Andrey Kurkov - The Gardener from Ochakov

Igor decided to take the commuter train to Kiev. Although the sky hung low under the weight of the storm clouds, it still wasn’t actually raining. He used to do this journey more often, taking the commuter train to Kiev and then walking to Victory Square. His route took him across the other platforms via the pedestrian bridge and down into Starovokzalnaya Street, which had been turned into a kind of market for suburban commuters. As well as kiosks and shops there were all kinds of little workshops, where you could prolong the life of an old pair of worn-out shoes, get the batteries in your watch changed or even fix the lock on a suitcase. Igor could remember seeing a little photo-processing place here. To Igor’s delight, it was still there and the door was open. However, after inspecting the film the boy behind the counter shook his head.

‘Can’t do anything with that,’ he said, handing the cartridge back to Igor. ‘It’s an old Svema film. Black and white, too. You need to take it to a proper lab.’

‘What do you mean, a “proper lab”?’ Igor asked in dismay.

‘Fuji or Kodak. Let me think where the nearest one is…’ He paused. ‘You’ll have to go to Khmelnitsky Street. Or Lviv Square, that would be a better bet. It’s only five minutes by minibus from the circus. There are a couple of places past the House of Artists.’

Igor put the film cartridge in his jacket pocket, glanced up at the sky and started walking towards the circus.

The slick Fuji salon on Lviv Square was a far cry from the little shack on Starovokzalnaya Street. The man behind the counter wore a solemn expression and an expensive suit; a large printing and processing machine, which evidently originated from Japan or one of its neighbouring countries, was humming busily away behind him. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help either.

‘A Svema, eh?’ He seemed surprised. ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you.’ He looked back at the machine. ‘It’s programmed to work in colour. If we were talking a hundred black-and-white films, then we might be able to come to some arrangement.’

‘Right,’ said Igor, his voice a mixture of disappointment and despair. ‘So isn’t there anywhere in Kiev I can get it developed?’

‘I didn’t say that!’ The man gave a guilty smile. ‘You need to go to a professional. Try number 26 Proreznaya Street.’

Igor stuffed the cartridge back into his jacket pocket, nodded despondently at the man in the suit and went outside.

A light rain had begun to fall, apologetically, as though embarrassed by its own inadequacy – the heavy storm clouds were clearly capable of thunderous downpours, and yet all they had managed to produce was this pathetic drizzle.

The photography studio on Proreznaya Street had large windows facing the street. Several oversized prints of black-and-white photographs were on display behind the glass, and Igor stood there for a while admiring them. Even the tiniest details were clearly visible. Everything about the photos was contemporary – the people, the buildings – but the absence of colour emphasised the timelessness of the images and made Igor look at them more closely to see what he was missing. Colour photos can make you smile. They’re great for holiday snaps but they rarely inspire you or make you think. Black-and-white photos are a different matter, and Igor felt this as soon as he set eyes on them.

When he’d finished admiring the photographs, he looked for the door to the studio. He found it in the courtyard.

This studio didn’t have a counter or any processing machines. It reminded him more of a private apartment. The door to the room on the left was wide open, and the twin aromas of coffee and menthol cigarettes indicated that this was the kitchen. Further inside, down two little steps and through a set of open double doors, was a spacious room with two sofas and two armchairs, all arranged around a large coffee table with a thick glass top. A couple of photo albums lay on the table. One was still wrapped in cellophane, and the cover of the other featured one of the photographs from the studio windows.

‘Can I help you?’ A quiet female voice behind him made him jump.

Igor spun round and saw a short woman of about forty years old, holding a cup of freshly brewed coffee in one hand. She had cropped ash-coloured hair and was wearing earrings inset with turquoise, a dark blue housecoat and fluffy slippers. Igor felt extremely uncomfortable, as though he’d barged into someone’s home uninvited.

‘I must have made a mistake,’ he said hurriedly, taking the film out of his jacket pocket. ‘I thought this was a… photography studio.’

Igor thought about walking straight past the woman and out of the door, but she’d already caught sight of the film cartridge and stopped him with a look.

‘Can I see?’ she asked, holding her free hand out towards him.

‘Of course!’

‘Take a seat,’ she said, leading the way to the sofas and chairs. She placed her coffee on the table and sat in an armchair, then held the film cartridge up and inspected it more closely.

‘So it hasn’t been developed yet?’ The woman looked at Igor.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Are they family photos?’

‘What?’ Igor didn’t understand what she meant.

‘I assumed you’d found it among your parents’ things,’ she said. Her voice became softer, more velvety. ‘I once found three undeveloped films in the bag where my mother kept all her documents… One of them turned out to be full of pictures of my brother and me in Yevpatoriya in the 1970s. He was seven years old, and I was five.’

Igor listened attentively, nodding his head.

‘Can you develop it for me?’ he asked.

‘Of course,’ said the woman. ‘My husband will be back in half an hour. He’s the photographer, I just help out. You need to talk to him.’

The woman’s husband was also called Igor – a short, wiry man with a pleasant demeanour. He was wearing a threadbare grey jacket and a checked shirt, which was tucked into his jeans. The top two buttons of the shirt were undone.

‘I pride myself on the high quality of my work, and my prices reflect that,’ he said immediately. ‘You can take the film along to an amateur photography club and come to some arrangement with one of the old boys who use antique cameras, or you can leave it here with me – it’s up to you. The price for developing and printing will be a hundred dollars.’

‘A hundred dollars?’ repeated Igor.

‘Actually it should be at least two hundred and fifty. The chemicals are all imported, and then there’s the special paper and so on. I’m offering you a one-off special price, an introduction to the world of professional photography.’ He nodded at the film. ‘You don’t even know what’s on there. And in any case it might already have been exposed to light. So think about it carefully – are you sure you want to go ahead?’

Igor-the-photographer stared searchingly into his visitor’s eyes, as though he were hoping to dissuade him. Igor found himself momentarily reconsidering. He didn’t have a hundred dollars on him, for a start.

‘Yes,’ said Igor. He looked down at the little plastic container. ‘I’m sure. How long will it take?’

‘Well, I can probably do it in a couple of days. I need to check I’ve got all the right chemicals, and then it’s a question of finding the time. I’m working on various commissions and projects… Art for art’s sake does not pay the rent!’

‘Do I need to pay up front?’ Igor asked warily.

‘Of course,’ sighed the photographer. ‘If you just leave it with me, I might never see you again. But if the work’s paid for I’ll do it, then it’s your choice whether or not to come back for the photos.’