawing loudly in the tall pine trees nearby. The smell of rotten leaves, stronger now, was a constant reminder of the proximity of the forest.
21
EVENINGS IN IRPEN are darker than they are in Kiev. Igor noticed this every time night fell as he wa
s on his way home, which seemed to happen often. He couldn’t stop thinking about the sight of Kolyan’s swollen lips. He could still hear the man’s taunting tone as he promised to finish Kolyan off. Igor was scared for his friend.
The familiar windows of his home appeared ahead of him. Igor went inside and took off his shoes, then went into the kitchen. He poured a shot of brandy, took a sip and sat down at the little table, expecting the brandy to calm him down straight away. He glanced at the scales. The left-hand pan was empty – no tablets, no bills waiting to be paid. Igor got up and moved several weights from the right-hand pan to the left, trying to balance them, but he couldn’t get it right. His glass soon ran low, but he still felt agitated. Never mind, good things come to those who wait, thought Igor, smiling as he filled his glass again. After his third glass of brandy Igor stopped fiddling with the scales. He started thinking instead about the strange conversation he’d had with the photographer. Yes, it would be good to earn a bit of money out of them, thought Igor. If only I knew how!
He spread the photographs out in front of him and started trying to put them into some kind of order. The ones that were easiest to arrange were those that Vanya had taken the day he’d photographed Igor in his police uniform at the market. There was a logical sequence to them, and in any case Igor could clearly remember being at the market that day – which stalls he’d stopped at, what he’d looked at. Three photographs that had been taken of him talking to Red Valya drew his attention like a magnet. They deserved to be framed and hung on a wall. She really is beautiful, thought Igor. So full of life. Those mischievous eyes, that smile that makes you want to kiss it, those dimples in her cheeks . . . They were more noticeable in the photographs than in real life. And what about the way she’d agreed so boldly to a date with an unknown police officer? She might be beautiful, but it was still foolish, all the more so because she was a married woman. Igor thought about it for a moment, then shook his head. No, it wasn’t foolish, he decided. Things were just different back then, including police officers. And she was obviously bored with her husband.
He looked at her lips again, her smile. I can see her tomorrow if I want to, he thought. And give her the medicine . . . I can cure her! It doesn’t matter whether I’m doing it for her, for myself or for her husband. Igor filled his glass again.
The Gardener from Ochakov Page 16
