The Gardener from Ochakov

by Andrey Kurkov

  Igor froze, remembering how he’d almost received a slap from his mother for his inability to distinguish between the two types of proposal. This was obviously the business kind.

  ‘You want me to be the assistant manager of the cafe?’ asked Igor, with a hint of irony, although he succeeded in keeping a perfectly straight face.

  ‘No,’ Stepan answered calmly, ‘I want you to help in the kitchen.’

  ‘And who will I be helping?’ Igor couldn’t help his lip twisting in a supercilious smile, as he imagined their neighbour Olga standing over the hob and himself next to her in a chef’s hat.

  ‘Alyona, my daughter. She’s going to be the chef.’

  Igor’s mood suddenly changed.

  ‘Will you take my employment record book?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, it’ll all be above board.’

  ‘What are you going to write in it? Sous-chef?’

  ‘What would you prefer? I can write “kitchen manager”, if you like.’ Stepan smiled.

  ‘No, I’d prefer “gardener”.’ Igor smiled back at him.

  ‘Kitchen gardener?’

  ‘Just “gardener”,’ said Igor, his face serious again.

  ‘All right, let’s shake on it,’ said Stepan, nodding solemnly and pressing his lips together.

  Just then Alyona came out of the bedroom. The freshly washed parquet floor gleamed behind her. She couldn’t hide her surprise when she saw her father and Igor firmly shaking hands.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘We’re shaking on a deal,’ answered Stepan. ‘Now we just have to sign it.’

  ‘What’s the cafe going to be called?’ Igor asked suddenly.

  ‘Cafe Ochakov,’ answered Stepan.

  ‘So in my employment record book, it’s going to say “gardener” and “Ochakov”? I’m going to be the gardener from Ochakov!’ Igor smiled happily at the thought.

  ‘It would appear so.’

  ‘Excellent! By the way, I’ve got some old photographs of Ochakov, blown up in large format . . . Maybe we could hang them on the walls?’

  ‘Why not? The recipes will be from Ochakov too, from my father’s book. All our food will be healthy and beneficial!’

  Igor’s mind began to wander as he imagined the photographs on the wall of the cafe, showing Valya, Vanya, Aleksandra Marinovna, Stepan’s father Iosip and Igor himself. An amusing thought struck him: what if Stepan were looking at them one day and noticed Igor? He would ask him what he was doing in old Ochakov, and Igor would tell him everything. He would tell him about everyone in the photographs, including Iosip.

  ‘Did your mother tell you that I’d asked her to marry me?’ Stepan asked suddenly.

  ‘She did,’ nodded Igor.

  ‘Do you have any objections?’

  Igor shook his head.

  ‘Your mother will move in with me,’ continued Stepan. ‘And she’ll leave the house to you.’

  ‘The house with the scales?’ mused Igor.

  ‘No,’ said Stepan. ‘She’s bringing the scales with her. What do you want them for?’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Igor, waving his hand dismissively.

  He bought a bottle of brandy on the way home. Elena Andreevna looked out into the hallway when she heard him come in.

  ‘Is your friend going to be sitting on your bedroom floor for much longer?’ she asked in a half-whisper.

  ‘No,’ said Igor. ‘He’s leaving this evening.’

  ‘There’s a leftover cutlet and some potatoes in there,’ said his mother, nodding at the kitchen door.

  ‘Thanks. You know, Ma, Stepan made me a proposal too,’ said Igor, with a sly smile on his face. ‘Of the business variety.’

  ‘What did he say?’ asked his mother, her eyes burning with curiosity.

  ‘I’m going to be a sous-chef at the cafe.’

  His mother’s response to the news was less than enthusiastic.

  ‘Who’s the chef?’ she asked indifferently.

  ‘Alyona.’

  Elena Andreevna’s face lit up with surprise, followed by contemplative approval.

  ‘Well, then,’ she murmured, ‘maybe you’ll learn something useful. It’s a good profession, and at least you’ll never go hungry.’

  Igor and Kolyan began their last supper at 9.30 p.m. Igor’s mother was watching the end of one of her soap operas. Outside, darkness reigned. Kolyan’s fork shook in his hand but he ate hungrily, as though he were storing up for the future. He seemed thirsty too.

  ‘I think I believe you now,’ muttered Kolyan, holding out his empty glass so that Igor could fill it again with brandy. ‘I didn’t believe all your fairy tales before, but I do now.’

  ‘Amazing the difference a closed-head injury can make! You used to be thick-skulled, like most people in this country. But now you’re in the minority, like me.’

  ‘Why, have you had a closed-head injury too?’ asked Kolyan, looking suspiciously at his friend.

  ‘Yes, when I was little. My father wasn’t looking after me properly and I ran into a spinning carousel. Now listen, I’m going to give you some money to take with you. A lot of money. I want you to take two bundles of cash and a note to Valya. Remember? I pointed her out in the photos.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Kolyan shot him a knowing look. ‘She’s not the kind you forget!’

  The faintest trace of a smile crossed Igor’s face.

  ‘Just don’t flash it about. They don’t appreciate that sort of thing.’

  Kolyan nodded obediently.

  At around 11 p.m. Igor helped his friend to put on the police uniform. When Kolyan pulled the boots on, he winced in discomfort.

  ‘They’re a bit tight,’ he grumbled.

  ‘Walk around the room for a bit,’ suggested Igor.

  In the darkness Kolyan walked across the room and back several times, then sat down again.

  ‘That’s weird,’ he said. ‘Now they fit . . .’

  ‘The uniform and the boots represent the past, and the past changes its shape and size to fit whoever tries it on.’

  ‘Whatever!’ Kolyan shook his head and took the belt and holster from Igor. He opened the holster and looked at the gun.

  ‘Shame it doesn’t work,’ he murmured.

  ‘It does when you’re there,’ said Igor, nodding earnestly. He waited while Kolyan fastened the belt around his waist, then handed him a dark cloth bag in which he’d placed the bundles of Soviet banknotes and an envelope containing a note for Valya.

  What if Kolyan reads the note? Igor suddenly panicked. Well, it doesn’t say much anyway . . . It’s just a request for her to pity him as much as she can.

  ‘Here, take this too,’ said Igor, handing his friend the gold watch.

  ‘That’s an expensive gift,’ whispered Kolyan.

  ‘Let’s call it an exchange. Your laptop in return for my watch. It’ll work there too, by the way, and it’ll show the right time.’

  They left the house at around midnight – Kolyan in the old police uniform, holding the cloth bag, and Igor in a tracksuit and a leather jacket.

  ‘Come on, best foot forward and all that!’ Igor said cheerfully, trying in vain to impart some enthusiasm to his friend. Kolyan couldn’t have looked less enthusiastic if he’d tried.

  Houses stretched along both sides of the street. There were no lights in their windows. Igor peered at them as though he were seeing them for the first time, which perhaps he was . . . After all, on previous occasions he had only ever looked straight ahead, seeking out the little lights in front of the gates of the wine factory. Fences and houses had been relegated to his peripheral vision. But this time he felt an exhilarating sense of freedom – he could look wherever he wanted! Kolyan was the one looking straight ahead as he walked, as though he’d been hypnotised.

  At some point Igor noticed that the darkness had grown thicker and the houses had disappeared. He stopped.

  ‘I’m not going any further,’ he said to his friend. ‘You’re on your own now.’r />
  Kolyan stopped too, a little way ahead.

  ‘On my own?’ he repeated.

  ‘Well, not completely. Someone will meet you soon. His name’s Vanya Samokhin. Tell him I said hello. Oh, and this is really important – don’t ever take the uniform off. Treat it like a second skin. Without it, you’ll disappear.’

  ‘What do you mean, disappear?’

  ‘You’ll come straight back here.’

  ‘Back to the present, you mean?’

  Igor nodded.

  ‘That’s good to know. If it’s worse there than it is here, at least now I know there’s a way out. So we don’t need to say goodbye!’

  Without another word, Kolyan turned away from Igor and continued walking along the road. The darkness swallowed him a few moments later.

  Igor stood there for a while, looking and listening, then he turned round and walked quickly back along the road. His steps were surprisingly light, which might have been something to do with the imported Chinese trainers he was wearing. They weighed next to nothing.

  Houses appeared again along both sides of the street. There were still no lights in their windows.

  Kolyan stopped when he reached the illuminated square in front of the green gates of the Ochakov Wine Factory, unsure what to do next. He looked around.

  The gates suddenly creaked open and Kolyan took a step back. An old lorry rolled noisily out of the gates and turned onto the road, which was visible only in the glow from its headlights. It drove away from him, soon disappearing from view. The gates closed and all was quiet. Kolyan’s sense of hearing was more alert than usual, and after just a few minutes he detected the creak of the gate hinges again. A young lad appeared in the gap, carrying something over his shoulder. The gates were bolted behind him. The sack was obviously heavy, and as the lad lowered it to his feet it seemed to squirm as though it contained a live piglet.

  Kolyan peered closely at the young lad and the sack.

  ‘Are you Vanya?’ he called out of the darkness.

  ‘Yes.’

  Kolyan walked over to him.

  ‘Igor says hello!’ he said.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Kolyan sighed heavily. He had to say something, to break the ice somehow.

  ‘Is that heavy?’ he asked, pointing at the sack.

  Vanya nodded.

  ‘Let me give you a hand.’

  Kolyan bent down towards the sack of wine, and Vanya gladly helped him to hoist it onto his right shoulder. They began walking along the dark road, following the route taken by the lorry.

  ‘I’ve got a note for Valya,’ Kolyan said quietly. ‘Will you introduce me to her?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning,’ promised Vanya Samokhin. ‘She’s having a difficult time at the moment, but she’s got a soft spot for men in uniform. We’re going back to our house now. Mother said she’d fry some gobies. You can stay with us for a while . . . The wine will help you sleep.’

  ‘What wine?’ asked Kolyan, confused.

  ‘This wine!’ Vanya slapped the sack and it wobbled on Kolyan’s shoulder. ‘It’s a dry white . . . Your friend loved it. You can drink it on its own, without food, and the dreams it gives you . . . well, they’re better than any film!’

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  Epub ISBN: 9781448104697

  Version 1.0

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  Published by Harvill Secker 2013

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  Copyright © Andrey Kurkov 2011

  Copyright © Diogenes Verlag AG Zürich 2011

  English translation copyright © Amanda Love Darragh 2013

  Andrey Kurkov has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

  First published with the title Sadovnik iz Ochakova in 2009

  by Folio Publishers, Kharkov

  First published in Great Britain in 2013 by

  HARVILL SECKER

  Random House

  20 Vauxhall Bridge Road

  London SW1V 2SA

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

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  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 9781846556159

  This publication was effected under the auspices of the Mikhail Prokhorov Foundation TRANSCRIPT Programme to Support Translations of Russian Literature