Andrey Kurkov - The Gardener from Ochakov

‘As you’re not from Ochakov, I’m sorry for bothering you,’ he slurred, returning to his own table.

‘Will you be all right getting home?’ asked Kolyan.

‘I’ll be fine,’ Igor assured him.

Before they went their separate ways Kolyan, who had managed to stay relatively sober due to not mixing his drinks, helped Igor to flag down a car. He even sat him in the rear seat of the red Lada and gave the driver precise instructions on where to drop him off, so Igor was able to doze off in the back of the car. They arrived at the Nivka metro station just as the last minibus to Irpen was getting ready to leave.

Whereas Igor’s journey in the red Lada had lulled him to sleep, the jolting and swerving of the minibus to Irpen was more of a rude awakening and soon sobered him up. He left the minibus in Irpen with the other late-night passengers and surprised himself by setting out towards home with a light spring in his step. The minibus driver may have succeeded in shaking the alcohol out of his system, but his head still felt cloudy.

After a traumatic labour, the thought was born in Igor’s mind that maybe the whole thing really was just nonsense. Maybe I’ve turned into an alcoholic and I’m seeing things that don’t exist in real life? he thought. It could be a withdrawal symptom, without the fever or the nightmares. But what about the red-haired woman at the market? And the one in the bar? Why am I being haunted by red-haired women? It’s like a new version of scarlet fever!

Igor thought about the woman from the bar. She was the spitting image of red-haired Red Valya from the Ochakov market. Only if that Valya didn’t really exist, then who did she look like?

It’s all too weird, thought Igor. I’ll have to do a bit of research… And then find out whether or not it can be cured!

He went into their yard, carefully closing the gate behind himself. He stopped and looked at the fence, which Stepan had been so determined to fix. Peering at it closely, Igor noticed that three of the fence posts were brand new. He walked round behind the house and looked at the shed. A strip of light was visible beneath the closed door, and light was also coming from the little window to the right of the door.

Why isn’t he asleep? wondered Igor. Well, let’s find out!

He clambered carefully onto the bench by the door. Straightening up, he stood on tiptoe and pressed his left cheek to the window.

Stepan was sitting on a stool directly underneath the light bulb that hung down from the ceiling, poring over a large book. After staring intently at the book, Igor recognised it as the one they’d taken out of the first suitcase.

Igor climbed down from the bench and spat on the ground. He walked over to the house and, trying not to make a sound, carefully let himself in. He went into the kitchen, opened the cupboard and took out a bottle of brandy and a glass.

‘Well, here goes,’ he whispered, before downing it and pouring another.

The warmth of the brandy remained on his tongue. He walked along the dark hallway to the dining room, then into his bedroom. He changed into the police uniform, put on the peaked cap and pulled on the boots. He put the heavy gold watch into one of the pockets of the breeches and walked over to the window. It was pitch black outside, like the inside of a cellar.

‘Right then,’ he whispered to himself. ‘Research time!’

THE DARK PART of the road from Irpen to Ochakov seemed to go on for ever this time. Maybe because Igor was walking slowly, belatedly feeling the after-effects of his drinking session with Kolyan. Time had become a fluid concept in his mind: minutes and hours had been replaced by this dark time of day, defined only by its darkness.

A sudden rush of anxiety seized Igor, making him stop for a moment. He patted the pockets of the tunic. Then his hands moved down to his breeches, brushing against the holster before coming to rest on the bundles of Soviet roubles. The nocturnal time traveller was instantly reassured and continued on his way.

As soon as Igor saw the familiar gentle glow from the factory in the distance, the gold watch came to life and began ticking in the left-hand pocket of the breeches, like a vibrating mobile phone alarm. Keeping his eyes fixed on the gates, which were still three hundred metres away, Igor increased his pace.

Any minute now that lorry’s going to leave, he thought. Then Vanya will come out with his sack of stolen wine…

Just then the gates opened slightly and Vanya Samokhin slipped out onto the square. He stopped and looked around furtively, adjusting the sack on his right shoulder. Then he waved back at the guard and set off towards the town, away from Igor.

Igor sensed that the darkness was about to swallow Vanya. He knew he wouldn’t stand a chance of finding his way round Ochakov at night, so he quickened his pace. The accelerated rhythm of the soles of his boots on the road spurred him on, and he was already thinking more clearly than before. He thought specifically about the room in Vanya’s house where he’d gone to sleep several times but only woken up once. He could only just make out Vanya’s back. He began to panic and eventually started running.

‘Vanya!’ he called.

Vanya Samokhin stepped to one side and looked over his shoulder. At the sight of the police officer running towards him, he threw the sack of wine under some nearby trees and automatically raised his hands.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Igor, stopping alongside him and catching sight of his frightened face.

‘Oh!’ The lad wiped his forehead with the palm of his hand. ‘You scared me, comrade lieutenant!’

He retrieved the sack of wine from under the trees and threw it over his right shoulder again.

‘I haven’t seen you for a while,’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘About four days, isn’t it?’

Igor didn’t answer. ‘Aren’t you bored of stealing wine?’ he asked instead.

‘God helps those who help themselves, and the police help everyone else,’ Vanya said with a sigh. ‘Shall we go back to my place?’

‘Where else?’ replied Igor.

‘I’ve taken the photographs you wanted, but I don’t know how to develop them… You’ll have to take the film to a photography studio.’

‘You can do that for me,’ said Igor, catching up with Vanya and falling into step alongside him.

‘I can’t,’ Vanya said in a low voice. ‘The photographer is a Jew. He’ll tell Fima that I’ve been taking secret pictures of him and his friends.’

‘Why would he tell him? Are they good friends or something?’

‘No. Because he’s a Jew.’

‘Don’t you trust Jews?’ asked Igor, surprised.

‘No one does! Our head technologist, Efim Naftulovich, was arrested and imprisoned for sabotage.’

‘You’re talking nonsense!’ exclaimed Igor, shaking his head emphatically as he walked. ‘Did you take photographs of many people?’

‘About seven… And Valya.’

They ran out of things to say and walked in silence for about ten minutes, until Vanya opened the gate to his yard and then the door to his house.

Igor sat down on the sofa with the high wooden back and removed his boots. When Vanya came into the room holding a glass of wine, Igor drank it in two gulps and nodded his thanks.

‘Is it true that they’re introducing a new police uniform?’ Vanya suddenly whispered.

Igor was instantly on edge.

‘Where did you hear that?’

‘On the radio.’

‘It must be true, then,’ Igor replied uneasily. ‘Wake me at nine if I’m not up by then. What time does the photography place open?’

‘Everything opens at eight here, except the market. That opens at six,’ said Vanya. ‘But you should take the film to Kiev to get it developed. Otherwise the old man will tell Fima and all the others that the police are taking photographs of them. Here, take it.’ Vanya placed the film in Igor’s outstretched hand and left the room. Igor looked at the small black cartridge protecting the undeveloped film from the light. He rolled it back and forth in his palm, then put it in his pocket.