Andrey Kurkov - The Gardener from Ochakov

Stepan looked at Igor’s mother thoughtfully.

‘You’re a good woman,’ he said.

As soon as Stepan finished his tea he went back outside and resumed his inspection of the fence. He walked along the entire length of it, on both the yard side and the street side. Igor stood by the window in the kitchen with his second mug of tea, watching the gardener apply himself enthusiastically to his task.

After a while Stepan came into the house. ‘We need to change three of the fence posts,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘That’ll be 150 hryvnas.’ Igor was taken aback.

‘You mean, we have to buy them?’

‘Well, we’re not going to steal them, are we?’ Stepan spread his hands. ‘There’s a chap selling building materials not far from here. He’s got a few fence posts.’

Still taken aback by the unexpected outlay, Igor went into his room and took a 200-hryvna note from the bundle that Stepan had given him.

‘I’ll bring back the change,’ promised Stepan.

Alone again, Igor succumbed to an autumnal mood. The sky was cloudy and grey. It didn’t look like it was going to rain, but there was no chance of sunshine either. You had to make every day count, whatever the weather. In his heart Igor knew that whether the days of his life were filled with events or inactivity was entirely down to him.

Although it was autumn in the parallel world of Ochakov too, everything had been so vivid, so full of life. Not like here.

Igor called Kolyan on his mobile and asked what his plans were for the evening.

‘Why, do you want to go for a drink?’ asked his friend.

‘Yes, and I’ve got some news for you.’

‘Meet me at six, and we’ll decide where to go then,’ said Kolyan. ‘I’ve got some news for you too. I’ve just made two thousand dollars, without even taking my fingers off the keyboard!’

The conversation cheered Igor up. He only had a few hours to kill until the evening. But why wait? He could go to Kiev earlier and wander round for a bit.

Igor was on his way out of the yard when Stepan called to him.

‘Shall we go and pick up the fence posts then?’

‘I can’t, I’m already late. I’m meeting someone in Kiev,’ Igor answered hurriedly. The last thing he felt like doing was helping Stepan fix the fence. It was his idea, he can sort it out! he thought as he walked away.

According to its driver, the minibus would be leaving for Kiev ‘when it was full’, as usual. Igor looked irritably at the ten vacant seats. It was a quiet time, the lull between the morning crowds and the evening rush hour. He looked out of the window, mentally urging anyone contemplating a trip to the city to get a move on. Half an hour later, the last place in the minibus – the front passenger seat – was finally occupied by a young woman with a laptop bag, which she placed carefully on her knees. The driver, who had also been waiting impatiently for his final passenger, started the engine immediately and set off.

The young woman turned round and began looking at each of the passengers in turn. Igor’s suspicions were instantly aroused. As if to emphasise her strangeness, the young woman took out a folder containing a stack of paper and a bag of cheap ballpoint pens. She attached a pen to every piece of paper, then counted them and looked around at the other passengers again, ignoring Igor’s questioning look.

She’s counting us! thought Igor.

As the minibus taxi left Irpen the road began to straighten out. Pine trees flashed past on both sides of the highway.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ the young woman suddenly began, with the practised delivery of a sales agent, ‘you have been selected to enter a draw to win a Korean vacuum cleaner. All you need to do is fill out these questionnaires…’ She held up the pieces of paper to show the ‘ladies and gentlemen’, who were looking at her with interest. ‘It’s an official market research survey. And the pens are yours to keep!’

She leaned over the back of her seat to hand out the questionnaires. What Igor found most surprising was that all the passengers reached out to take one. Even Igor himself took one automatically when it was handed to him. He scanned through the information requested: name, address, telephone number, email address, monthly salary, number of pensioners in the family, size of accommodation.

What a cheek! thought Igor. I might as well give her my house keys! He handed the questionnaire and the pen back to the young woman.

‘Is there a problem?’ she asked, with a supercilious smile.

‘The problem is that I don’t like people trying to find out what I’m thinking,’ replied Igor, with what he hoped was a similar smile.

‘The questionnaire doesn’t ask you what you’re thinking. Or what your religious beliefs are,’ she calmly pointed out. ‘Nor does it ask how much beer you drink, or what brand.’

Igor glanced at the other passengers. They were all diligently filling out the questionnaires.

She’s just a con artist, thought Igor, but he managed to refrain from answering back. He knew she’d get the better of him and he’d probably just end up making a complete fool of himself.

If only I were an undercover police officer, thought Igor. I’d ask her for some ID. I bet that would wipe the smile off her face!

But Igor wasn’t a police officer, although he did feel a certain duty to maintain law and order. Or at least to uphold the cause of social justice. Maybe it was because he liked what he saw in the mirror when he was wearing the old police uniform. When you feel comfortable wearing a certain uniform, you find yourself adapting to suit it.

There was a cool wind blowing in Kiev, but otherwise the weather was unremarkable. Constant traffic noise. Early twilight. Street lamps coming on. Huge billboards, buzzing gently as one advert was replaced by another.

Igor met Kolyan at his office in the Podil district and they walked to Sahaidachny Street. They stopped in front of a cafe they both knew, but the music was far too loud. So they took the bus one stop to Kreshchatyk Street and went to an Irish pub on Malaya Zhitomirskaya Street, which was nice and quiet. Fake school blackboards hung about the pub, with details of upcoming football matches chalked on them, targeting customers who liked both beer and sport. Thankfully, there didn’t seem to be a match on that evening.

‘I need something to warm me up,’ said Igor, biting his lower lip as he looked up at the young waitress who had stopped at their table. ‘A double shot of Khortitsa vodka and a Chernigivske beer should do it.’

‘Mixing your drinks, eh?’ Kolyan smiled. ‘I prefer to drink one or the other. Either vodka or beer, but not both together.’ He looked at the girl. ‘I’ll have a Lviv beer and some bar snacks, please.’

The girl left. Kolyan looked at his friend.

‘So, what’s up? Come on, tell me.’

‘Let’s have a drink first,’ said Igor, brushing Kolyan’s request aside. It had suddenly occurred to him that it might sound like he’d made it all up. If Kolyan had told him a similar story, that’s what he would have thought anyway.

‘Right,’ nodded Kolyan. ‘I knew it. You’re bored out of your mind, aren’t you? Stuck out there in the sticks… Just admit it! Irpen’s not the same as Kiev, is it? You don’t even have anyone to go for a proper drink with. No intellectually stimulating conversation. “What are you looking at? No, what are you looking at?” That’s the only kind of conversation you get out there!’

Igor shook his head, but Kolyan’s mind was already on other matters.

‘I’m feeling rather proud of myself today, you know. You’ll never believe it… For the first time ever, I actually made some money out of my hacking skills. Two thousand dollars!’