The Gardener from Ochakov

by Andrey Kurkov

  The life that was hiding in the depths of Igor’s motionless body felt this body being rolled over, lifted up, lowered again and carried off somewhere, rocking and swaying.

  That night Ochakov was still and quiet, deserted and devoid of stars.

  24

  THE LIFE THAT was sheltering deep in Igor’s motionless body suddenly heard a dull thud, which echoed and reverberated throughout his entire frame.

  Two pairs of feet in coarse, heavy boots came to a standstill nearby.

  ‘Maybe I should take his gun out and shoot him in the head,’ suggested Fima, his voice hesitant and weary. ‘They’ll think he got drunk and shot himself . . . Or shall I just take the gun?’

  ‘No, it’s not worth it,’ murmured Iosip. ‘Why shoot a man who’s already dead? And if the gun goes missing you’ll have the cops all over you, given your reputation.’

  ‘All right,’ agreed Fima. ‘Let’s get the coat out from under him, though. I can use it again.’

  Quick as lightning, Fima leaned over the body and, with one smooth motion, struck it in the side. Then his fingers closed firmly over the edge of the greatcoat.

  Jerked roughly as the greatcoat was yanked out from under him, Igor now lay on his back, his head almost touching the base of the ‘bird with balls’ – a pyramid of cannonballs surmounted by an eagle, commemorating Suvorov’s victory over the Turks in the siege of Ochakov.

  The footsteps of both pairs of boots faded into the darkness. A baby hedgehog shuffled out from a patch of grass nearby and stopped, lifting its pointed nose to the sky.

  It began to rain. At first large drops drummed onto the ground, rustling the grass. Soon they were coming down in torrents, and the whole town was plunged into a nocturnal downpour. The earth, the grass, the memorial, everything glistened. Igor’s tunic was soon wet through, for the second time that night. The water running over his face seemed to give some kind of signal to the life that was hiding within him. Or perhaps it was the rain streaming into Igor’s half-open mouth, but whatever the trigger something happened inside him, something shifted, some kind of mechanism was released and began to press, weakly at first, on other mechanisms that controlled the body’s internal and external movements. Igor’s eyelids twitched and opened, and his mouth suddenly filled with the sweet taste of water he’d been longing for. He sensed the possibility of salvation – he didn’t understand it, he felt it instinctively, as though he were a wild animal rather than a human being.

  Summoning all of his strength, Igor turned his face towards the earth, towards the puddle spreading out beside him. He felt the sweet, cold water on his lips. He swallowed and leaned further into the water, sticking his tongue out and lapping it up like a dog, the only difference being that his tongue was thicker and considerably less agile than any dog’s. He stuck his tongue out as far as it would go, probing the depths of the puddle and licking the firm, rough ground beneath it.

  ‘Water,’ he whispered, the word trembling on his lips as he pressed himself into the puddle once more.

  The life that had been hiding deep within him grew bolder, running through his blood and bones, amazed to feel his body coming alive and growing warmer by the minute.

  Meanwhile, the downpour continued in full force. Ochakov was no longer shrouded in nocturnal silence. Water flowed noisily in every direction, even where there was no obvious channel, gathering strength and furrowing deeper into the earth.

  After resting for a while, Igor drank more rainwater. He became aware of his fingers and moved them slightly. Then, pressing his palms flat against the ground, he raised himself up. He could still feel a burning sensation in his stomach but the fire was weaker now, more subdued.

  ‘Am I alive?’ he whispered in astonishment, looking all around. ‘I’m alive!’

  Greedily inhaling air, he struggled to his feet and staggered towards the nearest house. There was a street lamp next to it, illuminating the house number and the name of the road. He made it to the gate, pushed it open and stared at the dark windows of the house. Then he stepped back and let the gate swing shut. Swaying and holding his hand to his right side, which was hurting now more than his stomach, Igor shuffled on further down the street.

  It was still raining, but Igor couldn’t feel it. Nor could he feel that his clothes, hair and face were already soaking wet.

  Every now and then he forced himself to look up, to try and get his bearings. Unfamiliar houses and fences were gradually replaced by ones he recognised. Igor stopped when he came to Vanya Samokhin’s gate. Feeling desperately thirsty all of a sudden, he staggered to the side window of the house. He just about managed to raise his arm, which seemed incredibly heavy, and knocked on the glass.

  Vanya let Igor into the hallway. He was wearing nothing but a pair of purple underpants.

  ‘Oh! What’s happened to you?’ he exclaimed, aghast.

  Shivering and trembling with exhaustion, Igor staggered forwards and collapsed, scattering droplets of water over Vanya’s bare legs. Aleksandra Marinovna hurried over in her long nightdress.

  ‘Good heavens!’ she clasped her hands together. ‘He’s gone blue!’

  Igor turned his head and looked up at the faces above him, his eyes fading as he spoke.

  ‘Poison,’ he whispered. ‘I’ve been poisoned . . . with vodka . . .’

  ‘Get him under a blanket!’ Vanya’s mother instructed her son. ‘Quickly!’

  She ran into the kitchen, lit the paraffin stove and placed a pail of water over the burner. Taking a linen bag full of dried herbs from the cupboard, she opened it and inhaled before adding two handfuls to the water.

  ‘Whatever is the world coming to?’ she murmured as she stared at the water in the pail, willing it to hurry up and boil.

  As soon as the herbal decoction had brewed to her satisfaction, Aleksandra Marinovna took the pail into the living room where Igor was lying on the sofa, covered up with a blanket. He was barely conscious. She placed the pail on the little table next to the sofa.

  ‘Go and get the big basin,’ she instructed her son.

  Vanya did as he was told. Then he was sent to fetch the tin funnel that they used for decanting wine.

  ‘He’s so cold!’ said Aleksandra Marinovna anxiously, placing her hand on Igor’s forehead. ‘Now, put that funnel into his mouth.’

  Vanya looked doubtfully at the pail, which had steam rising from it.

  ‘But it’s boiling water,’ he said. ‘Shouldn’t we add some cold water first?’

  ‘No,’ his mother cut him off. ‘It has to be hot or it won’t work! Go on, put it in!’

  Vanya tried to stick the narrow neck of the funnel between Igor’s teeth, but they were clamped shut.

  ‘Use your fingers! Quickly!’ urged his mother, who had picked up the pail and was standing at the ready.

  Vanya forced Igor’s mouth open, inserted the funnel and turned to his mother. Aleksandra Marinovna tipped the contents of the pail into the funnel. A rasping noise escaped from Igor’s throat, like the sound of a thin piece of paper being ripped. His right arm twitched, as though he were trying to lift it. Vanya’s mother leaned forward and held it down, her heavy bosom suspended just above Igor’s head.

  The entire decoction disappeared down the funnel into Igor’s throat. His body twitched and convulsed. Aleksandra Marinovna jumped back from the sofa.

  ‘Hold him over the basin!’ she cried.

  Vanya grabbed Igor and pulled him onto his side, moving his head to the edge of the sofa and positioning the basin underneath it. Igor’s throat emitted another rasping sound, which was followed by an emetic squelch. Another convulsion racked his body. Igor drew up his legs, and dark liquid spewed violently from his mouth.

  ‘Hold him there like that. I’ll go and brew up the next lot,’ said Vanya’s mother. Meanwhile, Vanya removed Igor’s clothes.

  Neither Vanya nor his mother got any more sleep that night. After the third irrigation Igor’s forehead finally started to warm up. Aleksandra Mari
novna warmed an old flat iron on the paraffin stove and started drying his police uniform with it, but when she found the bundle of roubles in the pocket of his breeches she panicked. She put the money on the table and stared at it for several minutes without blinking. Her alarm gradually gave way to a pleasant feeling of composure. That must be why they tried to kill him, she decided. She ironed the uniform until it was dry, then folded it neatly and left it on a stool next to the pale, sleeping figure of Igor. She placed the bundle of roubles, his boots and the belt with the holster on the floor nearby, but took the dry socks to her room. Switching on the light, she stretched one sock over a light bulb and began to darn the hole in its heel.

  Vanya glanced at the grandfather clock on the wall and decided to spend the final hour before dawn looking through The Wine-Maker’s Handbook, which calmed his nerves.

  Igor was woken, or rather brought to his senses, by a sharp pain in his right side. He tried to sit up, but a new wave of pain washed over him and he collapsed back onto his pillow. He lay there, staring at the green lampshade on the ceiling, then brought his right hand to his side and froze as his fingers felt something warm and sticky.

  Igor suddenly felt very thirsty, and the cramps in his stomach reminded him of the night before.

  ‘Ma!’ he shouted. His voice was so weak he could barely hear it himself. He lay still for a few minutes, trying to breathe evenly and rhythmically. Then he shouted again.

  The door opened slightly.

  ‘Is that you?’ His mother’s eyes were wide with surprise. ‘Where on earth have you been? Your mobile was ringing all day yesterday. It didn’t stop until gone one o’clock in the morning! Where have you –’

  His mother suddenly fell silent and approached his bed.

  ‘What’s the matter with your face? You’ve gone blue!’

  She placed her hand on Igor’s forehead.

  ‘You’re burning up!’

  ‘I was poisoned,’ sighed Igor.

  ‘With home-made vodka?’ asked his mother, frowning in disapproval.

  Igor nodded and grimaced.

  ‘I’ve got a pain in my side. Can you have a look?’ he asked, glancing down at his right side.

  Elena Andreevna lifted the blanket and gasped. She looked horrified.

  ‘You’re bleeding! I’m going to call the doctor! I –’ She broke off, scanning the room frantically as though she were looking for help. ‘I’ll fetch Stepan!’

  Igor’s mother ran out of the room and he heard the front door slam. He made another attempt to sit up but collapsed again, and this time he passed out. He had no idea how long he had been unconscious, but he gradually became aware of voices in the darkness that surrounded him.

  Somebody was doing something to his body, and whatever they were doing was resonating painfully in his ribs.

  ‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ a man’s voice said quietly. ‘I shall have to report it to the police. I’m afraid I’ve got no choice, it’s standard procedure.’

  ‘Is that so?’ breathed Stepan’s voice.

  ‘He’s very lucky, you know. Just look at that! It’s a wonder he’s still alive.’

  ‘Are you taking him to hospital?’ His mother’s voice interrupted the men’s hushed conversation. ‘He needs urgent medical attention!’

  Igor desperately wanted to break free of the darkness. He felt capable of doing so – after all, his ears were working all right, weren’t they? He opened his eyes and waited until the blurred images turned into the ceiling and the green lampshade.

  ‘Don’t,’ breathed Igor.

  ‘Don’t what?’ asked the doctor, looking into his patient’s eyes.

  ‘Don’t take me to hospital!’

  ‘I wasn’t going to,’ the doctor replied with a shrug. Igor could see him now – a short, feeble-looking man, his thin nose underlined by a moustache. ‘I’ve already treated your wound, and there aren’t any beds free anyway. If his temperature goes above forty, call me. But for the time being I’ll dress the wound, and we’ll leave it at that.’

  ‘What do you mean, “we’ll leave it at that”?’

  Igor detected the threat of an argument in his mother’s voice. He raised his hand and looked at her.

  ‘I don’t want to go to hospital,’ he said.

  ‘Why don’t I come back this evening? I’ll change the dressing and see how he is. There’s a discount for repeat visits.’

  Igor’s mother was silent. Her face showed that she was wrestling with her doubts.

  ‘I’ll pay,’ said Igor. He looked up at Stepan, who was standing to his left.

  Stepan nodded to indicate his support. Meanwhile, the doctor was rolling up the piece of oilcloth he’d laid out on the floor, having already sterilised his instruments and put them back in his bag.

  He turned to Igor’s mother. ‘I’ll pick that up later,’ he said, referring to a shallow enamel bowl containing the knife blade that he’d removed from Igor’s stomach. It was just a blade, no handle. ‘The police will take the knife,’ he added.

  ‘You don’t need to get the police involved, do you?’ asked Igor.

  The doctor shook his head. ‘Don’t ask me not to,’ he said. ‘I’ve got no choice! It’s like the Hippocratic oath. Whenever we treat bullet wounds, stab wounds or other injuries sustained as a result of crime we have a duty to inform the police. Even when the injuries are inflicted by a member of the same family!’

  The doctor left. Igor’s mother wiped the tears from her eyes.

  ‘Who did this to you?’ she asked, leaning over her son.

  ‘I didn’t see,’ said Igor. He lowered his head and glanced at the bedside table, then froze. The police uniform wasn’t there.

  ‘Where is it?’ he asked his mother.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The uniform, the belt . . .’

  ‘I put it away,’ said Stepan. He stepped forward and pointed at the wardrobe. ‘I put everything in there.’

  ‘Thank you,’ breathed Igor.

  ‘Elena Andreevna, could I have a word with Igor in private?’ asked Stepan.

  Igor’s mother nodded and left the room.

  ‘Who did this to you?’ asked Stepan, leaning in towards Igor and lowering his voice to a whisper. ‘Tell me! We can deal with it together!’

  Igor shook his head.

  ‘This is serious.’ Stepan’s voice was steeped in fatherly concern. ‘It wasn’t just a random attack, I can tell . . . See, the blade’s been filed right down, to make sure the handle would break off.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ asked Igor.

  ‘Someone planned this, and they intended to leave the blade inside your body so that it would be almost impossible to get it out. The person who stabbed you knew exactly what he was doing . . . and if he finds out you’re still alive, he’ll do it again.’

  A motorbike stopped outside. Stepan went over and looked out of the window.

  ‘It’s the police,’ he sighed. ‘I’d better go.’

  Stepan glanced into the kitchen and told Elena Andreevna that the police had arrived. The front doorbell rang. Elena Andreevna let the police officer in and took him to Igor’s room. Stepan waited until Igor’s door closed, then he left the house.

  The police officer examined the blade in the enamel bowl. ‘Well, now,’ he said, nodding his head. His eyes were burning with an almost ecstatic curiosity. ‘I’ve only ever read about things like this in detective novels! Right, first things first. We have to follow the correct procedures . . .’

  The police officer, a junior lieutenant, was so young that if he hadn’t been wearing a uniform Igor would have assumed he was interviewing him for a homework assignment. The fact that he was wearing a uniform didn’t make Igor any more respectful or cooperative. The police officer’s carefully worded questions met with evasive responses: ‘I didn’t see,’ ‘I didn’t notice,’ ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Look, people who have no enemies and never argue with anyone don’t just get stabbed in
the stomach for no reason!’ exclaimed the police officer, whose patience was wearing rather thin.

  ‘Well, they obviously do,’ replied Igor, calmly contradicting him. ‘Maybe they thought I was somebody else? It was quite dark, you know.’

  ‘Yes, we are aware that there’s a problem with the street lamps,’ nodded the police officer. ‘All right, I’ll take the blade. We’ll keep it with the case file as evidence.’

  The police officer left, promising to call again. Igor shut his eyes, but he was unable to ignore the pain in his side. A car drove past, with Ukrainian rock music blaring from the radio, and Igor finally dropped off to the sound of the singer’s gravelly voice drifting through the little top window into his bedroom.

  25

  IGOR AND ELENA Andreeva were woken at 6 a.m. the following morning by the doctor, who apologised for not coming the previous evening, although he offered no explanation. He immediately set about changing Igor’s dressing, then smiled in anticipation of payment. As soon as he’d been paid he picked up the enamel bowl and left, promising to return that evening.

  Igor thought he felt better once his dressing had been changed. He tried to sit up in bed but instantly realised that he’d overestimated his capabilities.

  He felt thirsty. He asked his mother to pass him his mobile phone, so he could check the missed calls. Most were from Kolyan, but there were also two from a number he didn’t recognise.

  He called his friend back. He expected the nurse to answer, but Kolyan himself picked up.

  ‘Did you call?’ asked Igor.

  ‘Yeah,’ murmured Kolyan. He sounded half asleep.

  ‘Are you still in hospital?’

  ‘I’m going home today.’

  ‘Aren’t you nervous?’

  ‘No, it’s all sorted. I had a chat with him . . . I’ll tell you about it later. How are you?’

  ‘Terrible,’ said Igor. ‘I got attacked just after you did!’

  ‘Were you beaten up?’

  ‘Worse. Stabbed and poisoned.’

  ‘You’re kidding! Shall I come and see you?’

  ‘Well, I’m not going anywhere.’