Andrey Kurkov - The Gardener from Ochakov

‘Don’t you want some wine to help you sleep?’ asked Vanya, surprised and a little dismayed. He glanced pointedly at the glasses of wine.

Igor took one of the glasses and brought it to his lips. The familiar sour smell hit his nostrils. Vanya picked up the other glass and gave a cautious smile.

‘Let’s drink to your studies,’ Igor said quietly, indicating The Wine-Maker’s Handbook .

‘We can drink to that later,’ Vanya whispered back. ‘Let’s drink to my mother’s health instead!’

‘All right,’ agreed Igor. He took a large mouthful.

Vanya emptied his glass in one go and took a deep, contented breath, filling his lungs with air. Igor carried his glass into the living room, where he drank the rest of his wine before lying down, fully clothed, on the lumpy leather sofa.

He was woken early the following morning by the cacophonous medley of birdsong and human voices outside Vanya Samokhin’s house. The sounds were already familiar, but so different from his own home. Igor felt different too – full of energy and impulsive enthusiasm. He got up, brushed the creases out of the uniform and put on the belt and holster. Then he heard Vanya’s footsteps on the other side of the door.

‘Mother and I will head to the market first,’ said Vanya, looking into the living room with shaving foam on his cheeks and a razor in one hand. He had obviously heard his guest getting up and rushed in to tell him the plan.

‘But you’re supposed to be taking photographs of me!’

‘I’ll take the camera with me. I just need to drop the wine off at my mother’s stall. I dare say you’ll be going to the fish section first anyway.’ A sly smile spread across Vanya’s face.

‘Fine. I’ll pull the door shut, like last time,’ said Igor, choosing to ignore both the insinuation and the smirk.

He rolled up the blanket and put it at one end of the sofa. Then he went over to the window and looked out through the white lace curtain. The sound of a bicycle bell caught his attention, and he watched a man in a grey suit cycle directly towards two women, each of whom was carrying a three-litre milk churn. The women didn’t seem to mind, though – on hearing the bell they jumped apart, and when the man had passed they came together again and resumed their animated conversation.

Igor soon saw Vanya Samokhin and his mother leave the house. They were both carrying heavy shopping bags. Igor felt quite sorry for them, while simultaneously marvelling at the impracticality of their system. Why not use a trolley or, as he’d seen numerous times in the provinces, an old pushchair?

Both Vanya and his mother were moving relatively swiftly in spite of the obvious weight of their loads. They turned left out of the gate and soon disappeared from view. Half an hour later Igor himself went through the gate and turned left.

He could feel salt on his lips from the light wind that was blowing into his face, reminding him of the proximity of the sea. Igor quickened his pace as though he were heading towards it. He even imagined that he could hear waves crashing to the shore. But real sounds took over as he approached the market. Igor strode through the familiar gates without even glancing at the fruit and vegetables on display. He was heading straight for the heart of the market in any coastal town – the fish section. He could already hear the voices of the sellers exalting their husbands’ catches of herring, or mussels, or whatever else they had hauled from the waters.

‘Damn!’ Igor stopped suddenly, realising that he didn’t have anything in which to carry the fresh flounder home. He looked around and saw an old woman selling string shopping bags, the kind he remembered from his childhood. He went over and bought one from her, then looked around again. Unable to spot Vanya, he continued on to the fish section at a more leisurely pace.

Red Valya was at her stall. Her face lit up when she saw Igor in his police uniform.

‘Have you got any Black Sea flounder left?’ Igor asked affably.

‘I put some aside for you,’ she said, smiling sweetly. Brazen sparks flashed in her eyes. ‘Will five be enough?’

‘Yes,’ said Igor.

Valya spread a piece of newspaper on the counter, lay the flounder on top and deftly wrapped them up.

‘How much do I owe you?’ asked Igor.

‘Ten roubles.’

‘Are you doing anything this evening?’ he whispered as he paid.

‘Why do you keep pestering this married woman?’ she whispered back playfully. ‘If that bench suits you, I’ll be there again at six.’

Igor tried to look around discreetly, hoping to see the camera lens trained on him and Valya, but he couldn’t see anything. He put the parcel of fish into his string bag, smiled at Valya and walked slowly away from the counter. He stopped about five metres away, near some barrels of herring, to see whether Vanya was taking photos of him as agreed. Try as he might, he couldn’t spot him among the colourful human chaos of the market.

Igor wandered about for another half an hour, sampling home-made salami, lightly salted pickles and fresh lard, before leaving the market via the side entrance. It was calmer there. He called into the little bar opposite the entrance for a glass of mineral water, then continued walking in the direction of Fima Chagin’s house.

His feet seemed to be taking him there of their own accord. Unless it was the boots, which had been discovered in Fima Chagin’s house… Maybe they wanted to go home?

Igor smiled. He stood outside the gate, looking at the house. Suddenly the front door opened and Chagin himself appeared on the threshold, a cigarette hanging from his mouth. He was about the same age as Igor. He stared at the police officer standing on the street outside his house. Igor, meanwhile, was rooted to the spot – his brain was telling him to leave, but his body refused to obey. Chagin walked up to the gate and fixed Igor with a cold, hostile glare. Then he took a deep drag on his cigarette before demonstratively stubbing it out against the gatepost and flicking it into the street.

Igor finally broke free of Chagin’s stare. Lowering his eyes and keeping his face free of expression, he walked purposefully away. The bag of fish swung in his right hand and bumped awkwardly against his knee. Sensing Fima Chagin’s eyes on his back, he didn’t look over his shoulder or even slow down until he’d turned the corner into a different street.

Later that evening – after his date with Valya, during which he’d been seconds away from his first real kiss – he sat down at the kitchen table and once again interrupted Vanya’s preparation for his future wine-making career.

Vanya laid five films on the table. His face bore an expression of naive and unabashed self-satisfaction, like a peasant who has managed to dupe someone into buying lame livestock.

Igor gave Vanya one hundred roubles to buy new films and two hundred roubles as a bonus. Vanya’s expression changed to one of pride.

‘Looks like I’m on the early-morning shift this week!’ he joked as he tucked the money away in the pocket of his trousers, which looked like they had seen better days.

‘Take as many as you can!’ urged Igor, trying to curb Vanya’s enthusiasm.

Vanya composed himself and nodded.

‘Would you be able to bring me a couple of burnt-out light bulbs? I broke one by accident, and –’

‘What do you want burnt-out light bulbs for?’ interrupted Igor, surprised.

‘Mother uses them to darn socks and tights. It’s easier if you put a light bulb inside them.’

Once again they concluded the evening, and their conversation, with two glasses of dry white wine. Then Igor went through to the living room where he undressed, placed the uniform on the stool, put the bag containing the fish on the floor and lay down on the sofa.