Andrey Kurkov - The Gardener from Ochakov

The world has so far been spared from devastation because foresters and gardeners frequently enter into marriage, thereby creating unnatural but stable unions. When a male forester marries a female gardener, the husband enjoys the complaisance and timidity of his wife. But when a male gardener takes a female forester for his wife, then her spontaneity will curb his idealism and restrict his endeavours.

‘That’s like Valya and me!’ Igor was struck by the revelation. ‘So I must be a gardener after all! At least, more of a gardener than a forester.’

Igor was too nervous to read the rest of the page. As he flicked forward through the manuscript he saw a chapter entitled ‘Reducing Natural Products – Dish of Buckwheat and Barley Flour’. He cleared his throat and flicked forward another couple of pages. Then turned back – page 72 featured two recipes: ‘Foresters’ Stew’ and ‘Gardeners’ Stew’.

Igor carefully closed the manuscript and placed it on the stool by his bed. He switched off the reading lamp and lay there for another half an hour, looking at the ceiling and thinking about gardeners and foresters.

He spent the whole of the following morning with his nose buried in The Book of Food . When he got to page 150, he realised he was hungry. He went into the kitchen and prepared himself a bowl of buckwheat. While he was eating it and marvelling at his new-found enjoyment of such a simple dish, his mother looked into the kitchen.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked, surprised. ‘I was going to make borshch.’

‘Good idea,’ said Igor, looking up at her. ‘Borshch is a natural dish. Don’t put too much salt in, but be generous with the pepper. I’m sorry about yesterday, by the way.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ she said with a shrug. ‘So, what shall I tell him?’

‘It’s up to you,’ said Igor. ‘Gardeners are basically good people… You just need to control them.’

‘In what way?’ His mother was surprised again. ‘He doesn’t drink or play cards!’

‘I meant in general. It doesn’t matter.’

Elena Andreevna gave a deep sigh and went out.

Igor finished reading Iosip’s handwritten book at about 6 p.m. and took it straight back to Stepan. Returning the book was a perfectly valid reason to visit, but Igor was also hoping to see Alyona. He wanted to see if he could work out whether she was a ‘gardener’ or a ‘forester’.

Igor rang the doorbell of the old house first, but there was no answer. Turning towards the new house, Igor noticed that the lights were on in the ground-floor windows and the front door was wide open. There were big plastic sacks full of rubble and other building debris piled up outside.

‘Hey, Stepan, are you there?’ Igor called into the house.

‘Hang on!’ answered Stepan’s voice. ‘Don’t come in, it’s really dusty!’

A dust mask hung around Stepan’s neck, and his old tracksuit bottoms and striped sailor’s undershirt had turned an unappealing shade of grey. As he came outside, he brushed his vest down vigorously and a dusty cloud rose up around him in the evening air. He brushed his tracksuit bottoms with equal vigour, and they were soon restored to their original dark blue.

‘Here you go, I’ve finished it,’ said Igor, holding the book out to Stepan. ‘I thought it was really interesting. Especially the bit about gardeners and foresters.’

Igor felt that Stepan was now looking at him with greater respect.

‘How’s the wound?’ asked the gardener.

‘I can hardly feel it.’

‘Are you still having trouble remembering who stabbed you?’ There was the trace of a smile on Stepan’s lips.

‘No, I’ve remembered,’ Igor said quietly. ‘It was a “forester”. You promised to show me the right way to stab someone. Can you show me now?’

‘There’s not much to it,’ Stepan said with a shrug. ‘If you’re facing your adversary you have to strike upwards, or directly from your stomach to his stomach. If you’re coming at him from behind, then you have to strike downwards, and get him in the back or the neck… But that’s not really advisable.’

Igor raised his hand to his stomach and then, gripping an imaginary knife in his hand, thrust it forward sharply, stopped just to the left of Stepan.

‘Like that?’ he asked.

‘Like that,’ said Stepan.

‘Where’s Alyona?’ Igor looked behind the gardener, towards the brightly lit doorway.

‘She’s gone to an Internet cafe, to check her emails,’ said Stepan. He made a vague gesture with his right hand as he spoke, apparently indicating the direction in which she had gone.

‘Do you need any help?’ asked Igor, nodding at the plastic sacks.

‘Come back tomorrow,’ said Stepan. He took the dust mask off over his head and looked at it. ‘We’re fine for today!’

IMAGES OF FORESTERS and gardeners continued to occupy Igor’s mind, even while he slept. In his dream they were clearly preparing to go into battle, having taken up position on opposite sides of a stretch of land that separated a dense forest and an old garden. Igor sensed that the outcome was predetermined, as the foresters greatly outnumbered their opponents. He tossed and turned, growing anxious in his sleep. Rolling onto his right side, he felt his wound begin to ache again – tentatively, almost apologetically. He lay on his stomach and pressed his face into the pillow, but this made it difficult to breathe so he turned his head to the right, towards the window. Igor’s dream, which had begun to recede, now returned to play out on the screen of his imagination. Only this time the sound had disappeared. There hadn’t been much sound in the dream to begin with – just the rustling of the trees and the howling of the wind – but now there was a sterile silence, and this made it more disturbing.

From somewhere outside his dream came a tapping sound. At first it was dull and muffled, as though someone were knocking on wood, then it grew louder and more resonant, like a stick hitting glass.

‘Igor!’ His mother’s voice was accompanied by the creaking of the door. ‘There’s someone walking around outside the house! I’m frightened!’

Igor opened his eyes. It took him several seconds to separate the inertia of sleep from reality. His mother was standing next to his bed in her long nightdress, barefoot. He reluctantly hauled himself out of bed, went over to the window and listened. The tapping sound continued at random intervals. As Igor’s eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he noticed something lying on the path between the porch and the gate.

Suddenly the doorbell rang. The tapping had stopped.

‘Go and see who it is,’ urged his mother in a half-whisper. ‘Just don’t open the door! Tell them we’re calling the police!’

Igor’s mother’s anxiety inevitably communicated itself to her son. He also felt cold, standing there in his underpants and a T-shirt with the little top window open.

Igor tiptoed into the hallway, then crept into the kitchen and pressed his face against the window. It was quiet again. Igor stood on a stool, opened the little top window and stuck his head out of it. From this angle the dark object on the path looked like a bag full of shopping.

‘Who’s there?’ Igor called in a low voice. He listened for a reply.

A snapping sound came from the corner of the house, from the direction of the shed, as though someone had stepped on a dry twig.

‘Who’s there?’ called Igor, raising his voice a little. He could feel his mother’s warm breath on the small of his back. She had followed him into the kitchen, terrified, and was now peering out of the window from behind him.

They heard hurried footsteps. Igor stiffened. He pulled his head in from the little top window and stared at the corner of the house. As they watched, a figure stealthily emerged. It was Kolyan. He scanned the dark windows of the front of the house.