Andrey Kurkov - The Gardener from Ochakov

SLEEP DESERTED IGOR at about midday, chased away by his mother’s cheerful humming and the appetising smell of fried fish.

Igor wandered into the kitchen barefoot, wearing just a pair of boxer shorts.

‘Thanks, son!’ Elena Andreevna looked up from the spitting frying pan.

‘A promise is a promise,’ said Igor with a nod. ‘You haven’t invited Olga to lunch this time, have you?’

His mother shook her head.

‘Stepan’s coming, though,’ she said. ‘He’s bought himself a suit!’

‘A suit?’ Igor’s brain had trouble processing this piece of information. ‘For lunch? That’s a bit over the top, isn’t it?’ he added with a smirk.

Elena Andreevna was offended, apparently on Stepan’s behalf.

‘You should think yourself lucky. I bought you your first suit when you graduated from school. Some people never get the chance to wear a suit!’

Igor shrugged. ‘I’ve got nothing against suits,’ he said calmly. ‘Would it make you happy if I wore mine for lunch too?’

‘Get out of here, you and your smart remarks!’ His mother waved him away mildly and began turning the fish in the frying pan.

Half an hour later the flounder were melting in their mouths. They ate them with marinated cucumbers and boiled potatoes with dill, which complemented the fish perfectly. Stepan wasn’t wearing a suit after all – he’d come wearing his normal clothes, although Igor couldn’t help noticing that the gardener had shaved before joining them. So, he thought, his mother’s invitation to lunch must have meant something!

‘Is there any news from your daughter?’ asked Igor, helping himself to boiled potatoes.

Stepan raised his eyebrows and turned to look at Igor.

‘There will be, when the time is right,’ he answered brusquely.

Elena Andreevna put another piece of fish on Stepan’s plate.

‘No, no, I’ve had plenty!’ he protested.

‘Isn’t she married?’ she asked cautiously.

‘No. It’s not easy to find a good husband these days.’

‘Or a good wife, for that matter,’ agreed Elena Andreevna, looking at her son.

Stepan also stared thoughtfully at Igor. Acutely aware of both sets of eyes upon him, Igor choked and began coughing. Stepan leapt up and thumped him hard on the back. Igor raised a hand to try and stop all the fuss.

‘I swallowed a bone,’ he said quickly, trying to suppress his cough.

When Elena Andreevna stood up and began collecting the plates from the table, Stepan looked at Igor again.

‘Do you know anyone who might make a good husband for Alyona?’ he asked. ‘She’s got a dowry now.’

‘I don’t know that many people,’ confessed Igor. ‘And I’ve only really got one friend – Kolyan.’

‘The one who works in a bank?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘Will you introduce them?’

Igor was taken aback by the request. ‘Well, he was planning on coming out here soon for a barbecue… But I should warn you, he likes a drink or two!’

Stepan thanked Elena Andreevna for lunch and went out into the yard. A little while later Igor’s mobile phone rang. It was the photographer’s wife, letting him know that the prints were ready for him to collect. Igor was delighted by the news and quickly got ready to leave, taking the next lot of films with him.

The autumn sun was shining over Kiev, and Igor couldn’t help feeling pleased – as though the sun were trying to support and enhance his good mood. People tend to walk faster when they’re anticipating miracles. Igor had indeed quickened his pace, but he showed no sign of exertion – he wasn’t at all tired or out of breath, even though he was walking up Proreznaya Street this time instead of down.

He reached the studio, turned into the courtyard and rang the doorbell. The photographer’s wife opened the door and let him in. She was wearing the same dark blue robe and slippers as before. The air inside was different this time. It no longer smelt of freshly ground coffee or menthol cigarettes but of certain chemical compounds. The smell itself wasn’t particularly offensive – just overtly professional, which was at odds with the domestic surroundings.

Looking through to the room with the sofas and armchairs, Igor could see a number of large-format black-and-white prints hanging from lines across the room, where they were drying.

Are they really mine? thought Igor, and his heart skipped a beat.

He took a step towards them, to get a better view. Without saying a word, the photographer’s wife disappeared behind the kitchen door. The black-and-white prints featured naked girls sitting astride broomsticks, pretending to be witches. There was no way Vanya Samokhin could have taken those, especially not in Ochakov in 1957!

Igor walked over to the kitchen and looked through the door. The photographer’s wife was standing with her back to him, facing the coffee machine. She seemed to sense Igor’s presence and turned round.

‘Would you like some coffee?’

Igor nodded.

‘Take a seat in there,’ she said, nodding towards the reception room. She followed him in, carrying three cups of coffee on a tray.

There was the sound of curtains being pulled back vigorously, followed by the sound of running water. Then the photographer came through another doorway into the room. He was wearing a checked shirt with the top two buttons undone, as before, although the shirt was a different colour. Igor noticed that it was hanging out of his jeans. Following the direction of his gaze, the photographer tucked it in.

‘I’ll be right back,’ he said, then went behind a screen that was covered in black cloth and started making rustling noises.

‘There you go. See what you make of those,’ he said, holding a padded envelope out to Igor and sitting down in one of the armchairs.

Igor reached into the envelope and took out a pile of photographs. He was hit by the same chemical smell he’d noticed on entering the studio. His hand automatically reached for his coffee cup, and he took a reassuring sip of thick, aromatic espresso.

Igor saw that the photographs were shaking in his hand. He placed them on the glass tabletop in front of him, then picked up the first one. It showed a plump woman standing in front of a gate, holding two bulky shopping bags. A single-storey building was clearly visible behind her. It seemed a bit odd that she was just standing there holding the bags, when she could have put them down on the ground… Not even her smile could conceal the weight of the bags, or rather the effort required to carry them, which was written all over her face. Puzzled, Igor held the photograph up to take a closer look.

The photographer stood up and moved a floor-standing spotlight over to Igor’s armchair. He angled the lamp so that it was pointing at the photograph and switched it on. Igor’s hands were immediately bathed in a warm glow. Furthermore, the photograph suddenly seemed to come to life, as though infused with colour.

That’s Vanya’s mother! realised Igor, peering at the woman’s face. And I paid a hundred dollars for this ?

Somewhat apprehensively, he picked up the second photograph. The spotlight spared him having to screw up his eyes or hold it inches from his face. This photograph showed a middle-aged man with prominent cheekbones walking down the steps at the front of Chagin’s house. The man’s lips were twisted in a dissatisfied grimace, and he was looking down at his feet. Igor decided that Vanya must have been lying or squatting down to the left of the gate. Igor recalled seeing a tree there. The next twenty or so images were of various other men, all of whom were sombre and unsmiling, defeated by life. Three individuals had been photographed several times. The profile of Chagin himself was visible in one of the shots.