Andrey Kurkov - The Gardener from Ochakov

‘All in good time! Just wait a minute. Let’s sit down,’ said Igor, quickly scanning the photographs. The order in which they were hanging was not particularly conducive to a virtual tour of Ochakov. Igor lowered himself onto the sofa next to Kolyan.

‘All in good time,’ he repeated, feeling the weight of exhaustion beginning to press down on his shoulders. ‘Let’s have our coffee first. The photographer will go through them all with us.’

This necessary pause gave Igor a chance to concentrate and work out what he actually wanted from the viewing. Revived by the smell and subsequently the taste of his coffee, the photographer already had a clearer idea than his two guests did.

‘I’d like you to show them to us in sequence,’ said Igor. ‘The complete series, I mean, like they’re going to be on display at the exhibition.’

The photographer drank his coffee and nodded decisively, then started walking among the suspended photographs.

‘We need to start from the beginning,’ he said. ‘I’ve got the first prints ready.’

He rustled about behind the screen for a few minutes, then came out and placed a pile of large black-and-white photographs on the coffee table in front of Igor and Kolyan.

‘Look at those ones first. I’ve already gone through and put them in order,’ he said. ‘While you’re doing that, I’ll take the others down – they’re dry now.’

‘Look at them closely and try to remember everything,’ Igor whispered to Kolyan, relieved that the photographer was out of earshot. ‘There, you see, that’s Ochakov. That’s the street where Vanya Samokhin lives with his mother. There they are, the two of them, and that’s Vanya and me. That’s Chagin’s house, and that’s Iosip and Fima on the doorstep… Don’t worry about those two. If you see them, cross the street… Ah, look! That’s the market. And there’s Valya! You can’t tell from the photo, but she’s got red hair. She really is beautiful… There’s something completely wild about her,’ he went on, shaking his head with a sigh.

Igor saw that Kolyan was peering at the image of Valya standing behind her display of Black Sea flounder and gobies.

‘I would go anywhere for a woman like her,’ added Igor, glad that the photograph had aroused his friend’s interest. ‘Into the past, or into the future!’

He heard footsteps behind him, and another pile of large prints was placed on the table.

‘There, that’s the rest of them,’ said the photographer, settling down in one of the armchairs.

As he reached for the next photograph, Igor froze. It was another close-up of Red Valya, but what unnerved him was that Fima Chagin was standing right in front of her. He was staring at her with a look of undisguised menace, and it was obvious that she was genuinely terrified.

‘What’s going on between those two?’ asked Kolyan, although he didn’t sound particularly interested. ‘Are they lovers, or what?’

‘She’s married. Her husband’s a fisherman, and she sells his catch. I don’t think they’re lovers.’

Kolyan looked strangely at Igor, out of the corner of his eye. He started to raise the hood of his padded jacket.

‘Just tell me,’ said Igor, his tone completely serious. ‘Can you see how real it all is?’

Kolyan nodded and glanced at the photographer, who was listening to their conversation.

‘It’s real all right,’ whispered the photographer, looking straight back at Kolyan. Then he nodded at Igor. ‘Only he won’t tell me how he does it!’

‘I’ll tell you one day,’ promised Igor, with the hint of a mischievous smile.

‘I hope so,’ said the photographer. ‘It would revolutionise photography. I mean, it already has, but –’

‘Have you got any small prints from the latest films?’ interrupted Igor.

‘Yes, I made some test prints. Do you want to take them with you?’

‘Yes!’

They walked back down to the station at a brisk pace. It was clear that Kolyan had completely sobered up. His hood was up over his head, and the gap left by the drawstring revealed only his eyes, his nose and a bit of green skin. There was hardly anyone about, and to add to their good fortune it began to rain heavily, which helped to slow the start of the new day.

When they got to the station, the driver of an old Zhiguli agreed to take them to Irpen for a hundred hryvnas.

The windscreen wipers on the Zhiguli squeaked noisily, scattering drops of rainwater from the windscreen. Igor sat next to the driver. Kolyan, with his hood still up, fell asleep on the back seat.

‘So, have you two had a good time?’ asked the driver, a working-class man of around sixty.

‘Yes,’ answered Igor. He nodded at his sleeping friend. ‘He’s going to be out of it for a while!’

‘In a good way, or a bad way?’ asked the driver.

‘In a good way,’ said Igor pensively.

As the elderly driver contemplated Igor’s response, his thoughts turned to the vicissitudes of his own fate.

WHEN THEY GOT back to the house Igor’s mother was already bustling about in the kitchen, preparing breakfast. Kolyan took his boots and jacket off in the hallway. He went into the bathroom and spent a long time washing the green antiseptic ointment from his face. Then he went into Igor’s bedroom and sat down on the mattress where he’d slept, though not for long enough.

‘Here, look at these. Try to memorise them,’ said Igor, handing his friend the stack of photos that the photographer had given him.

‘Can’t I take them with me?’

Igor thought about it. ‘I’ll give you a few,’ he answered. ‘You won’t need all of them, will you?’

Kolyan started looking through the photographs again, screwing up his eyes and peering closely at them. Igor pulled the bedside table over to where he was sitting. He angled the reading lamp so it was pointing directly at Kolyan’s hands.

‘Breakfast’s ready,’ said Elena Andreevna, looking into the room. ‘Come and eat!’

‘Let’s go,’ said Igor.

Kolyan frowned. ‘I’m not sitting anywhere near a window,’ he said stubbornly.

‘Fine, I’ll bring it in here.’

Kolyan devoured his fried egg and sausage sitting cross-legged on the floor. He drank his tea in the same position.

‘So, when are you sending me?’ he asked, nodding at the photos that lay nearby on the floor.

‘Wait a minute,’ said Igor. He thought about it. ‘We need to think about the logistics. It’s like going abroad. We could do with a few documents. If only we could get you some official Soviet identity papers… then nobody would suspect a thing.’

‘Documents?’ repeated Kolyan. ‘Are you kidding? We’re living in the Information Age! A diplomatic passport, a certificate stating that you’re a descendant of the Romanovs, whatever… you just order it online, and it arrives the next day.’

‘Yes, but we need old Soviet documents. I’ve got an old police lieutenant’s ID pass – have a look at that if you think it’ll help.’

‘I don’t need to,’ shrugged Kolyan. He pulled his bag towards him and took out his laptop. ‘Right then, let’s see what we can find.’

‘While you’re doing that, I’ve got a few jobs to do,’ said Igor. ‘I promised to help a friend.’

‘How long are you going to be?’

‘I’ll be back before dinner.’

Igor left Kolyan in his bedroom. He told his mother that he was suffering from depression and asked her not to disturb him. Meanwhile, Igor himself went to Stepan’s new house, where he was immediately given a dust mask and some protective gloves. They even found a pair of overalls for him to wear. The builders had left some steel girders and planks of wood on the first floor of the new house, and there were also a number of radiators that needed to be removed. Working together, Igor and Stepan carried everything downstairs. They worked until Alyona called them for lunch, which she had set out in the old wooden house, in the same room where they had modestly celebrated the signing of the purchase deeds. After the meal, as he was drinking tea, Igor started to worry about Kolyan. He apologised for not being able to help any more that day and ran home.