The Gardener from Ochakov (20 page)

Igor volunteered to rescue the situation. ‘I'll go back for more,' he declared, swallowing the piece of meat he'd been chewing.

‘Needs must,' said Kolyan with a nod. ‘Your country will thank you for it!'

The journey home took about ten minutes. Igor went straight to the kitchen and took a bottle of brandy from the cupboard. The door creaked behind him.

‘Are you back, then?' asked his mother.

‘No, we've just run out of supplies. You used to have a bottle of homebrew in here somewhere, didn't you?'

‘In there, under the sink.'

Putting the brandy back in the cupboard, Igor bent down and opened the little wooden door. He took out a two-litre jar of home-made vodka and looked around in search of a smaller container.

‘You could pour some into a smaller jar,' suggested his mother, pointing at a bag that contained her spare preserving jars.

‘We're not tramps!' Igor shook his head. ‘We used to have some empty beer bottles, didn't we?'

‘I took them out to the shed.'

Igor went outside and glanced into the shed. Stepan wasn't there. He took an empty bottle and went back into the kitchen, where he filled it with vodka and sealed it with a wine cork. As he was doing so he had an idea for a stunt he could pull on Kolyan, which might finally convince his friend that he really had been to Ochakov in 1957. He went through to his bedroom and put the old police cap on his head, then fastened the belt around his waist and inserted the gun into the holster. He went back into the kitchen, grabbed the beer bottle from the table and left the house.

It was already getting dark outside. At the gate Igor bumped into Stepan, who stopped and stared at him in surprise, glancing ironically at the cap, belt and holster.

‘You look like you're enjoying yourself,' he said, then smiled and went into the yard. The gardener's voice floated back to him. ‘Just make sure you don't get too attached to that uniform, or you might find you won't be able to live without it!'

The white trunks of the birch trees created the illusion of prolonged twilight. At the point where their little grove merged with the coniferous forest, night had fallen and darkness reigned.

Kolyan was staring into the campfire. ‘Oh!' he exclaimed when he saw Igor. ‘Is it a retro picnic now?'

‘Yeah, something like that.' Igor sat down next to the square of oilcloth that was serving as a table. He held the beer bottle out to his friend. ‘I'm afraid we're going to have to switch to home-made vodka, though.'

‘Did you make it yourself?'

‘No, my mother gets it from the next-door neighbour.'

‘Your neighbour wouldn't poison you!' Kolyan took the bottle, removed the cork and inhaled. ‘Oh! It smells of the earth! The art of the people! A celebration of the unbreakable spirit of the nation!' He brought the bottle to his nose once more.

As everybody knows, it's impossible to drink home-made vodka without food to chase it. Fortunately Kolyan never did things by half and had brought no less than a kilo and a half of meat. They'd already eaten three skewers each, and six more skewers of meat were still cooking over the mellow embers of the fire.

As he knocked back the first shot from the beer bottle, Igor felt his appetite return. The shashlik meat was not as tender as before, but it still tasted delicious. Kolyan devoured another skewer too.

‘Oh, I still owe you a hundred dollars,' exclaimed Igor, suddenly remembering. ‘Come back to mine later and I can give it to you then.'

Kolyan waved his hand dismissively. ‘Some things are worth more than a hundred dollars,' he said, nodding at the bottle. He picked it up and refilled their glasses.

The homebrew ran out after about twenty minutes. Igor and Kolyan kept eating until they'd finished the meat, more out of a sense of duty than because they were actually enjoying it.

Igor casually took the gun out of the holster and started looking at it.

‘What's that you've got there?' Kolyan leaned towards his friend.

‘Oh, just something I found in a treasure chest,' replied Igor, with a drunken smirk.

‘Is it real?'

‘Yes, and there's a uniform to go with it.'

‘Let me see.'

Igor gave the gun to Kolyan. He could still feel the cold metal grip in his warm hand.

‘Put the empty bottles on that tree stump over there,' said Kolyan.

Igor placed both bottles on a birch stump about five metres away from where they were sitting. Kolyan took aim. He pulled the trigger, but no shot was fired. Surprised, he took aim and pulled the trigger again. Another empty click.

‘Isn't it loaded?' asked Kolyan, looking at Igor.

‘Yes, it is,' said Igor. ‘I checked.'

‘I've got an idea,' said Kolyan. ‘Why don't you let me have it? You never gave me a present for my birthday!'

‘You said the best present people could give you was to come dressed in “retro” fancy dress. Anyway, why do you want a gun that doesn't shoot?'

‘It might come in handy. You and I know it doesn't shoot, but other people don't know that. It could still save my life.'

‘As if anyone's bothered about your life,' smiled Igor, taking the gun back from his friend. ‘Do you want to scare all the drunks with it?'

Kolyan waved his hand dismissively and seemed to forget all about the gun.

‘Right! Let's head back,' he said, struggling to stand up. ‘What time's the last minibus?'

‘You might as well stay over at my place,' said Igor. ‘You're in no fit state to travel.'

‘What are you saying?' Kolyan cried indignantly. ‘It's impossible to get drunk if you're eating as well as drinking – and we had plenty of food!'

Apparently true to his word, Kolyan managed to pull himself together. He helped Igor pack up and even remembered the carrier bag full of mushrooms that he'd gathered at the start of the afternoon. Stumbling and swaying, they left the forest and shuffled along the road – past houses lit only from within, past windows that stood out like egg yolks, beyond which the inhabitants of Irpen were getting ready for bed.

They stopped at Igor's gate. Kolyan flatly refused to stay the night. Igor had neither the strength nor the desire to walk his friend to the minibus stop, but Kolyan didn't ask him to.

‘I know where it is,' he said, and set off in the direction of the bus station.

THE PHOTOGRAPHER CALLED
at around 11 a.m. the following morning. Igor thought he sounded almost too friendly.

‘Everything's ready! The quality is magnificent, I'm sure you'll be delighted,' he said. ‘You're welcome to come and collect them, preferably before two o'clock as I need to leave then – I've been commissioned to do a family portrait for one of the deputies.'

Why did he tell me that? thought Igor, surprised. Did he think I'd be impressed?

He slipped his mobile phone back into his pocket and looked at his watch. It would take him about an hour to get into town, to be ‘delighted' by the ‘magnificent quality' that awaited him there, and it was a full three hours until the photographer had to leave. Time was very much on his side, so there was no need to rush. The day felt like an echo of the night before – he didn't have a headache or any other sign of a hangover, as such, but was consumed by listlessness.

He made himself a cup of tea, with three spoonfuls of sugar instead of his usual one. Then an instant coffee. Eventually he started preparing to leave, but when he was ready he looked at his watch and felt another wave of inertia – he didn't even feel like moving, let alone going into town. He wandered out into the yard. The sky was gloomy and grey. He glanced over his shoulder then walked towards the shed. The door was slightly open, and there was a quiet, muffled noise coming from inside. He looked through the gap in the door and saw Stepan extracting nails from wooden boards with the end of a hammer. There were three separate piles of boards lying on the concrete floor.

Stepan glanced up at his landlady's son.

‘You look rather the worse for wear,' he remarked indifferently. ‘I dismantled an abandoned fence. I'm going to make a couple of storage crates. They might come in handy.'

First a new suit, now storage crates, mused Igor. ‘Where were you off to yesterday, dressed so smartly?'

‘I just went for a walk around the town. The first of many! I want people to get used to seeing me around. I'm starting a new life, and I'm here to stay.'

‘With us?'

Stepan smiled. ‘No, I've had enough of sleeping in sheds. I'm going to buy a house. I can afford it now. I seem to remember that you were planning on buying a motorbike, weren't you?'

‘In the spring,' said Igor, waving his hand airily. ‘There's no point at the moment.'

‘True, a motorbike isn't much use in winter,' agreed Stepan.

By a stroke of luck, Igor was the last passenger the minibus taxi been waiting for, and it set off as soon as he got in. There was no Radio Chanson this time, but Igor barely even noticed. He was quite happy to let his mind wander – first he imagined himself buying a motorbike in the spring, then he started thinking about the photographer and his wife.

The photographer greeted Igor with a smile and offered him brandy with his coffee, which was rather unexpected. It would have been foolish to refuse such hospitality. Igor sat down on one of the soft leather armchairs and looked around the room. Over by the black screen he saw some photographs attached to a nylon cord with little multicoloured pegs. They were somebody else's studio portraits.

‘My wife's gone to visit her mother,' said the photographer, approaching Igor from behind. He was carrying a tray containing two coffee cups, two brandy glasses and a bottle of Hennessy, which he placed on the coffee table. He poured brandy into the glasses, then fetched a long-handled copper coffee pot. Igor thought the coffee, as it was poured from the
cezve
, looked unusually thick.

The photographer brought five large envelopes over and put them on the table, then sat down in the other armchair.

‘I'm beginning to find you very interesting,' he said. He picked up his brandy glass and turned to Igor, indicating that he should follow suit.

Igor lifted the glass to his nose and inhaled. It had a distinguished aroma, particularly after the home-made vodka he'd been drinking with Kolyan – although that hadn't been at all bad! Igor smiled, remembering the previous evening.

‘These films,' began the photographer. He sipped his brandy. ‘Look, I'm a professional and I know everything there is to know about photography. Well, almost everything. But I have to admit, I'm completely at a loss here. I'd love to know how you do it. You're using old films, and taking old-fashioned photos, right?'

‘What do you mean?' Igor stared at the photographer.

‘I assure you, my interest is purely professional. If someone showed me pictures like this on their computer, I would congratulate them on their Photoshop skills. But you brought me real films. Everything appears to be set in the past – at least the decor and costumes appear to be authentic – yet you're in the photos yourself . . . Were they taken on the set of some historical drama? Do you work in cinematography?'

Igor shook his head and smiled.

The photographer took a sip of coffee and poured some more brandy into his glass. Then he pushed the envelopes across the table to his client. Igor took the photographs out of one of the envelopes and looked through them. He saw himself standing in front of Red Valya's counter. He saw her wrapping the fish up in newspaper. He saw a man standing behind him, staring at Valya.

‘You could turn this lot into an excellent, and highly original, photography exhibition.' Smiling broadly, the photographer looked at his client again. ‘You could use the same method in your advertising . . . I think you could make a decent amount of money, as well as a bit of a name for yourself. You seem to be quite an ambitious young man!'

Igor burst out laughing. Me? Ambitious? he thought happily.

‘It's just a hobby,' he said after a few moments, keen to maintain the good-natured atmosphere over the coffee table. ‘Maybe I'll take a few more, and then we'll see!'

‘What camera do you use?'

The question caught Igor off guard.

‘An old one,' was all he said.

His answer was obviously music to the photographer's ears. ‘I'm willing to develop and print your next films for free,' he said. ‘On one condition.'

‘What?'

‘That if you do decide to put on an exhibition of your pictures, you come to me first. I'll arrange everything for you. You clearly have an exceptional talent, and a great imagination.'

‘All right,' agreed Igor. He reached for the bottle of Hennessy and poured some into his glass. ‘It's a deal.'

With the envelopes tucked under his arm, Igor walked down Proreznaya Street to Kreshchatyk Street. When he got to the metro station he called Kolyan.

‘Hello?' said a woman's voice.

‘Oh, sorry, I must have got the wrong number –'

‘Don't hang up!' said the voice. ‘Who are you trying to reach?'

‘My friend Kolyan. I mean, Nikolai.'

‘He's here, but he can't talk right now. Can I give him a message?'

‘Where's “here”?' asked Igor.

‘The Accident and Emergency hospital on Bratislavsky Street. Your friend was the victim of a violent assault yesterday. He's recovering in one of the wards.'

‘This is Igor. Tell him it's Igor! I owe him some money,' said Igor, then he stopped abruptly. ‘Can I see him?'

‘Of course,' said the woman's voice. ‘Fifth floor of the main building, Ward Seven.' The woman gave Igor directions to the hospital, and the escalator carried him down to the metro.

Kolyan's bed was up against the wall on the left-hand side of a six-bed ward. The door to the ward was wide open. Two large top windows were also open, and Igor was struck by a gust of wind that carried the smell of rotten autumn leaves. A length of clear plastic tubing, twisting and coiling like a snake, connected an intravenous drip bag to Kolyan's right wrist. Igor was shocked by the sight of his friend – Kolyan's face was partially covered with bandages, but the exposed parts were swollen and dark blue. His eyes were closed.