Andrey Kurkov - The Gardener from Ochakov

Igor thought he felt better once his dressing had been changed. He tried to sit up in bed but instantly realised that he’d overestimated his capabilities.

He felt thirsty. He asked his mother to pass him his mobile phone, so he could check the missed calls. Most were from Kolyan, but there were also two from a number he didn’t recognise.

He called his friend back. He expected the nurse to answer, but Kolyan himself picked up.

‘Did you call?’ asked Igor.

‘Yeah,’ murmured Kolyan. He sounded half asleep.

‘Are you still in hospital?’

‘I’m going home today.’

‘Aren’t you nervous?’

‘No, it’s all sorted. I had a chat with him… I’ll tell you about it later. How are you?’

‘Terrible,’ said Igor. ‘I got attacked just after you did!’

‘Were you beaten up?’

‘Worse. Stabbed and poisoned.’

‘You’re kidding! Shall I come and see you?’

‘Well, I’m not going anywhere.’

‘OK, I’ll call you as soon as I get home,’ promised Kolyan.

Igor’s mother brought him a cup of tea and a fried egg. She put the plate on the stool and moved the stool closer to his bed, to make it easier for him to eat.

‘I’m going round to Olga’s,’ she said as she left the room, carefully closing the door behind her.

Igor rolled over onto his right side, picked up the fork in his left hand and carelessly chopped up the egg. Wincing in pain as he ate, he thought about moving the plate and pillow so he could eat lying on his left side but then decided that he couldn’t be bothered. When he’d finished eating, he rolled over onto his back again for a rest. The doorbell rang.

I wonder who that is, thought Igor, lifting his head from the pillow.

It rang several times, then fell silent. Igor noticed something moving outside the window. He twisted round and saw someone’s head peering through the white lace curtain.

‘Who’s there?’ he asked.

‘It’s the police! Let me in!’

‘I can’t stand up,’ said Igor. ‘Just push the door hard, it’s not locked.’

He heard the sound of footsteps in the hallway.

‘Which room are you in again?’ called the young police officer.

‘Second door on the right.’

The officer came in and looked at Igor suspiciously. Then he looked around the room, and his eyes fell on the stool at Igor’s bedside. He sat down next to him.

‘So, have you remembered who stabbed you yet?’

‘No.’ Igor shook his head. ‘It was dark, and they got me from behind.’

‘I was up half the night reading,’ said the police officer. He sounded annoyed, but that might just have been sleep deprivation. ‘I learned a lot about stab wounds. For example, you couldn’t possibly have been stabbed from behind – the blade would have gone in at a different angle. You were stabbed in a horizontal position, when you were already lying down or after you’d fallen.’

‘I don’t remember,’ said Igor, sounding less sure of himself. ‘I was drunk. Completely out of it.’

‘Do you seriously expect me to find the person who stabbed you, with nothing but a broken blade to go on?’ the police officer asked indignantly.

‘No, I don’t expect you to. I don’t even want you to!’ exclaimed Igor. Then his voice softened and he said, almost apologetically, ‘Just forget about it.’

‘How can I forget about it?’ The officer’s eyes widened. ‘The doctor and I both signed the report!’

‘You could always “lose” the report,’ suggested Igor. ‘Then you wouldn’t have to worry about it.’

The police officer thought about it. He shook his head and frowned. Then he opened his satchel and took out a piece of paper and a pen. Resting the paper on the satchel, he placed it on the mattress in front of Igor and handed him the pen.

‘Start writing!’ he said.

‘What do you want me to write?’

‘A declaration. I, so-and-so, living at… whatever your address is, stabbed myself with a kitchen knife while suffering from acute alcohol intoxication. Junior Lieutenant V.I. Ignatenko has cautioned me regarding the health risks of alcohol abuse. I do not wish to press charges. Date. Signature.’

Igor wrote it all down, then looked up at the police officer.

‘Can I have the blade back?’ he asked.

‘What do you want it for?’

‘A souvenir.’

‘Well, I was hoping to keep it,’ admitted the officer, with childish disappointment. ‘This is my first case!’

‘Please,’ said Igor. ‘There is no case! I’ve just written a declaration explaining everything.’

‘All right,’ the police officer reluctantly agreed. ‘I’ll bring it back later.’

After a while Igor made another attempt to sit up, this time successfully. His wound still hurt, but either the pain had lessened or Igor had grown used to it. He sat up in bed for about five minutes, then lay back down again. He repeated this exercise several times.

His mother returned bearing an old jam jar that Olga had given her, which contained some kind of suspiciously yellow, greasy substance. She placed it on Igor’s bedside table.

‘Tell the doctor to put some of that on the wound,’ she said. ‘It’s a mixture of herbs and goose fat.’

‘What is it – some sort of folk remedy?’ sneered Igor.

Elena Andreevna didn’t answer. She just glared at her son and left the room.

That evening, when the doctor came, she reappeared in Igor’s bedroom to make sure he applied the grease as directed. The doctor sniffed it and nodded, as though he recognised the smell. He asked no further questions.

After the doctor left Igor had another visit from the police officer, who returned the blade. When he left, Igor suddenly burst out laughing.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Elena Andreevna, putting her head round the door.

‘Nothing,’ said her son. ‘I just feel like a celebrity! Everyone keeps coming to see me, bringing me things, dressing my wound… It’s like some kind of circus!’

‘You’ll have even more guests at your funeral,’ his mother observed wryly. ‘You’ve already been a victim of knife crime, thanks to this lifestyle you’ve chosen.’

‘What do you mean, “this lifestyle”?’ Igor replied indignantly. ‘I’m not an alcoholic, a drug addict or a thief, am I?’

Igor’s mother waved her hand at him, indicating that she had no wish to continue the conversation. Just then Stepan appeared, holding a bag.

‘Oh,’ said Igor, looking at him cheerfully. ‘Another visitor!’

‘I’m not stopping,’ said the gardener. ‘You’re stuck in here with nothing to do, and that’s unhealthy. Not to mention boring. So I’ve brought you something to read. Here.’

‘What is it, The Three Musketeers ?’

Ignoring Igor’s remark, Stepan took a large book out of the bag. Igor thought it looked familiar.

‘It’s the volume my father wrote, The Book of Food . It was in one of those suitcases from Ochakov. His handwriting’s neat enough, you shouldn’t have any trouble understanding it.’ The gardener held the book out to Igor. ‘Read it – you might learn something.’

The bedroom door creaked. His mother had obviously been listening in, but now she’d gone.

‘I wanted to ask you a couple of questions,’ said Stepan, suddenly lowering his voice to a whisper. ‘First of all, there’s a bullet missing from the gun. And the barrel smells of gunpowder.’

He narrowed his eyes, and they bored into Igor.

‘Yeah, we were mucking about at the barbecue, shooting bottles in the forest.’

‘There’s only one bullet missing,’ said Stepan, with barely concealed scepticism in his voice. He clearly didn’t believe Igor’s version of events.