Andrey Kurkov - The Gardener from Ochakov

‘No! Well, sort of… But the management aren’t involved!’

‘No, I’m not here to investigate the wine factory,’ said Igor, deciding to play along with the conversation. ‘I’m here for a completely different reason.’

‘A completely different reason?’ repeated Vanya Samokhin, inhaling the smoke from his cigarette. ‘Because of the gangs?’

‘Exactly,’ nodded Igor, looking straight into the lad’s eyes.

‘Yeah, they’re everywhere these days. Are you after Chagin?’

Igor flinched involuntarily at the sound of the familiar surname. This made Vanya flinch too, as though the policeman’s reaction had alarmed him: had Fima Chagin’s reputation grown to such an extent that even policemen from the capital were afraid of him?

‘Why, do you know him?’ asked Igor.

‘Everyone knows him! Well, I’ve seen him around, but I don’t actually know him. Why would I? I’m an upstanding citizen!’

Igor started laughing, quietly but with genuine amusement. His shoulders shook as he pointed at the sack of wine.

‘But I’m not a real thief… I’d never kill anyone,’ whined Samokhin. ‘This is the first time I’ve ever taken something that doesn’t belong to me!’

‘I somehow doubt that.’ Igor’s voice sounded colder now. It had put the police uniform back on again, and even Igor could hear the difference. ‘Your mother works at the market… I catch you taking wine from the wine factory… Tell me, what does your mother sell?’

Vanya Samokhin seemed to choke on his answer and started hiccuping. The cigarette fell from his mouth and hit the ground, sending a shower of sparks across the road. Vanya bent down and picked it up. Still hiccuping, he wiped the end with his fingers and put it back in his mouth.

‘Let me see… Does she, by any chance, sell wine?’ Igor asked with a smile.

‘Yes,’ nodded the lad. ‘We make our own. Our whole yard is covered in vines.’

‘You make some, and you take some,’ Igor remarked laconically. He noticed that Vanya Samokhin’s eyes were darting from side to side, as though he’d decided to make a run for it and was trying to decide on his escape route.

‘Pick up the wine!’ ordered Igor.

Vanya Samokhin’s eyes immediately stopped darting about. With a heavy sigh he picked up the sack of wine and heaved it onto his shoulder. He looked back at Igor.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Igor. ‘I’m not going to arrest you.’

The lad’s mouth fell open, and the unfinished cigarette fell out of his mouth again. This time Vanya made no move to pick it up. He just stared at Igor.

‘You’ll have to write a declaration, though, and I’ll expect you to help me with some information. Shall we shake on it?’

Vanya bit his dry lips and paused before answering.

‘You’re an upstanding citizen, aren’t you? You just said so! Well, upstanding citizens help the police with their inquiries.’

Vanya nodded.

‘Like I said, I’m here for a specific reason,’ continued Igor, entering into the spirit of his performance. ‘I’m not interested in your petty crime,’ he said, nodding at the sack. ‘Take it home and give it to your mother.’

‘So what are you interested in, comrade lieutenant?’ Vanya Samokhin asked, warily but at the same time rather obsequiously.

‘Chagin and his gang… Actually, mainly his gang.’

Vanya nodded again. ‘I’ll do whatever I can to help.’

‘Good. Can I spend the night at your place?’

‘I thought you were going to the bus station.’

‘There aren’t any buses at this time of night, are there?’ asked Igor, with a barely perceptible smile.

‘No,’ answered Vanya, flustered.

‘So what would be the point of going to the bus station? Can I spend the night at your place?’

‘Of course! In that case…’

Vanya set off again, leaving his sentence unfinished. He walked with renewed vigour and seemed to carry his stolen burden with greater ease. Igor fell into step a few paces behind him, as though subconsciously keeping a safe distance. They entered the sleeping town unnoticed and unobserved. Fences appeared along the sides of the road, and behind them detached houses made dark silhouettes against the grey sky. Ochakov was fast asleep. Lights flashed somewhere in the distance, but the windows of the houses were dark. About fifteen minutes later they turned into a courtyard that was overgrown with vines. Vanya took the sack of wine into the shed, then cautiously opened the door to the house and let Igor in.

They went into what must have been the living room. ‘You can sleep here,’ said Vanya, gesturing in the half-darkness towards an old-fashioned sofa with a high wooden back that extended up the wall, incorporating a mirror and shelves for displaying ornaments. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know where the sheets are.’

‘Don’t worry about it, I’ll be fine with a blanket,’ whispered Igor. ‘Where do your parents sleep?’

Vanya silently pointed at some folding wooden doors.

‘Mother sleeps in there, on the left, and my room’s at the end of the hall.’

He went off and came back carrying a quilted blanket.

‘Can I go to bed now?’ he whispered. ‘Is it all right if I write the declaration tomorrow?’

‘Go ahead! You can write it tomorrow,’ nodded Igor.

Vanya left the room but returned almost immediately.

‘Here, comrade lieutenant, drink this. It’ll help you sleep.’ He handed Igor a large glass of white wine. It smelt sharp and sour.

Barely suppressing the desire to wrinkle his nose, Igor carefully took the glass and sipped the wine. He looked at Vanya and nodded. Satisfied, Vanya nodded in response but didn’t move.

‘Is it from the wine factory?’ asked Igor.

‘Yes,’ said Vanya. ‘Our home-made wine’s not ready yet… You have to drink it all, otherwise you won’t be able to appreciate the taste!’

The last thing Igor felt like doing was getting into an argument with Vanya Samokhin about wine-tasting techniques, so he downed the wine in three mouthfuls and handed the glass back to his host. Only then did Vanya leave the room.

Igor removed his boots, unbuckled his belt and undressed. He folded the uniform and placed it neatly on a nearby chair, then quickly lay down and pulled the blanket over himself. He was immediately sucked into a strange kind of weightlessness. As his sense of spatial orientation ebbed away, he twitched and fell into the abyss.

IGOR WOKE UP with a headache. His head wasn’t actually aching so much as buzzing, as though several bees had flown into it and were unsuccessfully trying to find their way out, bumping repeatedly into his temples, the back of his head and his forehead.

He opened his eyes and wiped a hand over his sweaty brow. He forced himself into an upright position and sat on the edge of his bed. Everything outside his window was grey, and he could hear the monotonous murmur of television voices from the living room.

‘Ma!’ called Igor, and immediately the sound of his own voice intensified the painful buzzing in his head.

Elena Andreevna looked into her son’s bedroom.

‘What’s up, son?’

‘Have we got any aspirin? I’ve got a splitting headache.’

‘Did you have too much to drink yesterday, or is it the old pains?’ asked his mother, with a mixture of disapproval and sympathy.

‘Too much to drink,’ Igor nodded.

She went into the kitchen, where they kept all their medicines in an old shoebox in the cupboard.

Igor stood up and walked over to the window, then turned and looked back into the room. His eyes fell on the police uniform, neatly folded in a pile, and the old-fashioned peaked cap.

That was a pretty strange dream! Or did it really happen? thought Igor.