The Gardener from Ochakov

by Andrey Kurkov

  ‘Let’s have a drink first,’ said Igor, brushing Kolyan’s request aside. It had suddenly occurred to him that it might sound like he’d made it all up. If Kolyan had told him a similar story, that’s what he would have thought anyway.

  ‘Right,’ nodded Kolyan. ‘I knew it. You’re bored out of your mind, aren’t you? Stuck out there in the sticks . . . Just admit it! Irpen’s not the same as Kiev, is it? You don’t even have anyone to go for a proper drink with. No intellectually stimulating conversation. “What are you looking at? No, what are you looking at?” That’s the only kind of conversation you get out there!’

  Igor shook his head, but Kolyan’s mind was already on other matters.

  ‘I’m feeling rather proud of myself today, you know. You’ll never believe it . . . For the first time ever, I actually made some money out of my hacking skills. Two thousand dollars!’

  ‘How come?’ asked Igor, surprised. ‘Did you take it out of someone’s account?’

  ‘Of course not! It was all above board. I hacked into some rich guy’s email account and copied his email correspondence with his lover, and then sold it to his wife. She was delighted.’

  Igor raised his eyebrows. ‘Delighted?’ he repeated.

  ‘Well, not delighted, obviously, but . . . Well, anyway, she wasn’t disappointed, that’s for sure! She’s going to take him to the cleaners. He’ll definitely be paying for his bit on the side.’

  A slender female hand placed the long-awaited vodka shot on the table in front of Igor, then a large glass of beer next to it. The light in the bar made the beer glow an appetising amber colour. Igor knocked back his shot and chased it with a gulp of beer. There was a bitter aftertaste in his mouth, which was both pleasant and refreshing.

  ‘Excuse me . . . Another double, please!’ he called, smiling as he caught the waitress’s eye. She brought it straight over.

  ‘Hey, slow down, old man! At least have something to eat,’ said Kolyan, nodding at the saucer of salted croutons on the table.

  Igor took a handful and started crunching them noisily between his teeth.

  ‘You won’t believe what I’m about to tell you,’ he said, casting a sly glance at his friend.

  He thought about the way Kolyan had made him wait before showing him the printout of Stepan’s tattoo.

  ‘Why, what is it?’

  ‘No, you’ll never believe it . . . Oh, I’ll tell you later,’ continued Igor, deliberately taunting his friend. ‘After all, you don’t believe in fairy tales.’

  ‘Depends what kind . . . Come on, tell me.’ Kolyan took a large swig of beer. ‘Don’t keep me hanging on!’

  ‘Remember I got drunk at your birthday, in the Petrovich club?’

  ‘How could I forget?!’

  ‘Right, well, I wasn’t actually there at all,’ declared Igor. ‘I was in Ochakov . . . in 1957!’

  Kolyan looked at the two empty shot glasses. ‘Doesn’t take much, does it?’ he grinned.

  Igor sighed heavily. ‘Can you remember what I was wearing?’ he asked.

  Kolyan thought about it. ‘I’d had a fair amount myself, you know . . . Birthday boy’s prerogative, and all that!’

  ‘Right,’ nodded Igor. ‘Well, I got dressed up in an old police uniform, put my jacket on and left for your party. Actually, I left for the bus station but ended up at the Ochakov Wine Factory . . .’

  And Igor went on to tell his friend all about his first trip back in time. Kolyan listened attentively, with an incredulous smile on his face. His expression only changed when Igor told him how he and the wine thief Vanya had watched Fima Chagin’s house. As though he’d suddenly made the connection with the tattoo.

  ‘So, do you believe me?’ asked Igor, noticing Kolyan’s reaction.

  ‘Of course not,’ replied Kolyan. ‘But it’s a great story. Have you considered recording your fantasies?’

  ‘Oh, piss off,’ muttered Igor. He was a bit annoyed, but he wasn’t really angry with Kolyan. He turned towards the bar again. ‘Another double, please, and another Chernigivske.’

  ‘And I’ll have another Lviv,’ added Kolyan, taking advantage of the fact that they had the waitress’s attention.

  ‘Right, well, I’ll shut up then!’ declared Igor.

  ‘Why?’ Kolyan shrugged. ‘Drinking in silence is bad for your health. Now I’m wondering whether or not I should make a move on the wife of the businessman whose accounts I hacked into . . . She’s just found out her husband’s cheating on her, maybe she’ll want to get her own back? With me, for example? Why not, eh?’

  ‘If I were a girl, I might be able to rate your chances more accurately.’

  ‘Good job you’re not then,’ laughed Kolyan. ‘We need an expert opinion,’ he added, looking at the waitress as she walked past. ‘When you’ve got a minute!’ he called after her.

  The girl was concentrating on carrying three glasses of beer to another table, but she looked their way and nodded.

  ‘So is it something you drink that enables you to travel back in time?’ asked Kolyan, turning back to his friend. ‘Or are you smoking some new kind of blend? Seems to be very popular these days.’

  Igor cleared his throat, but it didn’t sound as exasperated as he’d meant it to. His mood was improving. The double shots of vodka, washed down with beer, had warmed his soul, and he felt relaxed and amiably indifferent to the world.

  ‘This is how it works,’ said Igor. ‘First you drink two glasses of brandy, then you put on an old police uniform and go outside, around eleven o’clock at night. Then you leave the yard and turn right.’

  ‘Excellent!’ exclaimed Kolyan. ‘If you dressed up as an astronaut, do you think you’d end up in space? Look, now you’ve got me talking nonsense too!’

  ‘And you’re not even mixing your drinks,’ Igor smiled.

  ‘Can I get you anything else?’ The waitress had stopped near their table.

  Kolyan looked at the little name badge that was pinned to her white blouse.

  ‘Lena . . . Lenochka,’ he said, his tone familiar but not overly so. ‘Please bring me another Lviv beer, and he’ll have five’ – he glanced at Igor – ‘no, six shots of vodka! Out of interest, can I ask you a personal question? What do you think of me? You know, from a woman’s perspective. Be honest. I really want to know!’

  The girl smiled. ‘You seem like a typical man to me,’ she shrugged. ‘An armchair football fan.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Kolyan seemed genuinely baffled, and Igor couldn’t keep the smile from his face.

  ‘You men are all the same. You like watching football on TV, and drinking beer . . . I bet you work with computers, don’t you?’

  ‘How do you know that?’ asked Kolyan.

  ‘You look like you’re typing on the table. See, you’re doing it now,’ laughed the girl.

  Alarmed, Kolyan looked down at the fingers of his right hand, which were drumming on the tabletop. He frowned, and his hand stopped moving.

  ‘She got you there!’ said Igor, not entirely unsympathetically, as he watched the waitress walk away.

  Kolyan didn’t answer. He finished his second beer and put the glass to one side.

  Instead of six shots Lena the waitress brought a whole bottle of vodka, and another beer for Kolyan. Igor filled his shot glass and knocked it back. He looked at his friend with a mischievous gleam in his eyes.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said. ‘You’ll have better luck with the wife of that businessman . . . As long as he doesn’t catch you at it!’

  Kolyan only sulked for about five minutes. Once they stopped winding each other up the conversation flowed easily, interspersed with stories and jokes. The emptying of the vodka bottle was admirably methodical.

  There were two young women sitting a couple of tables away, both about thirty years old. One of them had bright red dyed hair, cropped short. She was wearing jeans and a tight-fitting red polo shirt. Her friend had brown hair and was wearing tight leather trousers and a leather wai
stcoat over a black blouse. There were no other customers.

  Igor peered at the red-haired woman, scrutinising her sharp-featured but attractive face.

  ‘I’m going to go over and say hello,’ he said, standing up with some difficulty.

  He went over to their table and stared at the woman with red hair.

  ‘You’re not from Ochakov, are you, by any chance?’ asked Igor, with a drunken attempt at a charming smile.

  Both of them looked up at him, amused.

  ‘No,’ answered the red-haired one. ‘We’re from Mariupol, actually. Would you like to join us for a drink?’ She nodded at an empty chair.

  Despite his advanced state of inebriation Igor knew it was time to leave.

  ‘As you’re not from Ochakov, I’m sorry for bothering you,’ he slurred, returning to his own table.

  ‘Will you be all right getting home?’ asked Kolyan.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ Igor assured him.

  Before they went their separate ways Kolyan, who had managed to stay relatively sober due to not mixing his drinks, helped Igor to flag down a car. He even sat him in the rear seat of the red Lada and gave the driver precise instructions on where to drop him off, so Igor was able to doze off in the back of the car. They arrived at the Nivka metro station just as the last minibus to Irpen was getting ready to leave.

  Whereas Igor’s journey in the red Lada had lulled him to sleep, the jolting and swerving of the minibus to Irpen was more of a rude awakening and soon sobered him up. He left the minibus in Irpen with the other late-night passengers and surprised himself by setting out towards home with a light spring in his step. The minibus driver may have succeeded in shaking the alcohol out of his system, but his head still felt cloudy.

  After a traumatic labour, the thought was born in Igor’s mind that maybe the whole thing really was just nonsense. Maybe I’ve turned into an alcoholic and I’m seeing things that don’t exist in real life? he thought. It could be a withdrawal symptom, without the fever or the nightmares. But what about the red-haired woman at the market? And the one in the bar? Why am I being haunted by red-haired women? It’s like a new version of scarlet fever!

  Igor thought about the woman from the bar. She was the spitting image of red-haired Red Valya from the Ochakov market. Only if that Valya didn’t really exist, then who did she look like?

  It’s all too weird, thought Igor. I’ll have to do a bit of research . . . And then find out whether or not it can be cured!

  He went into their yard, carefully closing the gate behind himself. He stopped and looked at the fence, which Stepan had been so determined to fix. Peering at it closely, Igor noticed that three of the fence posts were brand new. He walked round behind the house and looked at the shed. A strip of light was visible beneath the closed door, and light was also coming from the little window to the right of the door.

  Why isn’t he asleep? wondered Igor. Well, let’s find out!

  He clambered carefully onto the bench by the door. Straightening up, he stood on tiptoe and pressed his left cheek to the window.

  Stepan was sitting on a stool directly underneath the light bulb that hung down from the ceiling, poring over a large book. After staring intently at the book, Igor recognised it as the one they’d taken out of the first suitcase.

  Igor climbed down from the bench and spat on the ground. He walked over to the house and, trying not to make a sound, carefully let himself in. He went into the kitchen, opened the cupboard and took out a bottle of brandy and a glass.

  ‘Well, here goes,’ he whispered, before downing it and pouring another.

  The warmth of the brandy remained on his tongue. He walked along the dark hallway to the dining room, then into his bedroom. He changed into the police uniform, put on the peaked cap and pulled on the boots. He put the heavy gold watch into one of the pockets of the breeches and walked over to the window. It was pitch black outside, like the inside of a cellar.

  ‘Right then,’ he whispered to himself. ‘Research time!’

  15

  THE DARK PART of the road from Irpen to Ochakov seemed to go on for ever this time. Maybe because Igor was walking slowly, belatedly feeling the after-effects of his drinking session with Kolyan. Time had become a fluid concept in his mind: minutes and hours had been replaced by this dark time of day, defined only by its darkness.

  A sudden rush of anxiety seized Igor, making him stop for a moment. He patted the pockets of the tunic. Then his hands moved down to his breeches, brushing against the holster before coming to rest on the bundles of Soviet roubles. The nocturnal time traveller was instantly reassured and continued on his way.

  As soon as Igor saw the familiar gentle glow from the factory in the distance, the gold watch came to life and began ticking in the left-hand pocket of the breeches, like a vibrating mobile phone alarm. Keeping his eyes fixed on the gates, which were still three hundred metres away, Igor increased his pace.

  Any minute now that lorry’s going to leave, he thought. Then Vanya will come out with his sack of stolen wine . . .

  Just then the gates opened slightly and Vanya Samokhin slipped out onto the square. He stopped and looked around furtively, adjusting the sack on his right shoulder. Then he waved back at the guard and set off towards the town, away from Igor.

  Igor sensed that the darkness was about to swallow Vanya. He knew he wouldn’t stand a chance of finding his way round Ochakov at night, so he quickened his pace. The accelerated rhythm of the soles of his boots on the road spurred him on, and he was already thinking more clearly than before. He thought specifically about the room in Vanya’s house where he’d gone to sleep several times but only woken up once. He could only just make out Vanya’s back. He began to panic and eventually started running.

  ‘Vanya!’ he called.

  Vanya Samokhin stepped to one side and looked over his shoulder. At the sight of the police officer running towards him, he threw the sack of wine under some nearby trees and automatically raised his hands.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Igor, stopping alongside him and catching sight of his frightened face.

  ‘Oh!’ The lad wiped his forehead with the palm of his hand. ‘You scared me, comrade lieutenant!’

  He retrieved the sack of wine from under the trees and threw it over his right shoulder again.

  ‘I haven’t seen you for a while,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘About four days, isn’t it?’

  Igor didn’t answer. ‘Aren’t you bored of stealing wine?’ he asked instead.

  ‘God helps those who help themselves, and the police help everyone else,’ Vanya said with a sigh. ‘Shall we go back to my place?’

  ‘Where else?’ replied Igor.

  ‘I’ve taken the photographs you wanted, but I don’t know how to develop them . . . You’ll have to take the film to a photography studio.’

  ‘You can do that for me,’ said Igor, catching up with Vanya and falling into step alongside him.

  ‘I can’t,’ Vanya said in a low voice. ‘The photographer is a Jew. He’ll tell Fima that I’ve been taking secret pictures of him and his friends.’

  ‘Why would he tell him? Are they good friends or something?’

  ‘No. Because he’s a Jew.’

  ‘Don’t you trust Jews?’ asked Igor, surprised.

  ‘No one does! Our head technologist, Efim Naftulovich, was arrested and imprisoned for sabotage.’

  ‘You’re talking nonsense!’ exclaimed Igor, shaking his head emphatically as he walked. ‘Did you take photographs of many people?’

  ‘About seven . . . And Valya.’

  They ran out of things to say and walked in silence for about ten minutes, until Vanya opened the gate to his yard and then the door to his house.

  Igor sat down on the sofa with the high wooden back and removed his boots. When Vanya came into the room holding a glass of wine, Igor drank it in two gulps and nodded his thanks.

  ‘Is it true that the
y’re introducing a new police uniform?’ Vanya suddenly whispered.

  Igor was instantly on edge.

  ‘Where did you hear that?’

  ‘On the radio.’

  ‘It must be true, then,’ Igor replied uneasily. ‘Wake me at nine if I’m not up by then. What time does the photography place open?’

  ‘Everything opens at eight here, except the market. That opens at six,’ said Vanya. ‘But you should take the film to Kiev to get it developed. Otherwise the old man will tell Fima and all the others that the police are taking photographs of them. Here, take it.’ Vanya placed the film in Igor’s outstretched hand and left the room. Igor looked at the small black cartridge protecting the undeveloped film from the light. He rolled it back and forth in his palm, then put it in his pocket.

  It was a surprisingly resonant morning. The footsteps of people hurrying past in the street mingled with the sound of doors slamming and the creaking of the wooden floorboards in the house. Igor pulled on his boots, just as Vanya looked into the room. He was already dressed.

  ‘Why are you up so early?’ he asked, surprised. ‘It’s only six. I thought I’d just go to the market, then come back and we could –’

  ‘Why are you going to the market?’ asked Igor, adjusting his tunic.

  ‘I’m going to carry the wine for Mother. It’s too heavy for her to manage alone.’

  ‘Well, I’ll come with you,’ said Igor. He could tell from Vanya’s face that he wasn’t keen on this idea.

  ‘If you want to go to the market, you’ll have to walk behind us. Otherwise people will wonder what’s going on – Mother, me with the wine, and a police officer. They all know . . .’ His voice trailed off.

  ‘You mean, they know where the wine’s from?’ smiled Igor.

  ‘Not everyone, of course, but it’s a small town. I know how Bartenyuk gets hold of the ox tongues that he sells at the market, and he knows where my wine’s from.’

  ‘OK, OK,’ Igor reassured him. ‘I’ll give you a head start. I’m only going to wander round for an hour or so, then I’ll come back here.’

  ‘Going to wander round, eh?’ Vanya smiled. ‘Are you going to see Red Valya?’