Andrey Kurkov - The Gardener from Ochakov

‘Can’t you just show me?’

‘No, I’m not going to show you anything on an empty stomach,’ insisted Kolyan. With a final glance at the poster, he started walking again. Five minutes later they arrived at Cafe Borshch.

‘So, what are you having?’ asked Igor, knowing that Kolyan was going to take pleasure in keeping him in suspense, watching his growing irritation and milking the excitement and impatient curiosity that were written all over his face.

‘Let’s see now… I’ll have a Russian salad, okroshka soup and some fruit cordial,’ said Kolyan.

Igor relayed this information to the waitress and sat down opposite Kolyan, without ordering anything for himself.

‘Aren’t you having anything?’ asked Kolyan, surprised.

‘I’m already full with curiosity. Anyway, your appetite’s enough for both of us.’ Igor gave a forced smile. ‘So, are you going to show me or not?’

‘All right, here you go.’ Kolyan held the tube of paper out to him.

Igor opened it up. The printout was black and white – or rather, grey and white – but perfectly comprehensible. Stepan’s shoulder was no longer visible, but there were words and an image. The letters looked unsteady, shaky, ready to dissolve again at any moment into a random agglomeration of dots.

‘“Ochakov, 1957, Efim Chagin’s House”,’ read Igor. There was an image of an anchor beneath the words. ‘Where’s Ochakov?’ asked Igor.

‘Don’t you know?’ asked Kolyan, surprised. ‘On the Black Sea, somewhere between Odessa and the Crimea. Berezan Island is just off the coast… You know, where Lieutenant Schmidt was shot. Or haven’t you ever heard of Battleship Potemkin either?’

Igor nodded, picturing the approximate location of the little town on a map of Ukraine.

‘Did he seriously not know what the tattoo said?’ asked Kolyan.

Igor smiled. Now his friend was the one itching to know more.

‘He had no idea,’ said Igor, shaking his head.

Half an hour later, they went their separate ways.

‘Hey, don’t forget it’s my birthday in two weeks! I’m expecting a present!’ Kolyan called after his friend.

‘I’ll be there,’ promised Igor, turning round for a moment. ‘As long as you remind me nearer the time!’

Igor bought a loaf of Darnitsky rye bread before getting the minibus back to Irpen. On the way home, he kept looking at the printout of the reconstructed tattoo. His imagination was on fire, and even Radio Chanson could not tear his thoughts away from the words and the anchor. He had gone to Kiev with one mystery, and he was coming home with another. Well, it was essentially the same mystery, but knowing more about it only made it more fascinating.

Igor went through the gate and straight round to the back of the house, to the shed. Stepan was inside, sitting on a little stool up against the wall. He was reading a book.

‘What are you reading?’ asked Igor.

‘Just something about the war,’ answered Stepan, getting up.

He closed the book and put it on the stool with the cover facing down, as though he didn’t want Igor to see the title or the name of the author.

‘Well, I’ve managed to decipher your tattoo!’ declared Igor, with childish pride.

‘Have you now?’ the gardener asked in surprise. ‘What does it say, then?’

Igor held out the piece of paper.

‘“Ochakov, 1957, Efim Chagin’s house”,’ Stepan read aloud slowly. Then he froze, his eyes fixed on the words.

Igor stood waiting for the gardener’s reaction.

‘Go on now,’ said Stepan, his voice suddenly cold. ‘I need to be alone for a while, to think about everything.’

‘Such a thinker,’ Igor muttered scornfully, as he turned away. He went into the house. As he left the bag containing the loaf of bread in the kitchen, he glanced at the old set of scales that stood on the windowsill. One pan of the scales held the weights, which ranged from 20g to 2kg. In the other, elevated pan lay the electricity pay book, which was held down with a weight as if to stop it flying away. Not only did his mother use them to weigh out ingredients when she was cooking, even though she was probably more than capable of cutting 100g of butter or scooping out 200g of flour by instinct alone, but she also kept all her paperwork and important documents in the pans. The scales were like her office desk.

Igor poured himself a glass of milk and went into the living room to watch television. There was a detective film on the New Channel. Under normal circumstances Igor would have sat happily and watched it to the end, but today nothing seemed to hold his attention. Nothing, that is, except the enigmatic printout. After sitting in front of the screen for about quarter of an hour, Igor put his shoes on again and went out into the yard. He walked over to the shed and glanced inside, but Stepan wasn’t there. He wasn’t in the garden either, or the vegetable patch.

Igor went into the shed to see if the gardener’s things had disappeared. They hadn’t – his rucksack was hanging on a nail above the bed, and his clothes, folded as though they’d just been ironed, lay neatly next to the woodworking tools on the old wooden shelf unit.

THAT NIGHT IGOR went back to the shed, hoping that Stepan would have returned. He still wasn’t there.

Puzzled by the gardener’s disappearance, Igor went to bed. He lay there for a long time, closing his eyes and turning from side to side, but he just couldn’t get to sleep. Something – either excitement after his trip to Kiev, or some vague, niggling anxiety – was keeping his body alert. A couple of times he thought he heard footsteps in he yard. He got up and went to the door to investigate, only to be greeted by silence – the kind of silence that was full of nocturnal noises. Somewhere out there, an aeroplane was flying high up in the dark sky. Somewhere out there, a drunken tramp was bewailing his loneliness. Somewhere out there, a foreign car was racing through Irpen at top speed.

To eliminate all distractions Igor shut the little top window, and eventually sleep overcame him.

In the morning, his lack of sleep was further exacerbated by a mild but persistent headache. He’d always had headaches like this, ever since he was a child. He was used to the pain. Sometimes he barely even noticed it.

‘Are you up yet?’ called his mother from the kitchen. ‘Come and have breakfast.’

Igor ate a fried egg, drank a glass of milk and then made himself a mug of strong tea. While he was drinking it, he noticed the telephone bill in the raised pan of the scales, held down by a weight. With a smile, he took a second weight from the other pan and put it on top of the bill.

‘Can you make Stepan a cup of tea too? And take him some bread and salami,’ said Elena Andreevna.

Igor nodded automatically, then remembered the previous evening.

Maybe he’s back already, he thought. If he is, then he’s bound to appreciate a mug of tea and a sandwich. Hopefully it’ll put him in the mood to talk.

The Darnitsky bread was still perfectly fresh – Elena Andreevna always kept it sealed in a plastic carrier bag. Igor cut two thick slices, spread them thickly with butter and placed a slice of salami on each.

The door to the shed was ajar. Igor couldn’t remember whether or not he’d shut it the night before. He knocked anyway. There was no answer.

Leaving the mug of tea on the doorstep, Igor went inside. Everything was exactly as he’d left it. Stepan clearly hadn’t been back.

Igor picked up the mug again and shut himself inside the shed. His eyes came to rest on the gardener’s rucksack. The only source of natural light in the shed was a small window to the right of the door, and the strange, unnatural gloom created a rather mysterious atmosphere. Of course, there was nothing to stop Igor flicking the switch and revelling in the brightness of the 100W light bulb that hung from the ceiling. He could have brought the reading lamp over too, as the shed had been fully adapted for the use of power tools and boasted three electrical sockets. The tools themselves lay on the shelves and in two wooden boxes.