This time Vanya understood what was being asked of him. He nodded and slipped the hundred-rouble note into his jacket pocket.
‘I’m going to bed,’ said Igor, getting up from the table. ‘I’m leaving early in the morning, but I’ll be back in a couple of days. Goodnight.’
Igor didn’t need to put the light on in the living room. He already knew exactly where everything was – the ancient sofa with the high wooden back, the chair and the little table. He got undressed, folded the police uniform and placed it on the stool, then lay under the warm quilted blanket and fell asleep.
16
THE FOLLOWING MORNING Igor had a headache. His mother put her head round the door to his room, saw him lying in bed and retreated. A tractor rumbled past the house and the noise revived Igor, forcing him out of bed. His face was contorted in a painful grimace. The world was becoming increasingly full of unpleasant, irritating noises, and Igor’s head was like a vacuum cleaner – sucking them in, tossing them about, mixing them together so that they merged into a continuous drone.
Igor reached out and felt the police uniform that lay on his stool, neatly folded as usual. The bundles of roubles were still there, and the gold watch, but there was something else too.
Igor took the breeches from underneath the tunic and gave them a shake. He found the film cartridge and took it out, staring at it with a look of utter perplexity.
‘You’re back then, are you?’ His mother’s face had appeared at the door again. ‘Do you want anything to eat?’
Igor turned round to face his mother. She looked worried and upset.
‘You’ve started drinking too much,’ she said. It was more of an observation than a reproach, but her voice was trembling.
‘No,’ he protested, shaking his head. ‘Not that much . . .’
‘I can smell it on you.’ His mother shook her head too. ‘Have you got a new group of friends?’
Igor thought about it but didn’t answer.
‘I’m just popping out for an hour. I’ve got a few things to do,’ she said. ‘If you want anything to eat, it’s all in the fridge.’
‘Ma, where’s Stepan?’ Igor suddenly asked.
‘Stepan? He was in the yard earlier, sharpening the spades.’
‘I might go to Kiev today,’ said Igor. He glanced at the wooden floor, which would soon need of a coat of paint. ‘I won’t be long . . . I just need to get a film developed.’
‘I thought you had one of those digital cameras,’ said his mother, surprised.
‘I bought an antique one that uses film,’ he lied.
‘Why are you so interested in antiques all of a sudden? And what about that old uniform?’ His mother nodded at the stool.
‘It’s no big deal. Everyone’s into retro parties and vintage these days.’
Elena Andreevna left her son’s room. Igor placed the film cartridge on the stool and got dressed. He stood at the window for a few minutes, looking out at the grey autumn day, which was about to burst into rain. His headache had subsided.
I wish I lived alone, he thought suddenly. Then I wouldn’t be constantly under surveillance.
Igor smiled. He’d just remembered the bundle of 200-hryvna notes that Stepan had given him: 20,000 hryvnas! That was more than he needed to keep himself in beer and coffee . . . but not nearly enough for a place of his own. What if he were to invest it, though? Igor stopped smiling and grew serious as he contemplated this idea. There’s no point investing in someone else’s business, he decided. I’d never get it back. But what do I know about starting my own business? Nothing.
Igor decided to take the commuter train to Kiev. Although the sky hung low under the weight of the storm clouds, it still wasn’t actually raining. He used to do this journey more often, taking the commuter train to Kiev and then walking to Victory Square. His route took him across the other platforms via the pedestrian bridge and down into Starovokzalnaya Street, which had been turned into a kind of market for suburban commuters. As well as kiosks and shops there were all kinds of little workshops, where you could prolong the life of an old pair of worn-out shoes, get the batteries in your watch changed or even fix the lock on a suitcase. Igor could remember seeing a little photo-processing place here. To Igor’s delight, it was still there and the door was open. However, after inspecting the film the boy behind the counter shook his head.
‘Can’t do anything with that,’ he said, handing the cartridge back to Igor. ‘It’s an old Svema film. Black and white, too. You need to take it to a proper lab.’
‘What do you mean, a “proper lab”?’ Igor asked in dismay.
‘Fuji or Kodak. Let me think where the nearest one is . . .’ He paused. ‘You’ll have to go to Khmelnitsky Street. Or Lviv Square, that would be a better bet. It’s only five minutes by minibus from the circus. There are a couple of places past the House of Artists.’
Igor put the film cartridge in his jacket pocket, glanced up at the sky and started walking towards the circus.
The slick Fuji salon on Lviv Square was a far cry from the little shack on Starovokzalnaya Street. The man behind the counter wore a solemn expression and an expensive suit; a large printing and processing machine, which evidently originated from Japan or one of its neighbouring countries, was humming busily away behind him. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help either.
‘A Svema, eh?’ He seemed surprised. ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you.’ He looked back at the machine. ‘It’s programmed to work in colour. If we were talking a hundred black-and-white films, then we might be able to come to some arrangement.’
‘Right,’ said Igor, his voice a mixture of disappointment and despair. ‘So isn’t there anywhere in Kiev I can get it developed?’
‘I didn’t say that!’ The man gave a guilty smile. ‘You need to go to a professional. Try number 26 Proreznaya Street.’
Igor stuffed the cartridge back into his jacket pocket, nodded despondently at the man in the suit and went outside.
A light rain had begun to fall, apologetically, as though embarrassed by its own inadequacy – the heavy storm clouds were clearly capable of thunderous downpours, and yet all they had managed to produce was this pathetic drizzle.
The photography studio on Proreznaya Street had large windows facing the street. Several oversized prints of black-and-white photographs were on display behind the glass, and Igor stood there for a while admiring them. Even the tiniest details were clearly visible. Everything about the photos was contemporary – the people, the buildings – but the absence of colour emphasised the timelessness of the images and made Igor look at them more closely to see what he was missing. Colour photos can make you smile. They’re great for holiday snaps but they rarely inspire you or make you think. Black-and-white photos are a different matter, and Igor felt this as soon as he set eyes on them.
When he’d finished admiring the photographs, he looked for the door to the studio. He found it in the courtyard.
This studio didn’t have a counter or any processing machines. It reminded him more of a private apartment. The door to the room on the left was wide open, and the twin aromas of coffee and menthol cigarettes indicated that this was the kitchen. Further inside, down two little steps and through a set of open double doors, was a spacious room with two sofas and two armchairs, all arranged around a large coffee table with a thick glass top. A couple of photo albums lay on the table. One was still wrapped in cellophane, and the cover of the other featured one of the photographs from the studio windows.
‘Can I help you?’ A quiet female voice behind him made him jump.
Igor spun round and saw a short woman of about forty years old, holding a cup of freshly brewed coffee in one hand. She had cropped ash-coloured hair and was wearing earrings inset with turquoise, a dark blue housecoat and fluffy slippers. Igor felt extremely uncomfortable, as though he’d barged into someone’s home uninvited.
‘I must have made a mistake,’ he said hurriedly, taking the film out of his jacket pocket. �
�I thought this was a . . . photography studio.’
Igor thought about walking straight past the woman and out of the door, but she’d already caught sight of the film cartridge and stopped him with a look.
‘Can I see?’ she asked, holding her free hand out towards him.
‘Of course!’
‘Take a seat,’ she said, leading the way to the sofas and chairs. She placed her coffee on the table and sat in an armchair, then held the film cartridge up and inspected it more closely.
‘So it hasn’t been developed yet?’ The woman looked at Igor.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Are they family photos?’
‘What?’ Igor didn’t understand what she meant.
‘I assumed you’d found it among your parents’ things,’ she said. Her voice became softer, more velvety. ‘I once found three undeveloped films in the bag where my mother kept all her documents . . . One of them turned out to be full of pictures of my brother and me in Yevpatoriya in the 1970s. He was seven years old, and I was five.’
Igor listened attentively, nodding his head.
‘Can you develop it for me?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ said the woman. ‘My husband will be back in half an hour. He’s the photographer, I just help out. You need to talk to him.’
The woman’s husband was also called Igor – a short, wiry man with a pleasant demeanour. He was wearing a threadbare grey jacket and a checked shirt, which was tucked into his jeans. The top two buttons of the shirt were undone.
‘I pride myself on the high quality of my work, and my prices reflect that,’ he said immediately. ‘You can take the film along to an amateur photography club and come to some arrangement with one of the old boys who use antique cameras, or you can leave it here with me – it’s up to you. The price for developing and printing will be a hundred dollars.’
‘A hundred dollars?’ repeated Igor.
‘Actually it should be at least two hundred and fifty. The chemicals are all imported, and then there’s the special paper and so on. I’m offering you a one-off special price, an introduction to the world of professional photography.’ He nodded at the film. ‘You don’t even know what’s on there. And in any case it might already have been exposed to light. So think about it carefully – are you sure you want to go ahead?’
Igor-the-photographer stared searchingly into his visitor’s eyes, as though he were hoping to dissuade him. Igor found himself momentarily reconsidering. He didn’t have a hundred dollars on him, for a start.
‘Yes,’ said Igor. He looked down at the little plastic container. ‘I’m sure. How long will it take?’
‘Well, I can probably do it in a couple of days. I need to check I’ve got all the right chemicals, and then it’s a question of finding the time. I’m working on various commissions and projects . . . Art for art’s sake does not pay the rent!’
‘Do I need to pay up front?’ Igor asked warily.
‘Of course,’ sighed the photographer. ‘If you just leave it with me, I might never see you again. But if the work’s paid for I’ll do it, then it’s your choice whether or not to come back for the photos.’
Igor nodded.
‘Fine, in that case I’ll leave it with you,’ he said, handing the cartridge to the photographer. ‘I haven’t got the money on me right now, but I . . . I’ll call my friend. He might lend it to me.’
‘Go ahead.’
Igor called Kolyan on his mobile.
‘Hey, can you lend me a hundred dollars for a couple of days? I’ve got the money, but it’s at home and I’m in Kiev.’
‘No problem, come and get it!’ Kolyan sounded particularly cheerful. ‘I can lend you a thousand if you like. Just say the word!’
‘I don’t need a thousand, thanks.’ Igor rang off and turned to the photographer. ‘I’ll be back with the money in an hour,’ he promised.
‘If I’m not here, just give it to my wife,’ replied the photographer.
Kolyan bounded out of the bank. ‘So what’s it to be – beer, coffee, cappuccino?’ he asked playfully, spreading his hands as if to indicate that in order to drink beer they would have to go one way, but in order to drink coffee they would have to go the other.
‘You seem a bit weird today,’ Igor observed cautiously.
‘I’m not the same man I was yesterday.’ Kolyan smiled and lowered his hands. ‘I’ve just been given five thousand dollars! Come on, let’s go.’
They headed to a cafe they both knew, five minutes’ walk from the bank. They ordered a couple of espressos and sat down at a little table in the corner.
‘Here you go!’ Kolyan made a big show of taking a bundle of hundred-dollar notes out of his pocket. Peeling one off, he handed it to his friend. ‘Do you need another one?’
Igor put the money in his pocket.
‘One’s enough. I need it to get a film developed.’
‘A hundred dollars, just to develop a film? What’s so special about it? What’s it going to cost you to get it printed, another two hundred?’
‘A hundred covers developing and printing. Remember I told you about Ochakov in 1957 and you didn’t believe me? Well, that’s where the film’s from! You’ll be able to see for yourself when I get the photos back.’
‘What is it, you and Khrushchev with your arms round each other? Been having fun with Photoshop, have you?!’
Igor threw his hands up in exasperation.
‘I’m only kidding.’ Kolyan smiled. ‘But I’m afraid I do have some bad news . . . The government’s about to ban smoking blends!’
Igor scowled at him, and Kolyan decided to change the subject.
‘You might not believe my news either, but I’m getting richer by the day. I’ve got the proof right here!’ he said. He produced the bundle of hundred-dollar notes again.
‘Is that from the wife of the businessman whose accounts you hacked into? For services rendered?’ Igor asked sardonically.
Kolyan shook his head. ‘It’s from a friend of hers, who wants me to hack into his business partner’s emails.’
Igor eyed the bundle of dollars then looked around to see whether anyone was watching them.
‘Put it away, will you? It’s making me nervous.’
‘Tell me first, do you believe me?’
‘Given the evidence, yes, I believe you,’ Igor answered calmly. ‘Why do you care so much what I think anyway?’
‘It helps me believe in myself. That’s just an advance, by the way. I’ll get the same amount again once the deed is done.’
‘I take it you’re going to quit your job at the bank . . . They pay you peanuts!’
‘What would I gain by leaving? I might as well stay. I enjoy the work, and I have access to the latest computers. Anyway, what’s up with you today?’ Kolyan leaned towards Igor, trying to get a closer look at his face.
‘I’m fine!’ Igor tried to smile. ‘I’m just not too keen on the sight of big piles of cash. It probably reminds me of the day we sold the apartment in Kiev.’
‘Ah, I get it,’ said Kolyan, nodding sympathetically. ‘You’re missing Kiev. Never mind, when you make your fortune you’ll be able to buy yourself another apartment. You know what? I envy you. You’ve got the forest right on your doorstep, the perfect venue for shashlik whenever you feel like it . . . In fact, how about this weekend? I’ll bring the meat if you sort out the barbecue equipment and the beer.’
‘Good plan!’ Igor readily agreed.
After they went their separate ways, Igor wished they’d gone for a beer instead. It might have led to a very different conversation.
It took Igor about half an hour to walk from Podil to Proreznaya Street. The door to the photography studio was shut, so Igor rang the bell. Igor-the-photographer opened the doors but didn’t invite his visitor inside.
‘I’m with a client,’ he said, tucking the hundred-dollar note into the breast pocket of his checked shirt. The top two buttons were still undone. ‘Leave me your mo
bile number, and I’ll call you when it’s ready.’
The sky above Kiev had brightened and was no longer hanging quite so low. The wet concrete shone beneath his feet.
17
IGOR CHECKED HIS phone to see whether he’d missed any calls. He was pleased with the way things had gone in Kiev, and his buoyant mood had continued to improve as the evening wore on. Now it was time for bed, but he didn’t feel remotely tired.
Maybe I should take another trip to Ochakov, thought Igor. Vanya might have some more films for me. I could even get him to take some photos of me out and about in the town . . .
Daydreaming in the evening often leads to sleep, and Igor drifted off without even realising it. Some internal anxiety caused him to wake suddenly at 12.30 a.m. It was completely quiet, both inside the house and out.
Igor got up and put the police uniform on. He tiptoed into the kitchen and drank a glass of brandy. With the taste of the brandy still on his tongue, he crept out of the house and closed the front door quietly, acutely conscious of the sound his boots made as they met the road.
He peered ahead, his eyes already used to the darkness. Finally the familiar lights appeared in the distance. The green gates grew closer. Igor stopped at the edge of the square. There was complete silence on both sides of the gates.
He stood there for about five minutes before setting off again. His feet already knew the way to Vanya Samokhin’s house. Igor was delighted to see that the light was on in the kitchen window – someone was still awake, which meant that someone would let him in!
Vanya was sitting at the kitchen table, reading The Wine-Maker’s Handbook in preparation for his studies at the Nikolaev College of Trade and Industry. He wasn’t at all surprised to see the police officer at the window; he simply got up and went into the hallway to let him in. The first thing Igor did was remove his boots and stand them against the wall.
‘You’re late tonight,’ said Vanya.
They went into the kitchen. Vanya tore a page from the calendar to mark his place in the book. He took a wine bottle from under the table and poured two glasses.
The Gardener from Ochakov Page 13