Andrey Kurkov - The Gardener from Ochakov

I have to stop Chagin, Igor resolved. His fear had retreated. I’ll give him some money and explain that Valya and I…

His thoughts trailed off into a series of questions. What exactly would he explain to Chagin? Was anything going on between him and Valya? If so, what?

I have to stop Chagin! The same thought kept coming back to him, and this time it demanded action.

Igor stood up more decisively. He grabbed the cloth bag and touched the cold, dry handle of the gun in its holster. Then he started walking.

He didn’t know the way, but either his feet or his boots did. They led him first to the market then to Kostya Khetagurov Street.

Igor stopped in the same place as before, on the side of the street opposite Fima’s gate, so that he had a good view of the three steps up to the front porch.

There didn’t appear to be any lights on in the house, but Igor took a few steps to the right and saw a glow coming from a little side window, so faint that it was barely visible from the street.

Igor checked again to make sure the holster was open. His fingers brushed the cold metal of the gun, and this calmed his nerves. Feeling bolder, he crossed the street and went through the gate, then hunched over and crept towards the right side of the house. He stopped beneath the little window and listened. Silence. He crouched down and pressed his back to the brick wall, holding his breath. The cold from the wall passed straight through his wet tunic.

What should he do now? Burst into the house waving his gun? Knock on the window? Igor’s thoughts buzzed about like agitated wasps. No, he shouldn’t burst in. He had to try and talk to him. Calmly, man to man.

The silence was starting to irritate Igor. He didn’t know what time it was because he hadn’t brought the gold watch with him. He didn’t know when it would start getting light. He had no idea what he was going to do.

Then suddenly, like a lifeline, he heard the sound of footsteps and men’s voices in the darkness. The footsteps drew nearer, then the gate banged shut.

‘We should tell his mother,’ said a familiar dry, wheezing voice.

‘No need. She’ll understand,’ replied Fima’s voice. ‘Are you coming in?’

‘No. Here, take the spade.’

There was the sound of metal striking the stone doorstep. The door creaked as it opened, and the gate banged again.

So, Chagin had gone into the house alone. Igor was pleased. It would be easier to talk one to one, without having to keep an eye out for anyone else.

From somewhere above his head, on the other side of the window, came the sound of a bottle being placed on a table, then the sound of liquid being poured.

Perfect timing, thought Igor.

Surprising himself with the vigour of his movements, he stood up straight, took the roubles out of the bag and stuffed them into the pockets of his breeches, leaving the empty bag on the ground below the window. Then he crept round the corner of the house, went up the steps and carefully pulled the front door towards him. He expected it to swing open, but when the door had opened a little way it stopped. Igor stuck his hand into the gap and felt a long metal hook. He lifted it out of its catch, opened the door and went inside, to be met by the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps. Igor turned and shut the door behind him. The light bulb hanging from the ceiling in the hall was switched on, and Igor was temporarily blinded. Then he saw Fima, who was standing just a few paces away, with a less than welcoming expression frozen on his face and an empty shot glass in his right hand. Powerful fumes were emanating from his mouth from the vodka he’d just drunk. His eyes came to rest on Igor’s open holster and his expression suddenly brightened.

‘We need to talk,’ said Igor.

‘About what?’ asked Fima.

‘What?’

‘What do you want to talk about? Sanka, the man you killed?’

‘No.’ Igor shook his head.

Fima’s slow reactions gave Igor the chance to get his thoughts straight.

‘About Valya. Look, there’s nothing going on between us… I’m just helping her out. I want you to leave her alone.’

‘You’re helping her?’ repeated Fima, as though he genuinely didn’t understand the meaning of the word.

‘She’s really sick. I got her some medicine.’

‘Did you indeed? A police officer with contacts in the pharmaceutical trade, eh?’ Fima’s eyes widened in mock surprise. He held his empty glass up in his right hand and looked around. His eyes fell on a chair in the corner. Taking a step towards it, he put his glass down on the worn brown seat.

‘I’m not a police officer,’ said Igor, as convincingly as he could manage.

Fima looked Igor up and down with a drunken sneer. Their eyes met again.

‘If you’re not a police officer, does that mean you can drink with a thief?’ asked Fima. A strange, involuntary smile crept over his face.

‘Yes,’ Igor nodded. ‘We can talk over a drink.’

Fima opened a door behind him.

‘After you!’ he declared with a flourish.

Igor knew Fima was being facetious, but he managed to hide his anxiety and walk past his host apparently unperturbed.

Igor heard the sound of the metal hook behind him as the front door was locked from inside. Fima stumbled after him and Igor quickened his pace, stopping only when he reached the window in the living room. He turned and looked around him. A half-empty half-litre bottle of vodka stood on the oval table, along with a plate of salted cucumbers, an earthenware salt cellar and hunks of black bread on an open newspaper. There was an oak dresser against the opposite wall, with cut-glass panels in the wooden doors. Igor watched as Fima took out a couple of glasses. He placed one in front of Igor and the other in front of himself, then pulled up a chair and sat down across the table from his guest. He picked up the bottle and emptied it into his own glass.

‘Oh!’ he said, pretending to be surprised. ‘It’s run out! I’ll have to open another one!’

He got up and left the room.

While he was gone, Igor took another good look around the room. His eyes settled on a little car made of tin cans, evidently a home-made child’s toy. It stood in the corner by the dresser, as though it had been abandoned there by its young owner.

Fima returned with another half-litre bottle, which had already been opened. He filled Igor’s glass, then sat down again.

‘Please, take a seat!’ he said, peering at Igor through narrowed eyes.

Igor sat down.

‘So, shall we drink to getting to know each other?’ asked Fima.

‘Let’s talk first,’ said Igor, his voice mild and amiable.

‘Are you on about Valya again?’

‘Yes,’ nodded Igor. ‘You swore that you’d kill her… Now she’s terrified.’

‘Me? Kill her? How can you say such a thing?’ Fima clasped his hands together theatrically. ‘Well, it might have come out of here,’ he said, prodding his mouth with his forefinger. ‘In the heat of the moment. Maybe, but… they were the words of a desperate man!’

‘So you’re not going to touch her?’

‘Not going to touch her? I never said that. I can’t wait to get my hands on that bitch!’

‘Listen,’ said Igor again, trying to sound firm and conciliatory at the same time. ‘I won’t come here again. If you promise you won’t touch her, then I promise this is the last time you’ll ever see me. OK?’

As Fima contemplated Igor’s offer, a perplexed but otherwise inscrutable smile played on his lips.

‘I still don’t get it,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘But we need to drink! Come on,’ he raised his glass. ‘To getting to know each other!’

They drank at the same time – Fima in one gulp, Igor in three. Igor felt a burning sensation in his mouth and throat, and the vodka left an unpleasant aftertaste.