The Gardener from Ochakov

by Andrey Kurkov

  He managed to kiss her cheek before she gently pushed him away and hurried into her yard.

  23

  LEFT ALONE BY the gate, Igor looked around. He took in the unfamiliar street, the sudden stillness of the cool air, the silence and the dark sky that rose up from the barely discernible outlines of trees, roofs and telegraph poles. The house that Valya went into hadn’t reacted in any way to her arrival, neither creaking as she opened the front door nor lighting any windows to welcome her home.

  The insides of Igor’s boots were wet with the water running out of his breeches. The only thing that wasn’t wet was the cloth bag containing the Soviet roubles.

  The water felt as out of place in his boots as Igor himself felt standing in an obscure backstreet in this town, which was becoming increasingly familiar to him. Everything that had happened had lowered Igor’s body temperature by at least two degrees. He stood there, constrained by his wet clothing, by inertia, by a strange fear, which felt alternately incredibly real and ludicrously childish. A sharp knife had flown past his head – close enough for him to see the predatory gleam of steel. But in reality he hadn’t even been born yet. The knife had flown past his head on an autumn evening in 1957, which meant that it couldn’t have killed him. Or could it?

  Igor ran his left hand over his tunic. It felt cold and wet. The water was definitely real, there was no doubt about that, otherwise he would be feeling a lot more comfortable. So the knife must have been real too.

  Igor looked along the fence outside Valya’s house. Noticing a small bench outside her neighbour’s gate, he went over and sat down on it. He pulled his boots off and shook the water out of them, then put them back on again.

  The town was fast asleep. Igor’s thoughts became clearer and clearer, as though someone were typing them out inside his head in large capital letters. He remembered how Valya had crouched down in fear. He’d been frightened, but her fear had been different – as though she’d known exactly what to be afraid of and was afraid with all her might. At that point her fear had intensified his own. Fear was what had pulled the trigger of the gun, but it wasn’t supposed to fire! If it hadn’t fired, though, then . . . Igor couldn’t bear to imagine what those two would have done with them. The fact remained that a shot had been fired, and one of the men – the one who’d thrown the knife – was still back there on the path.

  He recalled Vanya Samokhin’s comment about Fima Chagin having an affair with Valya. If there was something between them, that would certainly explain both her fear and Chagin’s fury. It also meant that the fear and the fury would stay with them for a long time, until the fear killed the fury or the fury killed the fear . . . Either way, there would be no happy ending. That much was clear.

  Igor sighed. He looked around again. Suddenly he got the feeling that Fima was hiding nearby, knife in hand. Waiting for Igor to get up and walk away, leaving Valya’s house unprotected. This thought made him uneasy. Should he sit here all night, guarding Valya’s house until the sun came up?

  A soft rustle came from the fence on the other side of the road. Igor leaned forward, peering into the darkness. Two green cat’s eyes stared back at him. A dog barked somewhere in the distance and the cat’s eyes disappeared.

  ‘No, I can’t protect her,’ Igor whispered to himself. He looked back at Valya’s house. ‘She’s got a husband – it’s his responsibility.’

  Igor stood up, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave so he sat down again.

  I can’t prevent or change anything here, he thought. I have nothing in common with this town and its people. They have their own lives, their own time, and I have mine.

  This argument wasn’t particularly convincing. Chagin had been very much alive in the memory of the inhabitants of Ochakov quite recently, when Igor and Stepan had come here and broken into his house. Time is a flexible concept. The present is woven from the recent past, after all, and as long as people remember the past it will remain alive, somewhere nearby, watching you and telling you what to do.

  I have to stop Chagin, Igor resolved. His fear had retreated. I’ll give him some money and explain that Valya and I . . .

  His thoughts trailed off into a series of questions. What exactly would he explain to Chagin? Was anything going on between him and Valya? If so, what?

  I have to stop Chagin! The same thought kept coming back to him, and this time it demanded action.

  Igor stood up more decisively. He grabbed the cloth bag and touched the cold, dry handle of the gun in its holster. Then he started walking.

  He didn’t know the way, but either his feet or his boots did. They led him first to the market then to Kostya Khetagurov Street.

  Igor stopped in the same place as before, on the side of the street opposite Fima’s gate, so that he had a good view of the three steps up to the front porch.

  There didn’t appear to be any lights on in the house, but Igor took a few steps to the right and saw a glow coming from a little side window, so faint that it was barely visible from the street.

  Igor checked again to make sure the holster was open. His fingers brushed the cold metal of the gun, and this calmed his nerves. Feeling bolder, he crossed the street and went through the gate, then hunched over and crept towards the right side of the house. He stopped beneath the little window and listened. Silence. He crouched down and pressed his back to the brick wall, holding his breath. The cold from the wall passed straight through his wet tunic.

  What should he do now? Burst into the house waving his gun? Knock on the window? Igor’s thoughts buzzed about like agitated wasps. No, he shouldn’t burst in. He had to try and talk to him. Calmly, man to man.

  The silence was starting to irritate Igor. He didn’t know what time it was because he hadn’t brought the gold watch with him. He didn’t know when it would start getting light. He had no idea what he was going to do.

  Then suddenly, like a lifeline, he heard the sound of footsteps and men’s voices in the darkness. The footsteps drew nearer, then the gate banged shut.

  ‘We should tell his mother,’ said a familiar dry, wheezing voice.

  ‘No need. She’ll understand,’ replied Fima’s voice. ‘Are you coming in?’

  ‘No. Here, take the spade.’

  There was the sound of metal striking the stone doorstep. The door creaked as it opened, and the gate banged again.

  So, Chagin had gone into the house alone. Igor was pleased. It would be easier to talk one to one, without having to keep an eye out for anyone else.

  From somewhere above his head, on the other side of the window, came the sound of a bottle being placed on a table, then the sound of liquid being poured.

  Perfect timing, thought Igor.

  Surprising himself with the vigour of his movements, he stood up straight, took the roubles out of the bag and stuffed them into the pockets of his breeches, leaving the empty bag on the ground below the window. Then he crept round the corner of the house, went up the steps and carefully pulled the front door towards him. He expected it to swing open, but when the door had opened a little way it stopped. Igor stuck his hand into the gap and felt a long metal hook. He lifted it out of its catch, opened the door and went inside, to be met by the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps. Igor turned and shut the door behind him. The light bulb hanging from the ceiling in the hall was switched on, and Igor was temporarily blinded. Then he saw Fima, who was standing just a few paces away, with a less than welcoming expression frozen on his face and an empty shot glass in his right hand. Powerful fumes were emanating from his mouth from the vodka he’d just drunk. His eyes came to rest on Igor’s open holster and his expression suddenly brightened.

  ‘We need to talk,’ said Igor.

  ‘About what?’ asked Fima.

  ‘What?’

  ‘What do you want to talk about? Sanka, the man you killed?’

  ‘No.’ Igor shook his head.

  Fima’s slow reactions gave Igor the chance to get his thoughts straight.
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br />   ‘About Valya. Look, there’s nothing going on between us . . . I’m just helping her out. I want you to leave her alone.’

  ‘You’re helping her?’ repeated Fima, as though he genuinely didn’t understand the meaning of the word.

  ‘She’s really sick. I got her some medicine.’

  ‘Did you indeed? A police officer with contacts in the pharmaceutical trade, eh?’ Fima’s eyes widened in mock surprise. He held his empty glass up in his right hand and looked around. His eyes fell on a chair in the corner. Taking a step towards it, he put his glass down on the worn brown seat.

  ‘I’m not a police officer,’ said Igor, as convincingly as he could manage.

  Fima looked Igor up and down with a drunken sneer. Their eyes met again.

  ‘If you’re not a police officer, does that mean you can drink with a thief?’ asked Fima. A strange, involuntary smile crept over his face.

  ‘Yes,’ Igor nodded. ‘We can talk over a drink.’

  Fima opened a door behind him.

  ‘After you!’ he declared with a flourish.

  Igor knew Fima was being facetious, but he managed to hide his anxiety and walk past his host apparently unperturbed.

  Igor heard the sound of the metal hook behind him as the front door was locked from inside. Fima stumbled after him and Igor quickened his pace, stopping only when he reached the window in the living room. He turned and looked around him. A half-empty half-litre bottle of vodka stood on the oval table, along with a plate of salted cucumbers, an earthenware salt cellar and hunks of black bread on an open newspaper. There was an oak dresser against the opposite wall, with cut-glass panels in the wooden doors. Igor watched as Fima took out a couple of glasses. He placed one in front of Igor and the other in front of himself, then pulled up a chair and sat down across the table from his guest. He picked up the bottle and emptied it into his own glass.

  ‘Oh!’ he said, pretending to be surprised. ‘It’s run out! I’ll have to open another one!’

  He got up and left the room.

  While he was gone, Igor took another good look around the room. His eyes settled on a little car made of tin cans, evidently a home-made child’s toy. It stood in the corner by the dresser, as though it had been abandoned there by its young owner.

  Fima returned with another half-litre bottle, which had already been opened. He filled Igor’s glass, then sat down again.

  ‘Please, take a seat!’ he said, peering at Igor through narrowed eyes.

  Igor sat down.

  ‘So, shall we drink to getting to know each other?’ asked Fima.

  ‘Let’s talk first,’ said Igor, his voice mild and amiable.

  ‘Are you on about Valya again?’

  ‘Yes,’ nodded Igor. ‘You swore that you’d kill her . . . Now she’s terrified.’

  ‘Me? Kill her? How can you say such a thing?’ Fima clasped his hands together theatrically. ‘Well, it might have come out of here,’ he said, prodding his mouth with his forefinger. ‘In the heat of the moment. Maybe, but . . . they were the words of a desperate man!’

  ‘So you’re not going to touch her?’

  ‘Not going to touch her? I never said that. I can’t wait to get my hands on that bitch!’

  ‘Listen,’ said Igor again, trying to sound firm and conciliatory at the same time. ‘I won’t come here again. If you promise you won’t touch her, then I promise this is the last time you’ll ever see me. OK?’

  As Fima contemplated Igor’s offer, a perplexed but otherwise inscrutable smile played on his lips.

  ‘I still don’t get it,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘But we need to drink! Come on,’ he raised his glass. ‘To getting to know each other!’

  They drank at the same time – Fima in one gulp, Igor in three. Igor felt a burning sensation in his mouth and throat, and the vodka left an unpleasant aftertaste.

  ‘Eat something.’ Fima nodded at the bread. ‘You weren’t expecting branded vodka, were you?’

  Igor chased the home-made vodka with some bread, then a piece of salted cucumber. The fire was extinguished but the unpleasant taste remained.

  ‘So how else are you going to make it worth my while?’ Fima placed his elbows on the table and leaned forward, resting his sharp chin on the back of his folded hands.

  ‘I can pay you,’ said Igor.

  ‘How much?’

  Igor quickly estimated how many hundred-rouble notes he had in his pockets.

  ‘Ten thousand.’

  Fima flinched in astonishment.

  ‘You’re bluffing,’ he said menacingly.

  Igor took the unopened bundle of roubles from his left-hand pocket and placed it on the table.

  ‘Well, well, well . . .’ murmured Fima, standing up and walking round to Igor’s side of the table. He leaned over the bundle of banknotes and peered closely at it, almost inhaling it, but he didn’t touch it. Instead he took the bottle from the table and poured some more home-made vodka into Igor’s glass. ‘Oh dear, it’s run out again!’ he smiled. ‘I’ll get another one!’

  He left the room a second time, returning with another full bottle. He filled his own glass and sat down.

  ‘I think we can come to some arrangement,’ he said, baring his crooked teeth. ‘Let’s drink!’

  They both drank. This time, the fire burned all the way down Igor’s throat to his feet. His whole body felt warm, and he was no longer aware of his wet clothes.

  ‘All right,’ continued Fima, chewing a piece of bread. ‘I give you my word that I won’t touch the bitch – thief’s honour! Happy now?’

  Igor nodded. His unsteady gaze fell on the little car made out of tin cans.

  ‘Did you make that for your little boy?’ he asked, pointing to the corner of the room.

  Fima followed the direction of his guest’s gaze, and another strange smile crept over his face.

  ‘Yeah,’ he nodded. ‘Well, someone else’s. I haven’t got any kids.’

  ‘This little boy . . . he wouldn’t happen to be called Stepan, would he?’

  Fima instantly stopped smiling. He shuddered as though he’d just been given an electric shock.

  ‘If you’re not a police officer, why are you asking me so many questions?’ Fima leapt to his feet and grabbed the bottle, but he let go of it straight away and sat down again. ‘I don’t know what’s the matter with me,’ he said apologetically. ‘What a day I’ve had! My neighbour’s son was murdered in cold blood, for no apparent reason . . . I saw that bitch Valya sitting on the beach with a police officer . . . Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean . . .’

  Fima’s voice was full of menace. Igor could hear it, but he was preoccupied with his own body, which no longer seemed to be obeying him. His arms were like lead weights, and he couldn’t move his legs or even feel his toes. There was an unpleasant warmth in the pit of his stomach, which soon turned into a burning sensation and began to rise upwards, towards his mouth. Igor started greedily gulping air.

  Fima was no longer grimacing or smiling, and his face suddenly looked completely normal. ‘This is it, time to say goodbye. You promised I’d never see you again . . . Well, now nobody else will either!’

  Fima stood up and walked slowly round the table. When he reached Igor, he put his right hand on his shoulder and gave him a hard shove. Igor crashed to the wooden floor and lay there without moving. His body was no longer paying any attention to him, although his eyes were still working and his ears were full of noise, both real and imaginary.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Fima, standing over him. ‘You’ll suffer for a couple of hours, then it’ll all be over! You’re not afraid of death, are you? You’ve got a gun!’

  Laughing, Fima left the room. Igor heard the metallic sound of the hook as the front door opened and then closed again. The burning had reached his mouth. It hurt to breathe. Igor lay on his side on the wooden floor. He could see the table above him and the light bulb hanging from the ceiling. It was growing darker by the minute, as though some unkn
own force were raising the ceiling higher and higher into the sky until the last remaining speck of light dissolved in the darkness that enveloped him. Now it no longer mattered whether he opened or closed his eyes.

  The life that had previously reigned throughout Igor’s body took refuge in a secret little corner, where nobody else could possibly find it. His body was still. His eyes were closed.

  Half an hour later the door of the house opened again and two men came in. They stopped in the living room and looked down at the body in the police uniform.

  ‘He’s not a police officer, he’s from the KGB!’ said Fima. ‘And you were the one who brought him here! Why the hell did I take you on? Eh?’

  ‘What makes you think it’s my fault?’ his accomplice wheezed in surprise.

  ‘Iosip, he was asking about your Stepan! How would a regular police officer know anything about your son? Eh?’

  ‘So you bumped him off?’ Iosip barked gruffly. ‘That’s a bit . . . Well, what’s done is done. I’m glad I sent Stepan to Odessa – just in time, too. I knew something like this was going to happen. We’ll have to go on the run!’

  ‘Run? From my own home? I don’t think so! I’m used to things going my way, and they will this time, too! Let’s dump him by the bird with balls. Yeah, imagine the cops finding a dead KGB agent, his breath reeking of moonshine!’

  ‘Maybe we should just stick him under the floorboards, like the other one?’

  ‘Iosip, Iosip . . . you never know when to stop, do you? You’re just a peasant! I don’t have to listen to you. I didn’t in Ust-Ilim, where the thieves helped you, and I don’t here. Do you think I want to spend my life living above a cemetery, sleeping on top of dead men, drinking on top of dead men? No, one’s enough! We need to get rid of him. It’s the middle of the night, no one’ll see us. The nights in Ochakov belong to us, not them. They might be in charge during the day, but at night we take over.’

  ‘How are we going to get him there?’ asked Iosip.

  ‘I’ve got an army greatcoat. We can wrap him up in that.’