Andrey Kurkov - The Gardener from Ochakov

The sun made an unexpected appearance the following morning. A few birds that had not yet flown south for the winter started singing. As Igor’s mother moved about the house, the wooden floor creaked beneath her feet. The morning was fresh and full of life. Igor got out of bed. Just at that moment, he heard a familiar cough from outside, although he couldn’t be sure whether it came from the yard or from the street. He looked out of the window and saw Stepan walking towards the house. He was wearing a new dark green jacket, and a half-empty canvas rucksack hung from his shoulders. Stepan didn’t notice Igor looking out of the window. Whistling a Russian folk song, Stepan went straight to the shed.

Igor got dressed and sat down at the kitchen table. He waited for his mother to make him tea and heat up some leftover buckwheat for breakfast.

‘It’s a pity you didn’t come to Olga’s with me yesterday.’ Elena Andreevna glanced quizzically at her son. ‘We had a lovely time. She’d baked a gooseberry pie, and it was delicious. She sent a piece for you too – it’s in the fridge.’

‘Stepan’s back,’ said Igor, nodding at the window as though the gardener were standing right there, on the other side of the glass.

The news seemed to distract Elena Andreevna. She fell silent.

‘Why don’t you warm something up for him? I’ll take it out,’ said Igor.

Armed with a plate of buckwheat, Igor approached the shed. He stood and listened outside the door for a moment, but he couldn’t hear a sound. The shed seemed to be empty.

Igor knocked once and opened the door. The gardener was standing in front of the shelf unit, wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt and looking into a square mirror that was resting on the top shelf. He was holding his hand to his chin and the side of his face, as though he’d been contemplating whether or not to shave.

‘Good morning,’ said Igor. He looked around, wondering where to put the plate.

‘Good morning to you,’ nodded Stepan. ‘Though it might not have been,’ he added darkly.

Igor suddenly noticed that the gardener’s left hand was wrapped in a bandage.

‘You can leave it there,’ Stepan said, nodding at the shelf unit. To Igor’s great astonishment he proceeded to turn his rucksack upside down, emptying bundles of 200-hryvna notes all over the bed.

‘There,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Now my life can begin again, with a clean slate. It’s just a pity I’m not eighteen years old any more!’

He thought for a moment, then he picked up one of the bundles and held it out to Igor.

‘There you go. That’s for your motorbike… For all your help.’

Igor weighed the bundle in his hands. ‘How much?’ he asked expectantly.

‘Depends how you look at it. There might be more where that came from… It might include an advance payment,’ smiled the gardener.

‘For what?’

‘Various things. I’ve got a daughter. She lives in Lviv. I want you to go and visit her, for a start. Take her a letter from me. See what her place is like, who she’s living with. And tell her something good about me.’

Igor was delighted by Stepan’s proposal, although he didn’t show it. He thought about the two bundles of Soviet roubles in the pockets of the police uniform. Having a wad of cash in your pocket, does that make you rich? he wondered, stuffing the bundle of 200-hryvna notes into one of his tracksuit pockets.

‘When do you want me to go?’ he asked, looking up at the gardener.

‘You might as well go today. There are plenty of trains to Lviv. Get an overnight train from Kiev, and another one back the following night. You’ll be home the day after tomorrow.’

Back in the house Igor took his time counting the money Stepan had given him. Not because he was interested in the total amount, but because he was fascinated by the sheer number of notes. He’d never had so much money at one time before. The banknotes were crisp and new and seemed to whisper when Igor flicked through them with his fingertips. He enjoyed playing with the money so much that he decided to take out both bundles of Soviet roubles too. The Soviet hundred-rouble notes were bigger and more impressive than the Ukrainian 200-hryvna notes, but that seemed to make sense: the USSR had been much bigger than Ukraine. If they printed banknotes in proportion to the size of the country, then Igor would probably have been able to fit several bundles of Ukrainian money in the palm of his hand, not just one. This thought amused him. Comparing the two currencies again, Igor decided that the Soviet notes were more pleasant to touch and hold. The way they rustled in his hand felt somehow more impressive, more authentic.

Late that afternoon, before setting off for the station, Igor called Kolyan.

‘Hey, I’m getting the overnight train to Lviv. Why don’t you come and see me off? I’ve got something to tell you. You’ll never guess what it is.’

‘I can’t,’ answered his friend. ‘The bosses have asked me to investigate one of the clients, and it’s going to take me until at least midnight to hack into his email account. He’s applied for a big loan using dodgy documents. Let’s meet up when you get back, though. A new club’s just opened… we could check it out, if you like?’

‘OK,’ Igor agreed reluctantly. ‘Why not? See you soon.’

AFTER AN ALMOST sleepless night on the train, Igor splashed his face with water from the sink to wake himself up before stepping out onto the platform at Lviv station.

The station was a hive of human activity. Trunks, suitcases and rucksacks flashed past him. The square outside the station surprised him with its modest dimensions. A tram, far skinnier than those in Kiev, loomed into view then rang its bell and disappeared off down a straight track that clearly led to the centre of the town.

‘You looking for a taxi? Good price!’ declared a sprightly old man with a thick regional accent.

Igor took Stepan’s letter out of his jacket pocket and glanced at the address.

‘How much to Zelenaya Street?’ he asked.

‘Forty hryvnas, if you can spare it!’

‘And if I can’t?’ grinned Igor.

‘In that case, thirty-five.’

The old Lada creaked and groaned for the duration of the journey. Every now and then Igor was thrown up into the air as the car lurched over the tram tracks that criss-crossed the cobbled streets. They left the beautiful old houses in the centre behind, and a winding road took them past a series of Khrushchev-era five-storey blocks. After that they passed a number of large industrial plots, with factory and warehouse fences stretching out into the distance on either side, before eventually reaching a district of neat, well-maintained private houses.

‘Number 271,’ Igor said to the driver.

When they arrived, Igor’s first impression was that the building didn’t look particularly grand. It consisted of two houses joined together; three steps led up to a green wooden door on the left, and three steps led up to a dark blue door on the right.

Igor went up to the dark blue door. He couldn’t see a doorbell, so he knocked three times. The door was opened by a young woman who was about thirty years old, wearing jeans and a dark blue sweater. Her hazel eyes looked at him enquiringly.

‘Are you Alyona Sadovnikova?’ Igor asked cautiously.

‘Yes.’

‘I’ve got a letter for you. From your father.’

Alyona hesitated, a fleeting look of concern in her eyes.

‘Come in.’

She led Igor into a room that was furnished neatly and modestly. Indicating that he should sit on the sofa, she took the envelope from him and walked over to the window. She moved the curtain aside. Taking out a piece of paper that was covered with fine handwriting, she read it several times. Then the hand holding the letter dropped to her side and she sighed with relief.