Andrey Kurkov - The Gardener from Ochakov

‘Eat something.’ Fima nodded at the bread. ‘You weren’t expecting branded vodka, were you?’

Igor chased the home-made vodka with some bread, then a piece of salted cucumber. The fire was extinguished but the unpleasant taste remained.

‘So how else are you going to make it worth my while?’ Fima placed his elbows on the table and leaned forward, resting his sharp chin on the back of his folded hands.

‘I can pay you,’ said Igor.

‘How much?’

Igor quickly estimated how many hundred-rouble notes he had in his pockets.

‘Ten thousand.’

Fima flinched in astonishment.

‘You’re bluffing,’ he said menacingly.

Igor took the unopened bundle of roubles from his left-hand pocket and placed it on the table.

‘Well, well, well…’ murmured Fima, standing up and walking round to Igor’s side of the table. He leaned over the bundle of banknotes and peered closely at it, almost inhaling it, but he didn’t touch it. Instead he took the bottle from the table and poured some more home-made vodka into Igor’s glass. ‘Oh dear, it’s run out again!’ he smiled. ‘I’ll get another one!’

He left the room a second time, returning with another full bottle. He filled his own glass and sat down.

‘I think we can come to some arrangement,’ he said, baring his crooked teeth. ‘Let’s drink!’

They both drank. This time, the fire burned all the way down Igor’s throat to his feet. His whole body felt warm, and he was no longer aware of his wet clothes.

‘All right,’ continued Fima, chewing a piece of bread. ‘I give you my word that I won’t touch the bitch – thief’s honour! Happy now?’

Igor nodded. His unsteady gaze fell on the little car made out of tin cans.

‘Did you make that for your little boy?’ he asked, pointing to the corner of the room.

Fima followed the direction of his guest’s gaze, and another strange smile crept over his face.

‘Yeah,’ he nodded. ‘Well, someone else’s. I haven’t got any kids.’

‘This little boy… he wouldn’t happen to be called Stepan, would he?’

Fima instantly stopped smiling. He shuddered as though he’d just been given an electric shock.

‘If you’re not a police officer, why are you asking me so many questions?’ Fima leapt to his feet and grabbed the bottle, but he let go of it straight away and sat down again. ‘I don’t know what’s the matter with me,’ he said apologetically. ‘What a day I’ve had! My neighbour’s son was murdered in cold blood, for no apparent reason… I saw that bitch Valya sitting on the beach with a police officer… Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean…’

Fima’s voice was full of menace. Igor could hear it, but he was preoccupied with his own body, which no longer seemed to be obeying him. His arms were like lead weights, and he couldn’t move his legs or even feel his toes. There was an unpleasant warmth in the pit of his stomach, which soon turned into a burning sensation and began to rise upwards, towards his mouth. Igor started greedily gulping air.

Fima was no longer grimacing or smiling, and his face suddenly looked completely normal. ‘This is it, time to say goodbye. You promised I’d never see you again… Well, now nobody else will either!’

Fima stood up and walked slowly round the table. When he reached Igor, he put his right hand on his shoulder and gave him a hard shove. Igor crashed to the wooden floor and lay there without moving. His body was no longer paying any attention to him, although his eyes were still working and his ears were full of noise, both real and imaginary.

‘Never mind,’ said Fima, standing over him. ‘You’ll suffer for a couple of hours, then it’ll all be over! You’re not afraid of death, are you? You’ve got a gun!’

Laughing, Fima left the room. Igor heard the metallic sound of the hook as the front door opened and then closed again. The burning had reached his mouth. It hurt to breathe. Igor lay on his side on the wooden floor. He could see the table above him and the light bulb hanging from the ceiling. It was growing darker by the minute, as though some unknown force were raising the ceiling higher and higher into the sky until the last remaining speck of light dissolved in the darkness that enveloped him. Now it no longer mattered whether he opened or closed his eyes.

The life that had previously reigned throughout Igor’s body took refuge in a secret little corner, where nobody else could possibly find it. His body was still. His eyes were closed.

Half an hour later the door of the house opened again and two men came in. They stopped in the living room and looked down at the body in the police uniform.

‘He’s not a police officer, he’s from the KGB!’ said Fima. ‘And you were the one who brought him here! Why the hell did I take you on? Eh?’

‘What makes you think it’s my fault?’ his accomplice wheezed in surprise.

‘Iosip, he was asking about your Stepan! How would a regular police officer know anything about your son? Eh?’

‘So you bumped him off?’ Iosip barked gruffly. ‘That’s a bit… Well, what’s done is done. I’m glad I sent Stepan to Odessa – just in time, too. I knew something like this was going to happen. We’ll have to go on the run!’

‘Run? From my own home? I don’t think so! I’m used to things going my way, and they will this time, too! Let’s dump him by the bird with balls. Yeah, imagine the cops finding a dead KGB agent, his breath reeking of moonshine!’

‘Maybe we should just stick him under the floorboards, like the other one?’

‘Iosip, Iosip… you never know when to stop, do you? You’re just a peasant! I don’t have to listen to you. I didn’t in Ust-Ilim, where the thieves helped you, and I don’t here. Do you think I want to spend my life living above a cemetery, sleeping on top of dead men, drinking on top of dead men? No, one’s enough! We need to get rid of him. It’s the middle of the night, no one’ll see us. The nights in Ochakov belong to us, not them. They might be in charge during the day, but at night we take over.’

‘How are we going to get him there?’ asked Iosip.

‘I’ve got an army greatcoat. We can wrap him up in that.’

The life that was hiding in the depths of Igor’s motionless body felt this body being rolled over, lifted up, lowered again and carried off somewhere, rocking and swaying.

That night Ochakov was still and quiet, deserted and devoid of stars.

THE LIFE THAT was sheltering deep in Igor’s motionless body suddenly heard a dull thud, which echoed and reverberated throughout his entire frame.

Two pairs of feet in coarse, heavy boots came to a standstill nearby.

‘Maybe I should take his gun out and shoot him in the head,’ suggested Fima, his voice hesitant and weary. ‘They’ll think he got drunk and shot himself… Or shall I just take the gun?’

‘No, it’s not worth it,’ murmured Iosip. ‘Why shoot a man who’s already dead? And if the gun goes missing you’ll have the cops all over you, given your reputation.’

‘All right,’ agreed Fima. ‘Let’s get the coat out from under him, though. I can use it again.’

Quick as lightning, Fima leaned over the body and, with one smooth motion, struck it in the side. Then his fingers closed firmly over the edge of the greatcoat.

Jerked roughly as the greatcoat was yanked out from under him, Igor now lay on his back, his head almost touching the base of the ‘bird with balls’ – a pyramid of cannonballs surmounted by an eagle, commemorating Suvorov’s victory over the Turks in the siege of Ochakov.

The footsteps of both pairs of boots faded into the darkness. A baby hedgehog shuffled out from a patch of grass nearby and stopped, lifting its pointed nose to the sky.