Andrey Kurkov - The Gardener from Ochakov

The photographer brought five large envelopes over and put them on the table, then sat down in the other armchair.

‘I’m beginning to find you very interesting,’ he said. He picked up his brandy glass and turned to Igor, indicating that he should follow suit.

Igor lifted the glass to his nose and inhaled. It had a distinguished aroma, particularly after the home-made vodka he’d been drinking with Kolyan – although that hadn’t been at all bad! Igor smiled, remembering the previous evening.

‘These films,’ began the photographer. He sipped his brandy. ‘Look, I’m a professional and I know everything there is to know about photography. Well, almost everything. But I have to admit, I’m completely at a loss here. I’d love to know how you do it. You’re using old films, and taking old-fashioned photos, right?’

‘What do you mean?’ Igor stared at the photographer.

‘I assure you, my interest is purely professional. If someone showed me pictures like this on their computer, I would congratulate them on their Photoshop skills. But you brought me real films. Everything appears to be set in the past – at least the decor and costumes appear to be authentic – yet you’re in the photos yourself… Were they taken on the set of some historical drama? Do you work in cinematography?’

Igor shook his head and smiled.

The photographer took a sip of coffee and poured some more brandy into his glass. Then he pushed the envelopes across the table to his client. Igor took the photographs out of one of the envelopes and looked through them. He saw himself standing in front of Red Valya’s counter. He saw her wrapping the fish up in newspaper. He saw a man standing behind him, staring at Valya.

‘You could turn this lot into an excellent, and highly original, photography exhibition.’ Smiling broadly, the photographer looked at his client again. ‘You could use the same method in your advertising… I think you could make a decent amount of money, as well as a bit of a name for yourself. You seem to be quite an ambitious young man!’

Igor burst out laughing. Me? Ambitious? he thought happily.

‘It’s just a hobby,’ he said after a few moments, keen to maintain the good-natured atmosphere over the coffee table. ‘Maybe I’ll take a few more, and then we’ll see!’

‘What camera do you use?’

The question caught Igor off guard.

‘An old one,’ was all he said.

His answer was obviously music to the photographer’s ears. ‘I’m willing to develop and print your next films for free,’ he said. ‘On one condition.’

‘What?’

‘That if you do decide to put on an exhibition of your pictures, you come to me first. I’ll arrange everything for you. You clearly have an exceptional talent, and a great imagination.’

‘All right,’ agreed Igor. He reached for the bottle of Hennessy and poured some into his glass. ‘It’s a deal.’

With the envelopes tucked under his arm, Igor walked down Proreznaya Street to Kreshchatyk Street. When he got to the metro station he called Kolyan.

‘Hello?’ said a woman’s voice.

‘Oh, sorry, I must have got the wrong number –’

‘Don’t hang up!’ said the voice. ‘Who are you trying to reach?’

‘My friend Kolyan. I mean, Nikolai.’

‘He’s here, but he can’t talk right now. Can I give him a message?’

‘Where’s “here”?’ asked Igor.

‘The Accident and Emergency hospital on Bratislavsky Street. Your friend was the victim of a violent assault yesterday. He’s recovering in one of the wards.’

‘This is Igor. Tell him it’s Igor! I owe him some money,’ said Igor, then he stopped abruptly. ‘Can I see him?’

‘Of course,’ said the woman’s voice. ‘Fifth floor of the main building, Ward Seven.’ The woman gave Igor directions to the hospital, and the escalator carried him down to the metro.

Kolyan’s bed was up against the wall on the left-hand side of a six-bed ward. The door to the ward was wide open. Two large top windows were also open, and Igor was struck by a gust of wind that carried the smell of rotten autumn leaves. A length of clear plastic tubing, twisting and coiling like a snake, connected an intravenous drip bag to Kolyan’s right wrist. Igor was shocked by the sight of his friend – Kolyan’s face was partially covered with bandages, but the exposed parts were swollen and dark blue. His eyes were closed.

Igor noticed Kolyan’s mobile phone lying on the bedside cabinet. Fetching a chair from the entrance to the ward, Igor placed it next to his friend’s bed and sat down. He reached out a hand, wanting to wake Kolyan up, to let him know he was there, but then he hesitated. Igor went out into the hospital corridor and looked around, hoping to see a doctor or a nurse, but there was no one about. He walked along the corridor, glancing through the open doors of the other wards. Some patients were reading books or newspapers; one young man with a bandage around his head was wearing earphones, his eyelids twitching in time with music only he could hear. Igor walked up and down the corridor several times, until he heard a mobile phone ringing in the ward next to Kolyan’s. Curious, he looked in and saw a phone vibrating on a bedside cabinet next to a patient with both arms in plaster, a bandaged head and mottled bruising around his eyes. When the man in plaster saw Igor, he jerked his chin up and tried to speak. Understanding immediately, Igor walked over and picked up the phone.

‘Hello,’ he breathed.

‘It’s Varya. Is that… the doctor?’

‘No. I’m just visiting a friend in the next ward.’

‘Is Kostya there?’ The woman’s voice sounded scared.

Igor turned to the man in plaster.

‘Is your name Kostya?’ he asked, reading the answer in the man’s eyes.

‘Yes, he’s here, but he can’t talk right now.’

‘I know. Just tell him… tell him that Varya called. I’ll come and see him this evening. Tell him that I love him!’

‘OK,’ Igor promised and put the mobile phone back down.

‘Varya called,’ he said to the owner of the phone. ‘She said she loves you, and that she’s coming this evening.’

The man’s face did not show any sign of joy. Nodding goodbye, Igor left the ward and noticed the sign on the outside of the door: Ward No. 5. That was strange – why wasn’t Ward No. 5 followed by Ward No. 6? He checked the numbers of the wards on the opposite side of the corridor, but they were all double digits.

‘Are you looking for someone?’ came a woman’s voice from behind him. It sounded familiar.

He turned round. Finally, a nurse! She was young and cheerful-looking, with dark hair. She was like an idealised image of a nurse, but for the colour of her uniform, which had been washed so many times it had long since lost its snow-white purity.

‘Yes. My friend’s here… in Ward Seven.’

‘Ah, the one they brought in last night?’

‘Yes. What happened?’

‘He’s got a CHI, concussion, bruises and suspected broken ribs.’

‘A CHI?’ Igor repeated in alarm.

‘A closed-head injury,’ explained the nurse.

‘Is he going to be all right?’

‘Yes. He’ll have to stay here for a couple of days, and then we’ll send him home,’ the nurse said gently. ‘Under supervision.’

‘Is he asleep at the moment?’

‘Why don’t we go and see?’ The nurse turned round and started walking towards Ward No. 7. Igor hurried after her.

Kolyan was lying with his eyes open, staring at the ceiling. He tried to smile when he saw the nurse and Igor, but instead his wounded lips grimaced in pain.

‘How are you?’ asked Igor, leaning over him.

The look in Kolyan’s eyes told him all he needed to know. Igor nodded and put the photo envelopes down on the floor.