Andrey Kurkov - The Gardener from Ochakov

A cunning smile played on Stepan’s unshaven face, with its prominent cheekbones.

‘We won’t need much cash,’ he continued. ‘Just the cost of the minibus to Kiev, train tickets to Nikolaev, the minibus to Ochakov, and food and accommodation when we get there.’

‘All right,’ Igor nodded. ‘When are we going?’

‘As soon as possible… Tomorrow!’

Igor shook his head. ‘My mother wants you to sort through the potatoes and take them down to the cellar. And you’d better tidy the garden and the vegetable plot up a bit too, otherwise it’ll start to bother her.’

‘That’ll only take a couple of days,’ promised Stepan. ‘And I’ll come back here afterwards, for as long as you’ll have me! At least until the spring.’

‘All right,’ said Igor, looking closely at Stepan. ‘I’ll phone and book the train tickets. But I’ll need to give both our surnames…’

‘My surname is Sadovnikov,’ said Stepan.

Igor couldn’t help smiling. He felt childishly triumphant, as though he’d managed to catch someone out. He already knew Stepan’s surname!

‘What’s so funny?’ Stepan asked mildly. ‘Everyone should try and live in accordance with their name. If your surname means cobbler, you should become a shoemaker, and if it’s Sadovnikov, you should become a gardener. That’s all there is to it. What’s your surname?’

‘Vozny.’

‘“Carter”, but you haven’t got a horse or a cart!’ Now it was Stepan’s turn to smile.

‘I’m buying a motorbike in the spring,’ Igor declared earnestly. ‘Or maybe earlier, if we find treasure in Ochakov.’

‘A motorbike? Good for you,’ nodded Stepan. He had suddenly grown serious too, only more genuinely so than Igor.

IGOR TOLD HIS mother about the trip to Ochakov three days later, on Friday. Elena Andreevna was in good spirits, either purely by chance or because the house and garden were both looking tidy. She was only mildly surprised to learn of her son’s planned trip to Ochakov with Stepan.

‘What are you going to do there at this time of year?’ she asked. ‘The sea’s too cold for bathing.’

‘Stepan used to have family in Ochakov,’ replied Igor. ‘He wants to find their house, to see if anyone’s still living there.’

‘When’s the train?’

‘Tomorrow night, at seven.’

‘Well, tell Stepan that he can join us for dinner this evening. I bought a whole chicken.’

Stepan’s face had a bluish tinge from shaving just before dinner, and his shoes were freshly polished. He looked quite smart, in spite of his creased trousers and his baggy black sweater.

Elena Andreevna straightened the yellow tablecloth that covered the round table and set out plates and glasses. She took from the dresser an opened bottle of vodka and a small bottle of home-made wine that their neighbour had given them. Then she went to the kitchen and came back carrying a deep earthenware dish, which contained a roast chicken and braised potatoes. She carved the chicken herself and served it out.

‘Please, help yourself,’ she said to Stepan, indicating the vodka with a nod of her head.

‘Thanks, but I don’t drink,’ he said quietly.

‘Would you prefer wine?’ she asked, looking at him kindly.

‘I’m better off not drinking at all,’ said Stepan, a little more loudly this time. ‘I’ve already drunk more than my fair share, as they say. I prefer to keep my mind, body and soul in balance these days.’

Igor shook his head in astonishment. He sounded just like the Baptist they knew, who lived three houses down.

Elena Andreevna fetched a large jar full of home-made cherry juice.

‘There you go,’ she said, passing it to Stepan.

Stepan calmly poured some for himself and then turned to Igor. Igor held out his glass. Elena Andreevna decided to treat herself to a glass of home-made wine.

She wished them an enjoyable meal and began eating, with an occasional surreptitious glance at the men to check that they were indeed enjoying the food.

‘Will you be gone for long?’ she asked, after a pause.

‘A couple of days,’ Igor shrugged. ‘We’ll call you.’

Her gaze came to rest on Stepan, who suddenly seemed uncomfortable. He ran his hand awkwardly over his freshly shaven cheeks.

‘I’ll make up for it when I get back,’ he said. ‘I mean, if I end up staying a bit longer.’

‘Don’t be silly!’ Elena Andreeva waved her hand. ‘I didn’t mean that. I just get a bit bored here on my own.’

After lunch the following day, Stepan and Igor took the minibus taxi to Kiev. The gardener’s half-empty rucksack lay at his feet. Igor’s bag contained a sweater and a parcel of food that Elena Andreevna had prepared for the journey. Radio Chanson was blaring out of the minibus speakers.

Igor glanced at Stepan, who was sitting next to the window.

‘Where are we going to stay?’ he asked.

The gardener flinched.

‘We’ll find somewhere… It won’t be a problem finding a bed for the night. Let’s just concentrate on getting there, for the time being.’

After drinking a cup of tea in the glass-fronted cafe at the station, they sat for about two hours on a hard bench in the waiting room. Finally there was an announcement to say they could board their train. Stepan threw his rucksack over his shoulder and glanced back at Igor.

They were the first ones in their compartment.

I hope we’ll have it to ourselves, thought Igor, shoving his bag under the little table by the window.

Sadly, Igor’s hopes were dashed just a few minutes later when two business travellers stumbled into their compartment, both of them around forty years old. They asked Igor to stand up and stowed two identical suitcases into the space beneath the bottom bunk. They also had a large carrier bag full of clinking bottles, which they left standing in the middle of the floor.

‘Are you guys going all the way to Nikolaev?’ one of them asked.

Stepan nodded.

‘In that case we’ll have no problem passing the time,’ promised the business traveller. ‘We’ve got enough beer to go round, and if it runs out we can get hold of something stronger from the carriage attendant. We’re on first-name terms!’

Igor noticed Stepan frown and turn to look out of the window. Meanwhile, the business travellers wasted no time emptying the bag of its contents: five bottles of beer, half a litre of Nemirov vodka, a whole salami, a loaf of bread and a small plastic bag full of salted cucumbers. The compartment immediately began to smell like a drinking den.

‘Hey, why don’t you go and get some glasses from the carriage attendant’s compartment?’ the second business traveller suggested to Igor.

‘He’s not there. He’s checking everyone’s tickets.’

The second business traveller narrowed his eyes knowingly. ‘Don’t worry, he’s still on the platform – he won’t start checking the tickets until the train leaves.’

Igor reluctantly went to the staff compartment. The door was open, and there was no one inside. He took four glasses from the shelf.

‘There you go, see? And you said he was checking tickets!’ the second business traveller exclaimed happily.

It suddenly occurred to Igor that the two passengers might be brothers, so alike were they in their ordinariness and lack of distinguishing facial features. Each of them had a moustache, two eyes and ears, a nose and a mouth. And that was it! Their faces were completely generic, as though they had undergone some kind of surgical procedure to remove anything that might be considered worthy of note. Or was it simply the result of back-to-back business trips, chronic sleep deprivation and too much to drink?