Andrey Kurkov - The Gardener from Ochakov

Igor sipped his liqueur. It was strong and viscous, bitter but sweet. The pleasant assault on his senses distracted him from his thoughts. He stopped thinking altogether and simply sat there, without moving. Suddenly he ran his hand over his naked thighs, realising for the first time how cold he was. He wondered whether he ought to get dressed. Yet he finished his drink slowly, returned the bottle to the dresser and tiptoed back to his bedroom.

In the morning he was woken by his mother’s quiet, reproachful voice. ‘So, drinking vodka in the middle of the night now, are you?’ she asked, glancing into his room. ‘You should take a leaf out of Stepan’s book – he doesn’t drink at all!’

‘That’s right, he’s already drunk his fair share!’ answered Igor, still half asleep. He opened his eyes and looked at his watch. It was 7.30 a.m. ‘Is Stepan back then?’

‘I haven’t seen him. Get up, if you want some breakfast. Look, people are already on their way to work,’ she said, glancing pointedly out of the window.

Igor sighed. Now she’s going to start on about me getting a job.

‘We manage all right, don’t we?’ asked Igor, getting out of bed.

‘What if we didn’t have my pension?’ His mother’s voice sounded louder than usual.

‘What difference does your pension make? It’s only one thousand five hundred hryvnas! I get the equivalent of two hundred dollars from the bank every month in interest. ‘Isn’t that enough?’

‘But you’re not earning it, are you? You’re a parasite,’ his mother continued, lowering her voice. She was worried that any disagreement about the importance of work would lead, as it usually did, to a full-blown argument and two days of sulking. ‘You’d have been arrested for it in Soviet times!’

‘It’s no wonder the Soviet Union collapsed then, is it?’ countered Igor, although his tone of voice had also changed. ‘Seriously, it’s not like we’re struggling financially, is it? If something interesting comes up, of course I’ll apply for it.’

It was true – after they’d sold their apartment in Kiev and bought the house in Irpen, they’d put the rest of the money into a savings account and were now living off the interest. Igor went to the bank once a month to withdraw it. He would bring it home and put it on the kitchen table; then he would take half for himself, leaving the rest for his mother. He’d already grown so accustomed to this way of life that he’d come to think of the trips to the bank in Kiev as his job.

Elena Andreevna soon calmed down. She ladled hot buckwheat into a bowl for her son, placing a knob of butter on top. The butter immediately began to melt, seeping down through the grains. Igor picked up a large spoon and ate his buckwheat slowly, looking out of the window.

‘I’ll ask around,’ he promised suddenly, glancing apologetically at his mother. ‘Maybe something’ll turn up here in Irpen… I’m bored too, you know, just sitting around all day.’

Elena Andreevna nodded.

‘Prices keep going up,’ she said. ‘Cheese is already sixty hryvnas a kilo, for example… But they never increase my pension, and our interest rate hasn’t gone up either.’

Igor had no desire to prolong this depressing conversation. After finishing his buckwheat he poured himself a mug of tea and started thinking about what sort of job he could get, but his thoughts soon turned to Stepan – or, rather, to his absence. He thought about the antique suitcase containing the police uniform and the Soviet roubles. He thought about the gun. Stepan’s ‘generous’ gifts. To be fair, some tourist would pay good money for a vintage Soviet uniform at the flea market in Kiev. Maybe he should take it into town and try his luck.

Igor sighed and went into his bedroom. He opened the suitcase, took the uniform out and checked the pockets. In one of them he discovered an ID pass belonging to a certain Lieutenant I.I. Zotov.

‘Maybe his name was Igor too.’ Igor smiled, looking at the small black-and-white photo. The young man in the photo was no more than twenty-five years old.

Igor picked up the two bundles of Soviet hundred-rouble notes. They felt heavy. What did he really know about the era when this money, which was no longer of any practical use, had circulated around a country that no longer existed? Almost nothing, despite the fact that he’d been born in that era himself – during the last Soviet five-year plan, as his mother liked to say.

Igor didn’t understand what the big deal was about five-year plans. What was the point of them? He pulled a face. School had been a ten-year plan, one he’d had to endure personally! But why were five years significant? He shrugged and threw the useless currency back into the suitcase.

‘Are you going to the shops today?’ called his mother from the kitchen.

‘Yes, I was just on my way out,’ replied Igor.

He put the police uniform neatly back into the suitcase, placing I.I. Zotov’s identification on top. Then he closed the suitcase and pushed it under the bed.

It was drizzling outside, so Igor took an umbrella. For some reason he had a song from an old Christmas film going round and round inside his head.

When he reached the first kiosk, Igor bought a packet of cigarettes and lit one straight away. Just at that moment a young lad appeared at his elbow. He didn’t have an umbrella, and his wet hair was plastered to his forehead. He was wearing a canvas jacket and heavy army boots.

‘Hey man, can you spare a cigarette?’

Igor held the open packet out to him, looking at the lad with amusement.

‘Cover it up with your hand, at least, or the rain will put it out.’

‘I’ll smoke it here, under the roof,’ the boy replied calmly. He lit his cigarette using the tip of Igor’s, then sheltered under the roof of the kiosk to the left of the window.

‘Where on earth did you get those boots?’ asked Igor. ‘They don’t make them like that any more.’

‘I found them in my dad’s shed. They’re army boots,’ the boy replied earnestly, not noticing the irony in Igor’s voice.

‘Lucky you! They knew how to make boots in the old days. Not like now.’ Igor looked down at his cheap Romanian boots, which he’d already had fixed twice.

‘They don’t really fit me,’ grumbled the boy. ‘My dad’s feet were bigger than mine… Could you spare another one?’

Igor took a cigarette out of the packet and held it out to the boy. Then he walked off, without saying goodbye. When he reached the bus station he stopped and took a moment to look around. He walked over to the noticeboard and scanned the handwritten and photocopied adverts stuck to the wall. They were all ‘For Sale’ or ‘Wanted’.

Maybe I should join the police, thought Igor. I’ve already got a gun! He smiled. Then he thought about the uniform and sighed.

He felt like a coffee, but after a cigarette you need a real coffee and instant was the only option anywhere near the station. Deciding that it would be better than nothing, Igor went into a little shop, ordered one and drank it right there, next to a glass counter that was showcasing several varieties of sliced sausage and smoked chicken. Igor suddenly remembered the shopping his mother had asked him to get. He checked his pockets then asked for a fresh loaf of bread, half a kilo of sliced sausage, some butter and a tin of sprats. Poverty was certainly not an issue. Unable to control this burst of purchasing zeal, Igor looked directly at the young sales assistant and declared in a firm, confident voice, ‘And a bottle of Koktebel brandy. No, not that one – the one with five stars!’

He was feeling happier now. It was nearly lunchtime, and hunger was gently tickling his insides. On the way home, he reflected on something that had only just occurred to him: he drank more brandy, or felt like doing so, when it was raining.