Andrey Kurkov - The Gardener from Ochakov

Igor froze, remembering how he’d almost received a slap from his mother for his inability to distinguish between the two types of proposal. This was obviously the business kind.

‘You want me to be the assistant manager of the cafe?’ asked Igor, with a hint of irony, although he succeeded in keeping a perfectly straight face.

‘No,’ Stepan answered calmly, ‘I want you to help in the kitchen.’

‘And who will I be helping?’ Igor couldn’t help his lip twisting in a supercilious smile, as he imagined their neighbour Olga standing over the hob and himself next to her in a chef’s hat.

‘Alyona, my daughter. She’s going to be the chef.’

Igor’s mood suddenly changed.

‘Will you take my employment record book?’ he asked.

‘Yes, it’ll all be above board.’

‘What are you going to write in it? Sous-chef?’

‘What would you prefer? I can write “kitchen manager”, if you like.’ Stepan smiled.

‘No, I’d prefer “gardener”.’ Igor smiled back at him.

‘Kitchen gardener?’

‘Just “gardener”,’ said Igor, his face serious again.

‘All right, let’s shake on it,’ said Stepan, nodding solemnly and pressing his lips together.

Just then Alyona came out of the bedroom. The freshly washed parquet floor gleamed behind her. She couldn’t hide her surprise when she saw her father and Igor firmly shaking hands.

‘What’s going on?’

‘We’re shaking on a deal,’ answered Stepan. ‘Now we just have to sign it.’

‘What’s the cafe going to be called?’ Igor asked suddenly.

‘Cafe Ochakov,’ answered Stepan.

‘So in my employment record book, it’s going to say “gardener” and “Ochakov”? I’m going to be the gardener from Ochakov!’ Igor smiled happily at the thought.

‘It would appear so.’

‘Excellent! By the way, I’ve got some old photographs of Ochakov, blown up in large format… Maybe we could hang them on the walls?’

‘Why not? The recipes will be from Ochakov too, from my father’s book. All our food will be healthy and beneficial!’

Igor’s mind began to wander as he imagined the photographs on the wall of the cafe, showing Valya, Vanya, Aleksandra Marinovna, Stepan’s father Iosip and Igor himself. An amusing thought struck him: what if Stepan were looking at them one day and noticed Igor? He would ask him what he was doing in old Ochakov, and Igor would tell him everything. He would tell him about everyone in the photographs, including Iosip.

‘Did your mother tell you that I’d asked her to marry me?’ Stepan asked suddenly.

‘She did,’ nodded Igor.

‘Do you have any objections?’

Igor shook his head.

‘Your mother will move in with me,’ continued Stepan. ‘And she’ll leave the house to you.’

‘The house with the scales?’ mused Igor.

‘No,’ said Stepan. ‘She’s bringing the scales with her. What do you want them for?’

‘Never mind,’ said Igor, waving his hand dismissively.

He bought a bottle of brandy on the way home. Elena Andreevna looked out into the hallway when she heard him come in.

‘Is your friend going to be sitting on your bedroom floor for much longer?’ she asked in a half-whisper.

‘No,’ said Igor. ‘He’s leaving this evening.’

‘There’s a leftover cutlet and some potatoes in there,’ said his mother, nodding at the kitchen door.

‘Thanks. You know, Ma, Stepan made me a proposal too,’ said Igor, with a sly smile on his face. ‘Of the business variety.’

‘What did he say?’ asked his mother, her eyes burning with curiosity.

‘I’m going to be a sous-chef at the cafe.’

His mother’s response to the news was less than enthusiastic.

‘Who’s the chef?’ she asked indifferently.

‘Alyona.’

Elena Andreevna’s face lit up with surprise, followed by contemplative approval.

‘Well, then,’ she murmured, ‘maybe you’ll learn something useful. It’s a good profession, and at least you’ll never go hungry.’

Igor and Kolyan began their last supper at 9.30 p.m. Igor’s mother was watching the end of one of her soap operas. Outside, darkness reigned. Kolyan’s fork shook in his hand but he ate hungrily, as though he were storing up for the future. He seemed thirsty too.

‘I think I believe you now,’ muttered Kolyan, holding out his empty glass so that Igor could fill it again with brandy. ‘I didn’t believe all your fairy tales before, but I do now.’

‘Amazing the difference a closed-head injury can make! You used to be thick-skulled, like most people in this country. But now you’re in the minority, like me.’

‘Why, have you had a closed-head injury too?’ asked Kolyan, looking suspiciously at his friend.

‘Yes, when I was little. My father wasn’t looking after me properly and I ran into a spinning carousel. Now listen, I’m going to give you some money to take with you. A lot of money. I want you to take two bundles of cash and a note to Valya. Remember? I pointed her out in the photos.’

‘Ah, yes.’ Kolyan shot him a knowing look. ‘She’s not the kind you forget!’

The faintest trace of a smile crossed Igor’s face.

‘Just don’t flash it about. They don’t appreciate that sort of thing.’

Kolyan nodded obediently.

At around 11 p.m. Igor helped his friend to put on the police uniform. When Kolyan pulled the boots on, he winced in discomfort.

‘They’re a bit tight,’ he grumbled.

‘Walk around the room for a bit,’ suggested Igor.

In the darkness Kolyan walked across the room and back several times, then sat down again.

‘That’s weird,’ he said. ‘Now they fit…’

‘The uniform and the boots represent the past, and the past changes its shape and size to fit whoever tries it on.’

‘Whatever!’ Kolyan shook his head and took the belt and holster from Igor. He opened the holster and looked at the gun.

‘Shame it doesn’t work,’ he murmured.

‘It does when you’re there,’ said Igor, nodding earnestly. He waited while Kolyan fastened the belt around his waist, then handed him a dark cloth bag in which he’d placed the bundles of Soviet banknotes and an envelope containing a note for Valya.

What if Kolyan reads the note? Igor suddenly panicked. Well, it doesn’t say much anyway… It’s just a request for her to pity him as much as she can.

‘Here, take this too,’ said Igor, handing his friend the gold watch.

‘That’s an expensive gift,’ whispered Kolyan.

‘Let’s call it an exchange. Your laptop in return for my watch. It’ll work there too, by the way, and it’ll show the right time.’

They left the house at around midnight – Kolyan in the old police uniform, holding the cloth bag, and Igor in a tracksuit and a leather jacket.

‘Come on, best foot forward and all that!’ Igor said cheerfully, trying in vain to impart some enthusiasm to his friend. Kolyan couldn’t have looked less enthusiastic if he’d tried.

Houses stretched along both sides of the street. There were no lights in their windows. Igor peered at them as though he were seeing them for the first time, which perhaps he was… After all, on previous occasions he had only ever looked straight ahead, seeking out the little lights in front of the gates of the wine factory. Fences and houses had been relegated to his peripheral vision. But this time he felt an exhilarating sense of freedom – he could look wherever he wanted! Kolyan was the one looking straight ahead as he walked, as though he’d been hypnotised.

At some point Igor noticed that the darkness had grown thicker and the houses had disappeared. He stopped.

‘I’m not going any further,’ he said to his friend. ‘You’re on your own now.’