Andrey Kurkov - The Gardener from Ochakov

‘Good evening,’ said the gardener.

‘Good evening,’ answered Igor. ‘Sorry, I won’t be a minute…’

He went to the far right-hand corner of the shed and immediately saw a bag containing about a dozen burnt-out light bulbs. What’s she keeping them for? he wondered, bending down. He chose two foreign bulbs with a matt finish, because their glass seemed a little thicker. Then he heard Stepan’s voice behind him.

‘I was thinking about going to a cafe a bit later. Would you like to join me?’

‘What do you mean?’ Igor didn’t understand.

‘We could have supper together,’ suggested Stepan.

‘No, I can’t, I’ve got to be somewhere.’

‘That’s a pity,’ said Stepan. ‘Well, can you recommend a good cafe?’

‘All the good cafes are in Kiev. As for round here,’ shrugged Igor, ‘I really don’t know what they’re like.’

‘Well, you should know! You live here, as do a thousand other decent people, all of whom are entitled to good cafes and restaurants.’

Igor stared at Stepan, trying to work out whether the gardener was reprimanding him or simply being naive. Meanwhile, Stepan was eyeing the two matt light bulbs in Igor’s hands and wondering what his landlady’s son was up to.

Back in his room, Igor got dressed in the old police uniform, fastening the belt and holster around his waist. He took the gun out of the wardrobe, where he’d hidden it from his mother’s curiosity. After trying it out at the barbecue, he now knew that it was a useless fake. On the other hand, if Igor had given Kolyan the gun when he’d asked, it might have frightened off his attacker.

Igor turned the gun over in his hands, trying to decide whether or not to take it with him. He brought it to his nose and inhaled. Igor liked the smell of gun oil, and it was a good feeling holding this heavy toy, even if that’s all it was. Eventually Igor slipped the gun into the holster and found a bag for the light bulbs. He put Valya’s medication into the bag too, along with the pharmacist’s handwritten instructions. Holding the carrier bag, he glanced into the living room to let his mother know that he was going out. His mother wasn’t sitting in front of the television for once; she was at the ironing board, carefully ironing creases into a pair of trousers.

‘Ma! I’ve told you before! Nobody wears creases in their trousers these days!’ exclaimed Igor.

‘They’re Stepan’s,’ answered his mother. ‘He’s going somewhere in his suit this evening. It must be some-thing important!’

‘Yeah, I bet it is.’ Igor smiled. ‘I’m going out now, and I’ll be back tomorrow or the day after. Don’t worry about me.’

As soon as he’d said this he closed the door and walked briskly down the hallway, the heels of his police boots knocking against the wooden floorboards. He heard his mother’s voice behind him but couldn’t make out what she was saying, nor did he try to.

It wasn’t long before he’d left the house behind. The evening was wrapping the street in its dark cotton wool, muffling sounds and thickening the air. An old Moskvich car drove past, overtook Igor and turned into another street, disappearing from view.

Igor quickened his pace. He wore a tense smile and all his thoughts, all his feelings, were focused on his impending immersion in another world. There was a different kind of meaning behind the windows and faces in this world, a different energy in its gestures and movements. The eyes of its inhabitants burned with a unique spirit, in both solemnity and joy.

Drunken excitement seemed to accelerate the dark time of day. The familiar lights of the Ochakov Wine Factory soon appeared in the distance. When Igor was about two hundred metres away, the green gates opened and the old lorry came out. It turned and drove off towards the town, its headlights illuminating the road ahead. Just as Igor reached the edge of the square, the gates creaked again and opened slightly. A young lad carrying a sack of wine over his shoulder stuck his head out. He turned and waved to the guard, and the gates closed again after him.

Igor peered closely at him. The lad was about the same height and build as Vanya, but there was something different about his posture and the way he was moving. It wasn’t Vanya. The lad carrying the leather wineskin took several steps towards the road, then stopped and adjusted his burden. Igor emerged from under the trees.

‘Hey!’ he called out to the lad. He wanted to ask him about Vanya.

Turning round sharply at the sound of his voice, the lad threw the wineskin from his shoulder and leapt into the darkness.

‘Come back!’ called Igor. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of!’

Everything was quiet. The only sound to be heard was the crackling of branches coming from the direction in which the lad had disappeared, and it was growing more and more distant.

‘Little devil!’ Igor shook his head, annoyed. He walked over to the abandoned leather sack. He prodded it with the toe of his boot and watched it wobble as the wine sloshed about inside. He looked around again.

He was holding a carrier bag full of light bulbs and medicine, and there was a sack of stolen wine at his feet. Everything was dark and quiet. What was he supposed to do now? Should he leave the wine there?

Igor sighed deeply and placed the carrier bag next to the wineskin. Then he squatted down, lifted the leather sack and hoisted it onto his shoulder. He was sure he felt his shoulder joint crunch under the sudden and unfamiliar burden. Igor grabbed the carrier bag and stood up with a jerk. The wineskin heaved and trembled as though it were alive, and it seemed to be trying its best to slip off his shoulder.

‘Not a good start,’ Igor muttered to himself and set off along the familiar road to the town. His right shoulder ached. Igor tried to carry the wine over his left shoulder, but the sack just wouldn’t stay on it.

Giving the familiar gate a shove, Igor went into Vanya Samokhin’s yard. He put the sack down carefully on the doorstep and caught his breath, then looked up at the dark, sleeping windows of the house.

He went round behind the corner of the house and rapped on the glass with his knuckles. Vanya’s sleepy face appeared in the window. He rubbed his eyes with his hands and peered out.

‘Open up, it’s me!’ Igor said quite loudly, bringing his face as close as he could to the glass.

Eventually Vanya spotted his guest and went to let him in.

‘Where did you get that?’ he asked in surprise. His eyes were fixed on the sack of wine that Igor had lowered onto the wooden floor in the hallway.

‘From your factory,’ said Igor, with a tired smile. ‘I was waiting for you there, and another lad came out instead of you, carrying that.’ He nodded at the sack. ‘I was going to ask him about you, but when I called out he just ran off. I couldn’t leave evidence of the misappropriation of socialist property there in front of the factory gates, could I?’

Igor was surprised at how easily the right words flew out of his mouth this time.

‘So, did I do the right thing?’ he asked Vanya.

Vanya shrugged. ‘It must have been Petka, my co-worker,’ he said. ‘It’s his sack.’ He squatted down near the wine. ‘We need to give it back. A leather sack like that costs more than a hundred roubles.’

‘Return stolen goods to a thief? Maybe you’d like me to hand this embezzled wine back to him in person, right now?’

Vanya didn’t answer. In the dim light of the hallway, Igor could see him pouting childishly.

‘If he’s your friend, you can give it back to him yourself,’ said Igor.

‘No, I’ll tip the wine out first, then give the sack back,’ whispered Vanya. ‘I feel bad for him, though, he’s really unlucky.’