The Gardener from Ochakov

by Andrey Kurkov

  ‘That’s like Valya and me!’ Igor was struck by the revelation. ‘So I must be a gardener after all! At least, more of a gardener than a forester.’

  Igor was too nervous to read the rest of the page. As he flicked forward through the manuscript he saw a chapter entitled ‘Reducing Natural Products – Dish of Buckwheat and Barley Flour’. He cleared his throat and flicked forward another couple of pages. Then turned back – page 72 featured two recipes: ‘Foresters’ Stew’ and ‘Gardeners’ Stew’.

  Igor carefully closed the manuscript and placed it on the stool by his bed. He switched off the reading lamp and lay there for another half an hour, looking at the ceiling and thinking about gardeners and foresters.

  He spent the whole of the following morning with his nose buried in The Book of Food. When he got to page 150, he realised he was hungry. He went into the kitchen and prepared himself a bowl of buckwheat. While he was eating it and marvelling at his new-found enjoyment of such a simple dish, his mother looked into the kitchen.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asked, surprised. ‘I was going to make borshch.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Igor, looking up at her. ‘Borshch is a natural dish. Don’t put too much salt in, but be generous with the pepper. I’m sorry about yesterday, by the way.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ she said with a shrug. ‘So, what shall I tell him?’

  ‘It’s up to you,’ said Igor. ‘Gardeners are basically good people . . . You just need to control them.’

  ‘In what way?’ His mother was surprised again. ‘He doesn’t drink or play cards!’

  ‘I meant in general. It doesn’t matter.’

  Elena Andreevna gave a deep sigh and went out.

  Igor finished reading Iosip’s handwritten book at about 6 p.m. and took it straight back to Stepan. Returning the book was a perfectly valid reason to visit, but Igor was also hoping to see Alyona. He wanted to see if he could work out whether she was a ‘gardener’ or a ‘forester’.

  Igor rang the doorbell of the old house first, but there was no answer. Turning towards the new house, Igor noticed that the lights were on in the ground-floor windows and the front door was wide open. There were big plastic sacks full of rubble and other building debris piled up outside.

  ‘Hey, Stepan, are you there?’ Igor called into the house.

  ‘Hang on!’ answered Stepan’s voice. ‘Don’t come in, it’s really dusty!’

  A dust mask hung around Stepan’s neck, and his old tracksuit bottoms and striped sailor’s undershirt had turned an unappealing shade of grey. As he came outside, he brushed his vest down vigorously and a dusty cloud rose up around him in the evening air. He brushed his tracksuit bottoms with equal vigour, and they were soon restored to their original dark blue.

  ‘Here you go, I’ve finished it,’ said Igor, holding the book out to Stepan. ‘I thought it was really interesting. Especially the bit about gardeners and foresters.’

  Igor felt that Stepan was now looking at him with greater respect.

  ‘How’s the wound?’ asked the gardener.

  ‘I can hardly feel it.’

  ‘Are you still having trouble remembering who stabbed you?’ There was the trace of a smile on Stepan’s lips.

  ‘No, I’ve remembered,’ Igor said quietly. ‘It was a “forester”. You promised to show me the right way to stab someone. Can you show me now?’

  ‘There’s not much to it,’ Stepan said with a shrug. ‘If you’re facing your adversary you have to strike upwards, or directly from your stomach to his stomach. If you’re coming at him from behind, then you have to strike downwards, and get him in the back or the neck . . . But that’s not really advisable.’

  Igor raised his hand to his stomach and then, gripping an imaginary knife in his hand, thrust it forward sharply, stopped just to the left of Stepan.

  ‘Like that?’ he asked.

  ‘Like that,’ said Stepan.

  ‘Where’s Alyona?’ Igor looked behind the gardener, towards the brightly lit doorway.

  ‘She’s gone to an Internet cafe, to check her emails,’ said Stepan. He made a vague gesture with his right hand as he spoke, apparently indicating the direction in which she had gone.

  ‘Do you need any help?’ asked Igor, nodding at the plastic sacks.

  ‘Come back tomorrow,’ said Stepan. He took the dust mask off over his head and looked at it. ‘We’re fine for today!’

  29

  IMAGES OF FORESTERS and gardeners continued to occupy Igor’s mind, even while he slept. In his dream they were clearly preparing to go into battle, having taken up position on opposite sides of a stretch of land that separated a dense forest and an old garden. Igor sensed that the outcome was predetermined, as the foresters greatly outnumbered their opponents. He tossed and turned, growing anxious in his sleep. Rolling onto his right side, he felt his wound begin to ache again – tentatively, almost apologetically. He lay on his stomach and pressed his face into the pillow, but this made it difficult to breathe so he turned his head to the right, towards the window. Igor’s dream, which had begun to recede, now returned to play out on the screen of his imagination. Only this time the sound had disappeared. There hadn’t been much sound in the dream to begin with – just the rustling of the trees and the howling of the wind – but now there was a sterile silence, and this made it more disturbing.

  From somewhere outside his dream came a tapping sound. At first it was dull and muffled, as though someone were knocking on wood, then it grew louder and more resonant, like a stick hitting glass.

  ‘Igor!’ His mother’s voice was accompanied by the creaking of the door. ‘There’s someone walking around outside the house! I’m frightened!’

  Igor opened his eyes. It took him several seconds to separate the inertia of sleep from reality. His mother was standing next to his bed in her long nightdress, barefoot. He reluctantly hauled himself out of bed, went over to the window and listened. The tapping sound continued at random intervals. As Igor’s eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he noticed something lying on the path between the porch and the gate.

  Suddenly the doorbell rang. The tapping had stopped.

  ‘Go and see who it is,’ urged his mother in a half-whisper. ‘Just don’t open the door! Tell them we’re calling the police!’

  Igor’s mother’s anxiety inevitably communicated itself to her son. He also felt cold, standing there in his underpants and a T-shirt with the little top window open.

  Igor tiptoed into the hallway, then crept into the kitchen and pressed his face against the window. It was quiet again. Igor stood on a stool, opened the little top window and stuck his head out of it. From this angle the dark object on the path looked like a bag full of shopping.

  ‘Who’s there?’ Igor called in a low voice. He listened for a reply.

  A snapping sound came from the corner of the house, from the direction of the shed, as though someone had stepped on a dry twig.

  ‘Who’s there?’ called Igor, raising his voice a little. He could feel his mother’s warm breath on the small of his back. She had followed him into the kitchen, terrified, and was now peering out of the window from behind him.

  They heard hurried footsteps. Igor stiffened. He pulled his head in from the little top window and stared at the corner of the house. As they watched, a figure stealthily emerged. It was Kolyan. He scanned the dark windows of the front of the house.

  ‘Hey, what are you doing here?’ called Igor.

  Kolyan couldn’t tell where the voice was coming from at first. He moved towards the house and eventually spotted his friend.

  ‘Open up, quickly!’ he hissed. His voice was shaking, as though he were shivering from the cold.

  ‘Go to the front door,’ said Igor. He climbed down from the stool without taking his eyes off his friend.

  As soon as Kolyan was inside the house, he threw his bag to the floor and locked the door behind him.

  ‘Has something happened?’ Igor asked him.
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  Kolyan nodded. He noticed Igor’s mother in the depths of the hallway.

  ‘I’m sorry to come so late,’ he said hurriedly.

  ‘I’m going back to bed,’ said Igor’s mother.

  ‘Bring some chairs or stools out here,’ whispered Kolyan. ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘Let’s go and sit in the kitchen,’ suggested Igor.

  Kolyan shook his head. ‘I’d rather not be near any windows.’

  Igor didn’t move. He was staring in astonishment at his friend, who was dressed strangely and too warmly for autumn. Kolyan was wearing winter boots with ski trousers tucked into them, a warm padded jacket zipped up to the chin and a black ski hat.

  ‘Hey,’ said Kolyan, ‘did you hear me?’

  Igor nodded. He brought two stools. Kolyan sat down heavily on one of them.

  ‘Why don’t you take your things off?’ suggested Igor. ‘And I’ll go and put some on. It’s a bit chilly out here!’

  He went into his bedroom and put on a tracksuit, then went back out to the hallway. Kolyan was sitting on the stool exactly where he’d left him, except the ski hat was now lying on his lap. He was looking up at the overhead light.

  ‘Switch it off,’ he said.

  Igor flicked the switch and sat down opposite his friend, blinded by the sudden darkness.

  ‘So,’ he muttered, ‘are we going to talk like this?’

  ‘Yeah,’ whispered Kolyan, ‘I’m afraid so. I’m scared . . . You’re not going to believe it . . . I was nearly killed!’

  ‘Who was it this time?’ asked Igor.

  ‘The same guys,’ said Kolyan, unzipping his jacket. It made a sinister sound in the silence, like the hissing of a snake. ‘You know how I told you that guy was going to let me off, in exchange for a load of files and email correspondence . . .’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘Well, I did everything he wanted but then he went back on his word . . . He handed me over to the enemy! Turns out it was all just a game.’

  ‘Businessmen don’t kill people,’ said Igor, who suddenly felt cold, in spite of the tracksuit he’d put on.

  ‘Depends what kind of business they’re in . . . A sniper tried to shoot me when I was sitting in the kitchen. Can you imagine? I’d just leaned back so I could reach the kettle without standing up, and suddenly there was a hole in the window and a bullet whizzing right past my ear like a metal bee, bzzz! I felt the heat of it.’

  Kolyan touched his left ear. ‘Go on, feel it,’ he whispered.

  ‘Why?’ asked Igor, surprised. ‘So what are you going to do now?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Kolyan. He sounded desperate. ‘I can’t go back to Kiev. I can’t go home . . . I can’t go anywhere! They won’t leave me alone. I had a look at the files before I handed them over, you know, and it was all about money, big money . . . That banker, the one whose computer I hacked into, had done a runner with his bank’s money. Overseas . . . Do you get it? I’m dead!’

  ‘Well, you can stay here for a bit.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Kolyan bitterly. ‘But if they start intimidating people to find out where I might be hiding, anyone who knows me would immediately give your name.’

  ‘Not immediately, I hope,’ said Igor.

  ‘On top of everything else, I’ve got a splitting headache,’ said Kolyan, rubbing his right temple.

  ‘We’d better think of something,’ whispered Igor. ‘We’ve got to sort this out.’

  ‘Please do! I’m your problem now,’ said Kolyan, in the voice of a doomed man.

  ‘Let’s go into my room,’ suggested Igor.

  Kolyan stayed where he was and said nothing.

  ‘Do you want some brandy?’

  Kolyan liked this idea, so Igor went into the kitchen and fetched a bottle of Koktebel brandy and two glasses.

  They drank in silence. Igor could tell that Kolyan was on a mission to get drunk, and he was so focused on topping up his friend’s glass that he barely sipped from his own.

  Finally, Kolyan relaxed enough to agree to go into Igor’s bedroom. Leaving his jacket and boots in the hallway, he insisted that they sit on the floor of the bedroom, as far as possible from the window.

  ‘Have you got anything else to drink?’ he asked.

  ‘We’re out of brandy, but there’s some of Ma’s home-made wormwood liqueur.’

  ‘Let’s have some of that!’

  Again they drank in silence. Or rather Kolyan did, because he was the only one drinking, but no matter how much he drank he couldn’t get drunk.

  ‘What am I going to do?’ he asked, his voice faltering slightly. ‘You’ve got no idea . . . Life has just been one long headache since I ended up in that hospital.’

  ‘Since you got beaten up, you mean,’ said Igor. ‘It’s not the hospital’s fault. They were just looking after you.’

  Kolyan ignored him.

  ‘If only I could get away from it all, go abroad somewhere . . . But how, and where? They’d still find me. Oh, I’m so sick of all this!’

  ‘You need to go somewhere they’ll never be able to reach you,’ mused Igor.

  ‘South America?’ whispered Kolyan. ‘I’d die of boredom. Or tequila.’

  Igor shook his head. ‘No, not South America . . .’

  The two friends sat in silence. The little top window was open, and they could hear the distant drone of an aeroplane high in the sky.

  ‘Say something!’ whispered Kolyan, his lips trembling. ‘Think of something! You haven’t got very long . . . Maybe a day, at most. That sniper’s obviously been paid to do the job, and he’ll keep on trying until he gets me!’

  ‘Come on, let me make you up a bed in here, on the floor,’ suggested Igor. ‘You can have a sleep, and I’ll have a think.’

  Kolyan nodded his assent. He lay down on the thin mattress from the folding bed and fell asleep immediately, without taking off his ski outfit. Igor brought Kolyan’s bag into his bedroom. He lay down on his own bed and stared at the ceiling, listening to the agitated breathing of his sleeping friend.

  Maybe I should ask Stepan if Kolyan could stay at the new house for a while? thought Igor. He could give them a hand with the building work at the same time.

  He imagined Kolyan carrying a sack of building debris out of the house, while Stepan and Alyona were painting inside . . . Suddenly, a black jeep pulled up by the fence, with the men who were looking for Kolyan inside. How did they know he was here, at Stepan’s house?

  The more Igor thought about it, the more complicated the problem seemed to be. The combination of stress and fatigue was making his head ache. He rubbed his right temple with his fingers, and as he did so he remembered Kolyan complaining of a headache in the hallway and rubbing his temple in the same way.

  ‘What’s the answer? What’s the answer? Come on, brain, think!’ muttered Igor. He was yawning, on the point of surrendering to sleep but still trying to keep his eyes open.

  ‘A distant border,’ he whispered, his voice already fading.

  As Igor’s eyes began to close, he saw an image of Red Valya – her beautiful face terrified by Chagin, her large eyes full of despair. Igor rarely saw fear in people’s faces or heard fear in their voices, but recently there had been a lot of it about.

  His eyelids snapped open as an idea occurred to him.

  I have to send him back to Ochakov in 1957, thought Igor. The rush of adrenalin that accompanied this idea made him break out into a cold sweat. Yes! He can put the uniform on, I’ll tell him everything!

  Igor raised himself up on his elbows. He looked at Kolyan, asleep on the thin mattress, then he sat up and put his feet on the wooden floor.

  He doesn’t believe any of it, thought Igor, hesitating briefly as the shadow of a doubt surfaced in his mind. But what’s the alternative? Igor grinned, chasing the doubt away. This is our only hope!

  He walked over to Kolyan and squatted down by his head.

  ‘Get up,’ he whispered.

  But Kolyan was out
for the count, his sleep strengthened by brandy and home-made wormwood liqueur. Igor shook him by the shoulder. Kolyan mumbled something and turned his head away.

  ‘Get up, or I’ll switch the light on,’ Igor said firmly and confidently.

  Kolyan raised his head and looked round.

  ‘What?’ he whispered.

  ‘Get up, I’ve had an idea.’

  Kolyan sat up on the mattress with his mouth open. His head dropped towards his shoulder, and his eyes looked as though they were about to close again.

  ‘Listen to me . . . You need to go to Ochakov! You’ll be able to start a new life there.’

  ‘Not that old nonsense again.’ Kolyan sighed heavily. ‘Seriously, you woke me up just to tell me that?’

  ‘You need to look at it a different way,’ urged Igor. His voice was enthusiastic and persuasive. ‘Let’s assume that you’re already dead . . . It’ll be like going to a world beyond the grave. They’re all dead too, from the present-day point of view at least. But back there, they’re still alive!’

  ‘OK,’ nodded Kolyan, suddenly more receptive.

  ‘So you can go and join them and live . . . well, the rest of your life. You won’t meet anyone from here, and if you do, then you won’t even know about it.’

  Kolyan nodded again. ‘Tell me more,’ he said.

  ‘Do you really want to know?’ asked Igor doubtfully.

  ‘Yes. If it’s the only option, then yes . . . I’ll go, I’ll go back to the past . . . I’ll be dead soon anyway, so what difference does it make? No, seriously, I do want to know.’ He looked up at Igor.

  ‘You’ll believe it when you get there,’ said Igor, with conviction. ‘I’ll give you some photos . . . you’ll be able to recognise people from them. Someone’ll meet you, help you settle in. Get your things ready.’

  ‘What for?’ asked Kolyan in alarm.

  ‘The first commuter train to Kiev is in an hour. That photographer has developed some photos for me. I haven’t seen them yet. I’ll be able to show you the town and the people . . . I’m in some of the photos too. You still don’t believe me, do you?’