The Gardener from Ochakov (7 page)

‘It's no wonder the Soviet Union collapsed then, is it?' countered Igor, although his tone of voice had also changed. ‘Seriously, it's not like we're struggling financially, is it? If something interesting comes up, of course I'll apply for it.'

It was true – after they'd sold their apartment in Kiev and bought the house in Irpen, they'd put the rest of the money into a savings account and were now living off the interest. Igor went to the bank once a month to withdraw it. He would bring it home and put it on the kitchen table; then he would take half for himself, leaving the rest for his mother. He'd already grown so accustomed to this way of life that he'd come to think of the trips to the bank in Kiev as his job.

Elena Andreevna soon calmed down. She ladled hot buckwheat into a bowl for her son, placing a knob of butter on top. The butter immediately began to melt, seeping down through the grains. Igor picked up a large spoon and ate his buckwheat slowly, looking out of the window.

‘I'll ask around,' he promised suddenly, glancing apologetically at his mother. ‘Maybe something'll turn up here in Irpen . . . I'm bored too, you know, just sitting around all day.'

Elena Andreevna nodded.

‘Prices keep going up,' she said. ‘Cheese is already sixty hryvnas a kilo, for example . . . But they never increase my pension, and our interest rate hasn't gone up either.'

Igor had no desire to prolong this depressing conversation. After finishing his buckwheat he poured himself a mug of tea and started thinking about what sort of job he could get, but his thoughts soon turned to Stepan – or, rather, to his absence. He thought about the antique suitcase containing the police uniform and the Soviet roubles. He thought about the gun. Stepan's ‘generous' gifts. To be fair, some tourist would pay good money for a vintage Soviet uniform at the flea market in Kiev. Maybe he should take it into town and try his luck.

Igor sighed and went into his bedroom. He opened the suitcase, took the uniform out and checked the pockets. In one of them he discovered an ID pass belonging to a certain Lieutenant I.I. Zotov.

‘Maybe his name was Igor too.' Igor smiled, looking at the small black-and-white photo. The young man in the photo was no more than twenty-five years old.

Igor picked up the two bundles of Soviet hundred-rouble notes. They felt heavy. What did he really know about the era when this money, which was no longer of any practical use, had circulated around a country that no longer existed? Almost nothing, despite the fact that he'd been born in that era himself – during the last Soviet five-year plan, as his mother liked to say.

Igor didn't understand what the big deal was about five-year plans. What was the point of them? He pulled a face. School had been a ten-year plan, one he'd had to endure personally! But why were five years significant? He shrugged and threw the useless currency back into the suitcase.

‘Are you going to the shops today?' called his mother from the kitchen.

‘Yes, I was just on my way out,' replied Igor.

He put the police uniform neatly back into the suitcase, placing I.I. Zotov's identification on top. Then he closed the suitcase and pushed it under the bed.

It was drizzling outside, so Igor took an umbrella. For some reason he had a song from an old Christmas film going round and round inside his head.

When he reached the first kiosk, Igor bought a packet of cigarettes and lit one straight away. Just at that moment a young lad appeared at his elbow. He didn't have an umbrella, and his wet hair was plastered to his forehead. He was wearing a canvas jacket and heavy army boots.

‘Hey man, can you spare a cigarette?'

Igor held the open packet out to him, looking at the lad with amusement.

‘Cover it up with your hand, at least, or the rain will put it out.'

‘I'll smoke it here, under the roof,' the boy replied calmly. He lit his cigarette using the tip of Igor's, then sheltered under the roof of the kiosk to the left of the window.

‘Where on earth did you get those boots?' asked Igor. ‘They don't make them like that any more.'

‘I found them in my dad's shed. They're army boots,' the boy replied earnestly, not noticing the irony in Igor's voice.

‘Lucky you! They knew how to make boots in the old days. Not like now.' Igor looked down at his cheap Romanian boots, which he'd already had fixed twice.

‘They don't really fit me,' grumbled the boy. ‘My dad's feet were bigger than mine . . . Could you spare another one?'

Igor took a cigarette out of the packet and held it out to the boy. Then he walked off, without saying goodbye. When he reached the bus station he stopped and took a moment to look around. He walked over to the noticeboard and scanned the handwritten and photocopied adverts stuck to the wall. They were all ‘For Sale' or ‘Wanted'.

Maybe I should join the police, thought Igor. I've already got a gun! He smiled. Then he thought about the uniform and sighed.

He felt like a coffee, but after a cigarette you need a real coffee and instant was the only option anywhere near the station. Deciding that it would be better than nothing, Igor went into a little shop, ordered one and drank it right there, next to a glass counter that was showcasing several varieties of sliced sausage and smoked chicken. Igor suddenly remembered the shopping his mother had asked him to get. He checked his pockets then asked for a fresh loaf of bread, half a kilo of sliced sausage, some butter and a tin of sprats. Poverty was certainly not an issue. Unable to control this burst of purchasing zeal, Igor looked directly at the young sales assistant and declared in a firm, confident voice, ‘And a bottle of Koktebel brandy. No, not that one – the one with five stars!'

He was feeling happier now. It was nearly lunchtime, and hunger was gently tickling his insides. On the way home, he reflected on something that had only just occurred to him: he drank more brandy, or felt like doing so, when it was raining.

Igor and his mother had lunch sitting opposite one another in the kitchen, next to the rain-streaked window. Elena Andreevna was happy to partake of the brandy, although Igor was on his third glass before she had even finished her first.

‘I wonder where Stepan's got to,' mused Igor.

‘He's a grown man,' his mother replied with a shrug. ‘And besides, he's not officially registered here. So what if he's decided to move on? He's got no one to answer to but himself.'

‘Mmm, not officially registered anywhere,' nodded Igor. ‘People like that are usually wanted by the police.'

‘Hold your tongue!' exclaimed Elena Andreevna. ‘You never know what life is going to throw at you. It's only by the grace of God that you're not in his situation. He's clearly an honest and reliable man. And he thinks before he speaks. Unlike you!'

Igor said nothing. He glanced at the scales on the windowsill. He poured himself a fourth glass of brandy, still thinking about the gardener.

Later that afternoon, his mobile phone rang. It was Kolyan, brimming with his usual enthusiasm.

‘Hi! What are you up to?'

‘Nothing much. I'm at home.'

‘Aren't you coming to my birthday party?'

‘Oh, is it today?'

‘Yes, that's why I'm calling. Come to the Petrovich club in a few hours' time. You know, the Retro Party place. Just make sure you wear a Young Pioneers' neck scarf or something like that, in keeping with the theme. They love all that Soviet stuff. The owner's probably a former Komsomol activist.'

Igor glanced at the wet window. He didn't feel like setting foot out of the house, let alone travelling to Kiev, but he couldn't exactly say that to his best friend without offend-ing him. It was already too late to try and get out of it by pleading a cold or an upset stomach. If he'd wanted it to sound plausible, he should have said it right at the start of the conversation.

‘OK, I'll think of something. I'm drinking a brandy in your honour as we speak,' said Igor. ‘Any specific requests, as far as presents are concerned?'

‘Presents? Oh, you know me – I'll be happy with anything. Apart from flowers. I can't stand cut flowers. It's like watching your money wilt. No, I'd prefer hard cash!'

‘Do you take roubles?'

‘Roubles, dollars, it's all the same to me!'

Igor smiled, thinking about the Soviet roubles in the suitcase.

‘Fine, roubles it is then! See you later!'

IGOR'S HEAD WAS
buzzing slightly from the brandy. He stood looking at the police uniform, which he'd laid out on his bed. The leather boots stood on the floor, shiny and proud. Nearby, on the bedside table, lay the bundles of Soviet hundred-rouble notes. They were held together with bands of paper.

I could take it with me and get changed there, thought Igor. He gave a sigh, then waved his doubts away. Oh, what the hell! I can put my anorak over the top. It's dark outside anyway, no one will be able to see.

Igor pulled on the boots, realising immediately that they were at least a size too big. He found some thick woollen socks, put them on over the thin pair he was already wearing and tried the boots on again. Now they seemed to fit.

‘OK,' he nodded decisively. ‘I'm a retro police officer for the evening. And I'll pay for everything with retro money!'

Igor put on the tight-fitting breeches and the tunic. He tightened the belt around his waist and went over to the mirror, leaving the gun and its holster on the bed. A smile crept over his face. He liked what he saw.

‘Nice one,' he murmured. ‘The girls are going to love it!'

Taking the gun out of the holster, he turned it over in his hands as he contemplated taking it with him. Common sense penetrated the brandy fog.

He stuck the gun under his mattress and closed the empty holster, then picked up the gold watch and put it in the left-hand pocket of the breeches. He would show it off in front of the birthday boy, if he got the chance. He looked out of the window. It was no longer raining. He went out into the hallway, trying to make as little noise as possible. His mother was watching television in the living room.

Looking down at his feet in order to avoid the puddles, Igor walked out of the gate and headed towards the bus station. As he walked he ran his hands over the pockets of the breeches, enjoying the way they bulged with the bundles of roubles. If only they were full of hryvnas, or – even better – dollars! The evening seemed darker than usual. Igor looked up at the heavy sky. Never mind, he thought, the party at the Petrovich club should be fun. He just had to make sure he didn't miss the last train home, as the shared minibuses could be pretty unreliable late at night.

The darkness seemed to wrap itself around Igor for a few seconds. It seemed strangely impenetrable. Either that or something was wrong with his eyes. In this ‘dark' moment Igor suddenly remembered that his uncle had died from drinking fake brandy. First he went blind and started crying out, ‘I can't see anything!' Then he stopped speaking altogether, lay down on the sofa and died. Or so Igor had been told – he hadn't witnessed it first hand, of course. But ever since then he'd checked the smell of opened bottles of brandy before drinking from them.

Igor was still able to feel the hard surface of the road with every step, so he brushed off his alarm and kept walking. Suddenly the darkness released him, and he saw lights in the distance. He looked around, trying to work out whether his eyes were playing tricks on him or whether the street lamps had simply gone out. It happened sometimes. You could be sitting watching television at home, when suddenly – snap! Complete darkness. Sometimes it lasted for five minutes, sometimes several hours.

Behind him was a solid wall of darkness. Nothing was visible except the lights up ahead. Must be a power cut, thought Igor. He nodded decisively and carried on walking.

Igor suddenly felt a little wave of pleasure as he thought about the boots. They were so comfortable! They'd been at least a size too big when he'd first tried them on, but now they felt as though they'd been made to measure by a master cobbler. His delight abruptly changed to suspicion. He stopped and looked down at the boots but found that he could hardly even see them. He cleared his throat and quickened his pace, hoping to reach the lights more quickly.

I should have reached the bus station by now, and that's always brightly lit, thought Igor. It's surrounded by kiosks too, and what about that little bar? He peered into the distance, feeling increasingly anxious. The lights weren't where he expected them to be.

Igor started to feel hot, either from anxiety or from the strange feeling of disorientation, and he broke into a nervous sweat. He took his anorak off and threw it over his shoulder, hooking his finger into the loop inside the collar.

‘Hey, lieutenant! What's the hurry?' a woman's voice suddenly called from behind him. ‘Have you got the right time?'

Igor stopped and glanced over his shoulder. He couldn't see anything.

‘No,' he said warily, peering into the darkness. ‘I've got a watch, but it's not working.'

‘Lucky you!' The woman's voice contained the hint of a threat.

‘Manka, you idiot! Are you blind? He's a policeman, not a soldier!' Her male companion's voice was an urgent whisper. ‘Come on, let's go! Hurry up!'

Igor heard footsteps hurriedly receding. Now he was scared. He started walking towards the lights again, as fast as he could. He reached them eventually and came to a halt in front of some well-lit gates, behind which he could see grey factory buildings.

‘“Ochakov Wine Factory”,' Igor read aloud and looked around.

Something stirred in his pocket, and the sensation unnerved him. He put his hand in and felt the golden watch. Its heart had started beating. Surprised, Igor took the watch out, and when he brought it to his ear he heard a loud ticking sound.