Andrey Kurkov - The Gardener from Ochakov

‘“Ochakov Wine Factory”,’ Igor read aloud and looked around.

Something stirred in his pocket, and the sensation unnerved him. He put his hand in and felt the golden watch. Its heart had started beating. Surprised, Igor took the watch out, and when he brought it to his ear he heard a loud ticking sound.

What the hell’s going on? he thought. How can a watch suddenly start working, just like that? And what’s this Ochakov Wine Factory doing here in Irpen? Maybe they’ve just built it, I guess. That’s what it’s like these days… new buildings are going up as fast as old ones are coming down.

He suddenly heard a familiar tune from behind the fence, followed by a man’s voice. ‘The time is midnight in Moscow.’

Igor shook his head and frowned. He opened the watch’s protective gold cover. Both hands were pointing straight to twelve.

Suddenly he heard a door slam, followed by the sound of footsteps behind the gates. Igor quickly darted to one side, just as a small lorry with a covered wagon drove out of the gates. It was an old model, the kind Igor had only ever seen in films set in the past. The lorry drove out onto the square, turned right and slowly drove away, its headlights illuminating the road ahead. The gates closed after it, and then everything was silent once again.

Igor looked around. The lorry had disappeared into the night. Igor’s eyes were drawn back to the factory entrance, now the only source of light, and beyond them to the roof of the security guard’s booth and the grey factory walls.

Igor contemplated knocking and asking the security guard where he was, but before he had the chance one of the gates swung ajar. Igor heard an urgent whisper, and then a head poked out of the gap between the gates. It paused, apparently listening.

‘Go on, get a move on!’ urged a man’s voice from behind the gates. It was loud enough to reach Igor, who had retreated back into the darkness.

A young lad emerged, with a strange bulky sack thrown over his shoulder. He looked around, waved back at the security guard and took several awkward steps away from the gates. Then he stopped and adjusted the sack. The gates closed again behind him, and there was a heavy metallic sound as the guard drew the bolt.

Igor emerged from the darkness and walked briskly towards the lad, intending to ask for directions to the bus station.

Seeing a policeman striding purposefully towards him, the lad threw the sack to the ground and froze. The sack barely made a sound as it hit the ground but lay there shuddering, as though it were alive. It seemed to be made of leather.

‘I… uh, it’s the first time I…’ began the lad, stammering in fright. ‘Please don’t… It’ll kill my mother if she finds out! She’s got a weak heart… My father fought in the war, came back a cripple… died a year later…’

‘What on earth are you talking about?’ asked Igor, astonished. The lad’s incomprehensible fear had immediately put him in control of the situation.

‘The wine,’ the lad whimpered hopelessly. He looked down at the leather wineskin.

‘How far is it to the bus station?’

The lad stopped snivelling and looked up at the man in the police uniform, not quite understanding the question.

‘About twenty minutes’ walk,’ he said, his voice a little steadier.

‘What’s in there?’ Igor prodded the leather sack with the toe of his boot. It yielded easily to the pressure and then quickly regained its strange form the moment he removed his foot.

‘I told you, it’s wine… It’s the first time… It’s Rkatsiteli… I’ve never done it before… Don’t arrest me!’

Igor suddenly understood the reason for the lad’s alarm, and the reason he was acting so guilty. He smiled.

Noticing the smirk on Igor’s face, the lad grew nervous.

‘I’ll take it straight back!’ he said, looking pointedly at the sack.

‘Hang on, let’s not be too hasty,’ replied Igor, trying to imitate the wine thief’s peculiar intonation. The lad didn’t sound like a local. ‘Where are you from?’

‘From Ochakov. I grew up here. My mother works at the market and I work here, at the wine factory.’

‘From here? From Ochakov?’ repeated Igor, puzzled. ‘Hmm, there’s something funny about all this.’

‘What do you mean?’ the lad asked cautiously.

‘It’s just that…’ said Igor, looking around. ‘It’s a bit dark, isn’t it? How old are you?’

‘Twenty-one. My name’s Ivan Samokhin. My patronymic is Vasilievich.’

‘When were you born, Ivan Vasilievich Samokhin?’ Igor began to speak more slowly, carefully enunciating every word. He noticed that his own intonation sounded a bit different too.

‘The eighth of May… 1936. It’s a pity I wasn’t born a day later, then my birthday would have been on Victory Day.’

Igor thought about it. But it couldn’t be 1957 – that was ridiculous! Igor looked at the wine thief, then at the sack of wine.

‘How come you drink so much?’ he asked.

‘It’s not for me! I used to be really good at sport… I even represented our region in cross-country running. No, it’s to sell at the market,’ said the lad. Then he stopped abruptly, beating his right temple with his fist in frustration at his own indiscretion.

‘I see,’ said Igor, beginning to nod.

‘How long will I get?’ whispered the lad. ‘Ten years in prison? Or more?’

‘What date is it today?’ asked Igor, ignoring the wine thief’s question.

‘The third of October.’

‘Come on then,’ said Igor, as though he’d had an idea. He pointed to the wineskin. ‘Pick that up, and let’s go.’

Vanya Samokhin picked up the leather sack and threw it over his shoulder. He looked back at the policeman. ‘Where are we going?’ he asked, apparently resigned to his fate.

‘To the bus station!’ Igor motioned with his hand to indicate that the lad should walk in front, as though he really had been arrested.

Vanya Samokhin walked slowly. His burden was heavy and awkward. It would have been different if the wine had been his, but it wasn’t any more. He wanted to stop and look back at the policeman, to appeal once more for mercy, and to offer him the sack of wine for his kindness. Unfortunately this particular lieutenant was clearly a man of integrity. Neither his eyes nor his voice gave any indication that it would be worth even trying to negotiate with him.

They walked along in the darkness for about five minutes. The silence was broken only by the soles of their boots against the cobbles. Suddenly Vanya Samokhin stopped.

‘What’s the matter?’ The policeman’s voice struck him in the back.

‘I’m worn out.’

‘Is it much further?’

‘About ten minutes.’

‘All right, have a little rest,’ said Igor, his voice somehow softer, more human. Vanya Samokhin immediately felt a spark of hope. This was the first time the policeman had spoken as though he weren’t wearing a uniform.

Vanya Samokhin carefully lowered the sack of wine to the ground, then straightened up and took a few deep breaths.

‘Is it all right if I smoke?’ he asked.

‘Go ahead,’ replied Igor.

‘Er, I haven’t got any cigarettes,’ admitted Vanya Samokhin.

Igor took out a packet of cigarettes, opened it and offered him one.

‘I don’t recognise these,’ said Vanya Samokhin, unable to hide his surprise. ‘You’re not from round here, are you?’

‘No.’ Igor shook his head.

‘So where are you from?’

‘Kiev.’

‘The capital!’ exclaimed the lad, fear returning to his voice. ‘Did they send you here to investigate the wine factory?’

‘Why, are things really that bad?’ Igor’s lips curled into a half-smile. ‘Have you and your friends cleaned the place out?’