Andrey Kurkov - The Gardener from Ochakov

Igor suddenly felt very thirsty, and the cramps in his stomach reminded him of the night before.

‘Ma!’ he shouted. His voice was so weak he could barely hear it himself. He lay still for a few minutes, trying to breathe evenly and rhythmically. Then he shouted again.

The door opened slightly.

‘Is that you?’ His mother’s eyes were wide with surprise. ‘Where on earth have you been? Your mobile was ringing all day yesterday. It didn’t stop until gone one o’clock in the morning! Where have you –’

His mother suddenly fell silent and approached his bed.

‘What’s the matter with your face? You’ve gone blue!’

She placed her hand on Igor’s forehead.

‘You’re burning up!’

‘I was poisoned,’ sighed Igor.

‘With home-made vodka?’ asked his mother, frowning in disapproval.

Igor nodded and grimaced.

‘I’ve got a pain in my side. Can you have a look?’ he asked, glancing down at his right side.

Elena Andreevna lifted the blanket and gasped. She looked horrified.

‘You’re bleeding! I’m going to call the doctor! I –’ She broke off, scanning the room frantically as though she were looking for help. ‘I’ll fetch Stepan!’

Igor’s mother ran out of the room and he heard the front door slam. He made another attempt to sit up but collapsed again, and this time he passed out. He had no idea how long he had been unconscious, but he gradually became aware of voices in the darkness that surrounded him.

Somebody was doing something to his body, and whatever they were doing was resonating painfully in his ribs.

‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ a man’s voice said quietly. ‘I shall have to report it to the police. I’m afraid I’ve got no choice, it’s standard procedure.’

‘Is that so?’ breathed Stepan’s voice.

‘He’s very lucky, you know. Just look at that! It’s a wonder he’s still alive.’

‘Are you taking him to hospital?’ His mother’s voice interrupted the men’s hushed conversation. ‘He needs urgent medical attention!’

Igor desperately wanted to break free of the darkness. He felt capable of doing so – after all, his ears were working all right, weren’t they? He opened his eyes and waited until the blurred images turned into the ceiling and the green lampshade.

‘Don’t,’ breathed Igor.

‘Don’t what?’ asked the doctor, looking into his patient’s eyes.

‘Don’t take me to hospital!’

‘I wasn’t going to,’ the doctor replied with a shrug. Igor could see him now – a short, feeble-looking man, his thin nose underlined by a moustache. ‘I’ve already treated your wound, and there aren’t any beds free anyway. If his temperature goes above forty, call me. But for the time being I’ll dress the wound, and we’ll leave it at that.’

‘What do you mean, “we’ll leave it at that”?’

Igor detected the threat of an argument in his mother’s voice. He raised his hand and looked at her.

‘I don’t want to go to hospital,’ he said.

‘Why don’t I come back this evening? I’ll change the dressing and see how he is. There’s a discount for repeat visits.’

Igor’s mother was silent. Her face showed that she was wrestling with her doubts.

‘I’ll pay,’ said Igor. He looked up at Stepan, who was standing to his left.

Stepan nodded to indicate his support. Meanwhile, the doctor was rolling up the piece of oilcloth he’d laid out on the floor, having already sterilised his instruments and put them back in his bag.

He turned to Igor’s mother. ‘I’ll pick that up later,’ he said, referring to a shallow enamel bowl containing the knife blade that he’d removed from Igor’s stomach. It was just a blade, no handle. ‘The police will take the knife,’ he added.

‘You don’t need to get the police involved, do you?’ asked Igor.

The doctor shook his head. ‘Don’t ask me not to,’ he said. ‘I’ve got no choice! It’s like the Hippocratic oath. Whenever we treat bullet wounds, stab wounds or other injuries sustained as a result of crime we have a duty to inform the police. Even when the injuries are inflicted by a member of the same family!’

The doctor left. Igor’s mother wiped the tears from her eyes.

‘Who did this to you?’ she asked, leaning over her son.

‘I didn’t see,’ said Igor. He lowered his head and glanced at the bedside table, then froze. The police uniform wasn’t there.

‘Where is it?’ he asked his mother.

‘What?’

‘The uniform, the belt…’

‘I put it away,’ said Stepan. He stepped forward and pointed at the wardrobe. ‘I put everything in there.’

‘Thank you,’ breathed Igor.

‘Elena Andreevna, could I have a word with Igor in private?’ asked Stepan.

Igor’s mother nodded and left the room.

‘Who did this to you?’ asked Stepan, leaning in towards Igor and lowering his voice to a whisper. ‘Tell me! We can deal with it together!’

Igor shook his head.

‘This is serious.’ Stepan’s voice was steeped in fatherly concern. ‘It wasn’t just a random attack, I can tell… See, the blade’s been filed right down, to make sure the handle would break off.’

‘What are you talking about?’ asked Igor.

‘Someone planned this, and they intended to leave the blade inside your body so that it would be almost impossible to get it out. The person who stabbed you knew exactly what he was doing… and if he finds out you’re still alive, he’ll do it again.’

A motorbike stopped outside. Stepan went over and looked out of the window.

‘It’s the police,’ he sighed. ‘I’d better go.’

Stepan glanced into the kitchen and told Elena Andreevna that the police had arrived. The front doorbell rang. Elena Andreevna let the police officer in and took him to Igor’s room. Stepan waited until Igor’s door closed, then he left the house.

The police officer examined the blade in the enamel bowl. ‘Well, now,’ he said, nodding his head. His eyes were burning with an almost ecstatic curiosity. ‘I’ve only ever read about things like this in detective novels! Right, first things first. We have to follow the correct procedures…’

The police officer, a junior lieutenant, was so young that if he hadn’t been wearing a uniform Igor would have assumed he was interviewing him for a homework assignment. The fact that he was wearing a uniform didn’t make Igor any more respectful or cooperative. The police officer’s carefully worded questions met with evasive responses: ‘I didn’t see,’ ‘I didn’t notice,’ ‘I don’t know.’

‘Look, people who have no enemies and never argue with anyone don’t just get stabbed in the stomach for no reason!’ exclaimed the police officer, whose patience was wearing rather thin.

‘Well, they obviously do,’ replied Igor, calmly contradicting him. ‘Maybe they thought I was somebody else? It was quite dark, you know.’

‘Yes, we are aware that there’s a problem with the street lamps,’ nodded the police officer. ‘All right, I’ll take the blade. We’ll keep it with the case file as evidence.’

The police officer left, promising to call again. Igor shut his eyes, but he was unable to ignore the pain in his side. A car drove past, with Ukrainian rock music blaring from the radio, and Igor finally dropped off to the sound of the singer’s gravelly voice drifting through the little top window into his bedroom.

IGOR AND ELENA Andreeva were woken at 6 a.m. the following morning by the doctor, who apologised for not coming the previous evening, although he offered no explanation. He immediately set about changing Igor’s dressing, then smiled in anticipation of payment. As soon as he’d been paid he picked up the enamel bowl and left, promising to return that evening.