Andrey Kurkov - The Gardener from Ochakov

‘Wow, he really was a dissident!’ whispered Igor, astonished. He bent his head over the manuscript and continued reading.

Igor spent half the night engrossed in the painstakingly recorded thoughts and reflections of the late Iosip. He eventually closed the book and went to bed just before 4 a.m., when his head began to ache, but even then sleep did not come to his weary body immediately.

Was he crazy, or not? Igor lay on the folding bed in the darkness, listening to his mother’s peaceful breathing and thinking about everything he had just read. His thoughts kept jumping to Stepan, and he asked himself the same question: Is he crazy, or not? He remembered the book that he’d seen lying on the bench in the shed. ‘I wonder if he even knows what the word “marketing” means,’ smirked Igor. Seconds later, the smile fell from his face as he suddenly made the connection between Restaurant Marketing and The Book of Food .

‘That’s it!’ whispered Igor, staggered by his discovery. ‘So he’s not crazy, and the plans he mentioned over dinner… I think I know what he’s up to.’

Stepan came to the house the following morning in his suit again, having managed to tie his tie himself this time without Elena Andreevna’s help. He stood in the living room and his presence alone lent a sense of urgency to proceedings, encouraging the others to hurry up and get ready if they wished to see his two houses.

They spent a further ten minutes standing outside Olga’s gate. Finally, when all members of the previous day’s delegation were present, they set off towards the bus station. On the way Olga and Elena Andreevna called into a grocery shop and bought two round loaves of bread.

‘You should never visit a new house for the first time without taking a loaf of bread,’ explained Elena Andreevna, in response to Igor’s quizzical look.

They turned into Teligi Street and continued walking for several minutes until Stepan stopped by an old wooden fence that ran in front of two adjacent houses: a new, two-storey brick house and an old wooden bungalow with a new slate roof. Though undeniably more modest than its neighbour, the second house was still a respectable size.

‘Well, here we are,’ announced Stepan, looking round at them all with pride. Jingling the keys in his hand, he was the first to walk through the gate, turning immediately onto the path that led to the new house.

Inside, the house smelt of paint. The spacious rooms were unfurnished but for a selection of mismatched chairs. There were also a number of trestle tables dotted about, along with tins of paint and paper sacks full of powdered plaster.

‘May this house be blessed with happiness,’ Olga declared solemnly, as though she were in church. She placed the loaf of bread in its cellophane wrapper on the windowsill.

They went up to the first floor. Several narrow doors led off the landing, all of them closed.

‘That’s a bathroom with a toilet,’ said Stepan, gesturing like a tour guide. ‘And those three are bedrooms.’

‘It’s not a house, it’s a palace!’ exclaimed Elena Andreevna, unable to hide her amazement. ‘You could get lost in here!’

‘We won’t get lost.’ Stepan smiled.

Igor found the little wooden house next door far cosier, probably because it was warm and furnished and already felt like a home. There were curtains at the little windows, and the old-fashioned furniture left by the previous occupants seemed to suit the house perfectly. The living room was dominated by a handsome oak dresser, with glazed cabinets. Igor was sure he’d seen one just like it somewhere before. He closed his eyes, trying to remember where… Yes, that was it! At Fima Chagin’s house in Ochakov. Fima had taken the shot glasses from it before he’d attempted to poison him. There had been something oppressive and sinister about that dresser, though, whereas this one exuded warmth, nostalgic charm, well-being and prosperity.

‘May there be happiness here too!’ said Elena Andreevna.

She walked over to the dresser and placed the second loaf of bread in the recess beneath the cabinets. Stepan joined her by the dresser. Opening the left-hand cupboard door, he took out a bottle of brandy and several old-fashioned glasses.

‘I won’t have one myself, but the occasion definitely calls for a drink,’ he said.

He opened the brandy, poured it into the glasses and took a step back.

There was a round table in the room, covered with a maroon velvet tablecloth, but they all drank their brandy standing near the dresser. Stepan put the bottle back, without offering anyone a refill.

Igor’s mobile phone rang in his pocket. He saw that it was the photographer calling and went outside to answer it.

‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Did my friend bring the films?’

‘Yes, I’ve already processed them, and the prints are ready for you to collect… I have to say, they’ve come out exceptionally well,’ gushed the photographer. ‘What incredible photographs! I’ve never seen anything like it!’

‘I’ve been a bit under the weather lately,’ said Igor. ‘I’ll try and drop by in a couple of days.’

‘I was wondering if we could have another chat,’ said the photographer, and Igor heard him sigh. ‘It’s such an amazing collection of photographs… simply outstanding! They would make a fantastic exhibition, and I’m sure that all the photography magazines would be interested in running a feature on it. I wish you’d agree… I would be willing to print the photographs in large format, completely free of charge… And I could organise the advertising, and the catalogue… What do you say?’

Igor looked all around him. He gazed at both houses and the trees in the old garden. Then his eyes were drawn upwards, to the blue sky and its scattered wisps of clouds.

‘All right,’ he said, and he sensed the photographer’s face light up with a smile.

‘Thank you so much! I’ll start work on the prints today, and I’ll be in touch again soon. Goodbye!’

Igor slipped his phone back into his jacket pocket and smiled. He turned back towards the old house. The front door had just opened, and Alyona was the first to come out. Like Igor, she looked all around her. He had the impression that her eyes were also drawn to the sky.

Stepan and his daughter stayed at the old house; Olga, Elena Andreevna and Igor went home, after they’d all agreed to hold a housewarming party in a few days’ time.

About twenty paces from Igor’s front gate, his mobile phone rang again.

‘It’s me,’ said the photographer, sounding flustered. ‘I forgot to ask your full name! We need it for the catalogue and the poster.’

Igor stopped and thought about it. His mother, who had gone into the yard ahead of him, turned round and looked at him expectantly. He waved his hand to indicate that she should go on into the house without him.

‘Are you there?’ the photographer asked impatiently.

‘Yes, sorry,’ said Igor. ‘I’m just thinking.’

‘Are you concerned about using your real name? Would you prefer a pseudonym?’

Igor jumped at the idea. ‘Yes, a pseudonym would be better.’

‘Shall I call back later? Give you some time to think about it?’

‘No,’ Igor said more decisively. ‘Put Vanya Samokhin.’

‘Ivan Samokhin?’

‘No, Vanya. Vanya Samokhin.’

‘OK, I’ve made a note of that,’ said the photographer. His voice sounded calmer now. ‘I’ll take your promotional portrait from one of the photographs, to use in the poster and the catalogue. There’s a good one of you looking straight at the camera.’

‘Fine,’ agreed Igor.

LATER THAT AFTERNOON, Igor went out for a walk. His initial plan was to walk to the bus station and back, but he changed his mind on the way. He was curious to know exactly how far away Stepan would be living and decided to time the journey to his new house. Before Igor had even reached the familiar turning, Stepan himself appeared. He’d changed out of his suit into a pair of black trousers, a jumper and a red shirt, the collar of which was just visible.