The Gardener from Ochakov (29 page)

The estate agent told Stepan and Alyona how to register the houses with the local real-estate inventory office. Olga was standing by the door that led to the hallway, shuffling her feet impatiently. Finally the estate agent, clearly also the occupant of the house, unbolted the two locks and released them all into the sunshine. There was already a taxi waiting at the gate. Igor studied the driver – he had a trustworthy look about him, and Igor felt reassured.

Stepan's face bore a gentle, weary smile. His daughter walked along next to him, thinking her own thoughts. Olga and Elena Andreevna were chatting together, about ten paces behind them.

‘You go on, I'll catch you up,' Stepan said suddenly when they reached a grocery shop. ‘I'll buy something for dinner. We have to celebrate!'

‘I'll give you a hand,' volunteered Igor. Stepan did not object.

Inside the shop, Igor looked directly into the gardener's eyes.

‘Did you really put both houses in your daughter's name?' he asked quietly.

‘We used her passport, so yes, they're hers,' said Stepan. ‘I haven't had a passport for ten years. I lost it. But I'll get a new one. I know what to do . . . I just need to fill in a loss report and hand it in to the police. I haven't got a criminal record or anything.'

Igor nodded. Stepan turned away and peered closely at the selection of salami and ham under the glass counter. Then he looked up and called out to the sales assistant, ‘Excuse me, miss, I'm ready to order.'

OLGA, ELENA ANDREEVNA
and Alyona spent a long time preparing the celebratory meal. Six hands and three voices, all fully engaged. Igor glanced into the kitchen and immediately withdrew, his desire for a sandwich remaining unfulfilled.

‘Open up the table in the living room,' said his mother, looking up from the frying pan on the hob. ‘And tell Stepan that we'll be ready to eat in half an hour.'

Igor did as she requested then went out to the front gate. As he stood there looking down the street, he decided that he'd been stuck at home convalescing for long enough. Now he'd been for a walk, he wanted to go again. Preferably without the suit and the noose round his neck.

Igor loosened his tie, surprised at himself for not changing into something more comfortable. Nevertheless, he kept his suit on until dinner. The others also came to the table in the same outfits they'd worn to the signing that morning – except Alyona, who had changed into a light blue sweater. Her cheeks were flushed and she was holding an envelope, which she put first on the table in front of her and then on her knees.

‘Open the champagne, son!' said Elena Andreevna.

Igor opened the bottle, then stood up and poured a glass for everyone but Stepan.

Elena Andreevna pushed her chair back and stood up. ‘So, Stepan Iosipovich,' she began, ‘here's to your new houses – may they be full of happiness, may you enjoy good health and may all your dreams come true! I hope you will remember us in your new life!'

Igor sipped his champagne. Unable to ignore his hunger any longer, he helped himself to two pork rissoles, some mashed potato, a spoonful of mimosa salad and a couple of sprats.

Elena Andreevna caught Igor's eye as he was about to tuck in and pointed at the bottle of champagne. He topped up everyone's glass and glanced at Stepan, whose expression was perfectly serene.

‘May I?' said Alyona.

She stood up, holding her glass in her left hand.

‘Papa,' she began, ‘I . . . Maybe I haven't . . . thought very highly of you in the past. I hope you can forgive me . . . I've got a present for you. I've had it for a few years.'

She took the envelope from the table and handed it to Stepan.

‘It's a certificate confirming the rehabilitation of my grandfather . . . your father.'

Stepan's lips trembled as he took the envelope from his daughter. He opened it and took out a document with an official stamp on it, which he scanned briefly.

‘At last,' he said quietly. ‘Now I really can make a fresh start.'

He looked up at his daughter gratefully.

‘Thank you, Alyona.' He looked round at the others. ‘You should all drink to his memory. Today is proof that my life has turned out well . . . His didn't, but I think he'd be happy if he knew about my plans!'

The pork rissoles were meltingly tender. As Igor chewed his food, he wondered what plans Stepan had in mind.

‘I'd like you all to come with me tomorrow,' said Stepan, towards the end of the meal. ‘So I can show you round my new home. Yes, the time has come for me to move on.' He looked at Elena Andreevna. ‘I'm sure you'll be glad to have your shed back!'

‘Don't be silly,' she said, waving him away. ‘I haven't even paid you the hundred hryvnas I owe you for this month!'

‘A hundred hryvnas,' repeated Stepan, smiling at his own thoughts. ‘So, tonight will be my last night here . . . I've enjoyed getting to know you.'

Everyone left the table shortly after this, as though they sensed that the meal was over. The three women took the dishes into the kitchen and Olga started washing up.

Igor followed Stepan out onto the doorstep.

‘Congratulations,' he said to the gardener. ‘And I'm sorry if, you know . . . if I've offended you in any way. I didn't mean to.'

Stepan nodded. He was still holding the certificate of rehabilitation.

‘Can I see it?' asked Igor.

Stepan handed him the document.

Maybe I should tell him about Iosip and Chagin? thought Igor, after reading the certificate, but he immediately shook his head. No, he won't believe me. He'll think I'm winding him up again.

‘Do you know much about him?' asked Igor.

‘I know more now than I did. At least I know why they put him in prison.'

‘Why?'

‘For slandering the Soviet system.'

‘You mean he was a dissident?' Igor was surprised. He couldn't reconcile this piece of information with his observations of Iosip in Ochakov.

‘No,' said Stepan. ‘You obviously didn't read
The Book of Food
properly! He was arrested for slandering Soviet food. He claimed that workers' canteens prepared “enemy food” and that “enemy food” was enslaving the people, making them weak-willed and passive. He criticised the food in the labour camp too, so he spent all his time there in solitary confinement. They thought he'd incite the other prisoners to an uprising, but they all agreed with him anyway. Then they sent him to a psychiatric institution, and he was only released after Stalin died. His fellow inmates helped him once he got out.'

Stepan fell silent and gave a heavy sigh.

‘Could I borrow the book again?' asked Igor.

‘Let's go and get it,' said Stepan, and he started walking towards the shed.

He switched the shed light on, found the manuscript and handed it to Igor. There was another book on the makeshift bed, and Igor was sure he'd seen it before. He read the title:
Restaurant Marketing
.

‘Well, goodnight,' said Igor, and he went out into the yard.

The gate creaked as he was going up the steps to the porch, and he turned round and saw their neighbour Olga disappearing down the street. The light was still on in the kitchen window, but when Igor went in carrying the manuscript he found his mother just about to switch it off.

‘I think I'm going to read in here for a bit,' he said, sitting down at the table.

He opened the home-made book and flicked through it, scanning the recipes. He stopped at one of the pages.

Enemy food enslaves the people. Take the fisherman, for example – he lures his fish before catching it, so that it becomes accustomed to the place where death awaits. Enemies of the people lure them in the same way, getting them used to food on which they will become dependent, like the fish before it is caught. Then the man who has been lured by this food can be made to do three shifts instead of one! First the enemies of the free man came up with the idea of replacing money with food, as payment for labour. These food payments were measured in units known as workdays. This was just the start of an extensive experiment, the ultimate aim of which was to control the people by means of food . . .

‘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.