Andrey Kurkov - The Gardener from Ochakov

It began to rain. At first large drops drummed onto the ground, rustling the grass. Soon they were coming down in torrents, and the whole town was plunged into a nocturnal downpour. The earth, the grass, the memorial, everything glistened. Igor’s tunic was soon wet through, for the second time that night. The water running over his face seemed to give some kind of signal to the life that was hiding within him. Or perhaps it was the rain streaming into Igor’s half-open mouth, but whatever the trigger something happened inside him, something shifted, some kind of mechanism was released and began to press, weakly at first, on other mechanisms that controlled the body’s internal and external movements. Igor’s eyelids twitched and opened, and his mouth suddenly filled with the sweet taste of water he’d been longing for. He sensed the possibility of salvation – he didn’t understand it, he felt it instinctively, as though he were a wild animal rather than a human being.

Summoning all of his strength, Igor turned his face towards the earth, towards the puddle spreading out beside him. He felt the sweet, cold water on his lips. He swallowed and leaned further into the water, sticking his tongue out and lapping it up like a dog, the only difference being that his tongue was thicker and considerably less agile than any dog’s. He stuck his tongue out as far as it would go, probing the depths of the puddle and licking the firm, rough ground beneath it.

‘Water,’ he whispered, the word trembling on his lips as he pressed himself into the puddle once more.

The life that had been hiding deep within him grew bolder, running through his blood and bones, amazed to feel his body coming alive and growing warmer by the minute.

Meanwhile, the downpour continued in full force. Ochakov was no longer shrouded in nocturnal silence. Water flowed noisily in every direction, even where there was no obvious channel, gathering strength and furrowing deeper into the earth.

After resting for a while, Igor drank more rainwater. He became aware of his fingers and moved them slightly. Then, pressing his palms flat against the ground, he raised himself up. He could still feel a burning sensation in his stomach but the fire was weaker now, more subdued.

‘Am I alive?’ he whispered in astonishment, looking all around. ‘I’m alive!’

Greedily inhaling air, he struggled to his feet and staggered towards the nearest house. There was a street lamp next to it, illuminating the house number and the name of the road. He made it to the gate, pushed it open and stared at the dark windows of the house. Then he stepped back and let the gate swing shut. Swaying and holding his hand to his right side, which was hurting now more than his stomach, Igor shuffled on further down the street.

It was still raining, but Igor couldn’t feel it. Nor could he feel that his clothes, hair and face were already soaking wet.

Every now and then he forced himself to look up, to try and get his bearings. Unfamiliar houses and fences were gradually replaced by ones he recognised. Igor stopped when he came to Vanya Samokhin’s gate. Feeling desperately thirsty all of a sudden, he staggered to the side window of the house. He just about managed to raise his arm, which seemed incredibly heavy, and knocked on the glass.

Vanya let Igor into the hallway. He was wearing nothing but a pair of purple underpants.

‘Oh! What’s happened to you?’ he exclaimed, aghast.

Shivering and trembling with exhaustion, Igor staggered forwards and collapsed, scattering droplets of water over Vanya’s bare legs. Aleksandra Marinovna hurried over in her long nightdress.

‘Good heavens!’ she clasped her hands together. ‘He’s gone blue!’

Igor turned his head and looked up at the faces above him, his eyes fading as he spoke.

‘Poison,’ he whispered. ‘I’ve been poisoned… with vodka…’

‘Get him under a blanket!’ Vanya’s mother instructed her son. ‘Quickly!’

She ran into the kitchen, lit the paraffin stove and placed a pail of water over the burner. Taking a linen bag full of dried herbs from the cupboard, she opened it and inhaled before adding two handfuls to the water.

‘Whatever is the world coming to?’ she murmured as she stared at the water in the pail, willing it to hurry up and boil.

As soon as the herbal decoction had brewed to her satisfaction, Aleksandra Marinovna took the pail into the living room where Igor was lying on the sofa, covered up with a blanket. He was barely conscious. She placed the pail on the little table next to the sofa.

‘Go and get the big basin,’ she instructed her son.

Vanya did as he was told. Then he was sent to fetch the tin funnel that they used for decanting wine.

‘He’s so cold!’ said Aleksandra Marinovna anxiously, placing her hand on Igor’s forehead. ‘Now, put that funnel into his mouth.’

Vanya looked doubtfully at the pail, which had steam rising from it.

‘But it’s boiling water,’ he said. ‘Shouldn’t we add some cold water first?’

‘No,’ his mother cut him off. ‘It has to be hot or it won’t work! Go on, put it in!’

Vanya tried to stick the narrow neck of the funnel between Igor’s teeth, but they were clamped shut.

‘Use your fingers! Quickly!’ urged his mother, who had picked up the pail and was standing at the ready.

Vanya forced Igor’s mouth open, inserted the funnel and turned to his mother. Aleksandra Marinovna tipped the contents of the pail into the funnel. A rasping noise escaped from Igor’s throat, like the sound of a thin piece of paper being ripped. His right arm twitched, as though he were trying to lift it. Vanya’s mother leaned forward and held it down, her heavy bosom suspended just above Igor’s head.

The entire decoction disappeared down the funnel into Igor’s throat. His body twitched and convulsed. Aleksandra Marinovna jumped back from the sofa.

‘Hold him over the basin!’ she cried.

Vanya grabbed Igor and pulled him onto his side, moving his head to the edge of the sofa and positioning the basin underneath it. Igor’s throat emitted another rasping sound, which was followed by an emetic squelch. Another convulsion racked his body. Igor drew up his legs, and dark liquid spewed violently from his mouth.

‘Hold him there like that. I’ll go and brew up the next lot,’ said Vanya’s mother. Meanwhile, Vanya removed Igor’s clothes.

Neither Vanya nor his mother got any more sleep that night. After the third irrigation Igor’s forehead finally started to warm up. Aleksandra Marinovna warmed an old flat iron on the paraffin stove and started drying his police uniform with it, but when she found the bundle of roubles in the pocket of his breeches she panicked. She put the money on the table and stared at it for several minutes without blinking. Her alarm gradually gave way to a pleasant feeling of composure. That must be why they tried to kill him, she decided. She ironed the uniform until it was dry, then folded it neatly and left it on a stool next to the pale, sleeping figure of Igor. She placed the bundle of roubles, his boots and the belt with the holster on the floor nearby, but took the dry socks to her room. Switching on the light, she stretched one sock over a light bulb and began to darn the hole in its heel.

Vanya glanced at the grandfather clock on the wall and decided to spend the final hour before dawn looking through The Wine-Maker’s Handbook , which calmed his nerves.

Igor was woken, or rather brought to his senses, by a sharp pain in his right side. He tried to sit up, but a new wave of pain washed over him and he collapsed back onto his pillow. He lay there, staring at the green lampshade on the ceiling, then brought his right hand to his side and froze as his fingers felt something warm and sticky.