The Gardener from Ochakov

10

THE AFTERNOON DOWNPOUR lasted several hours. When it suddenly stopped, the inhabitants of Irpen had no choice but to accept that the evening was upon them. Autumn evenings are all too brief; they are followed quickly, almost imperceptibly, by night. This particular night, with its leaden, starless sky, promised to be impenetrable.

Putting aside the book he’d been staring at for the past three hours, Igor glanced out of his bedroom window and then at the clock. His thoughts returned to the night before. What would happen, he wondered, if he were to do the same again? What if he were to drink a couple of glasses of brandy, then put on the police uniform and take another walk towards the bus station? No one would be out in this weather, at this time of night. Even if they were, they wouldn’t pay him any attention.

Igor went into the kitchen and poured himself a brandy. He drank it slowly, then poured himself another and drank that too. Noticing out of the corner of his eye a prescription for heart medication in the raised pan of his mother’s scales, he poured a third glass of brandy and took it back to his bedroom. He swallowed a mouthful, then put the glass to one side and felt in the pockets of the breeches to check that the bundles of Soviet roubles were still there. With the next sip of brandy he felt a warmth on his tongue, which soon reached his nose and his forehead. Igor broke into a light sweat. He raised his glass to take another sip but it was already empty, so he went to the kitchen and refilled it.

About half an hour later Igor felt a heady rush of adrenalin and confidence. He smiled to himself. Approaching the police uniform more decisively, he put on the tunic and breeches, pulled on the boots and buckled up the belt. This time he deliberately kept the gun in its holster. He put on the peaked cap and lifted the round table mirror up to get a better look at himself. This cheered him up still further. What a fine figure of a man! he thought.

As soon as Igor shut the gate behind him and set off towards the bus station the darkness around him intensified, as though it were attempting to swallow him whole. But his feet kept walking straight ahead, apparently not in need of a sighted guide, and the soles of his leather boots met the concrete surface of the road with reassuring familiarity.

Fear crept up on Igor several times, surprising him from behind or from the side. Each time he would stop and look around, trusting his hearing more than his sight, but everything was quiet.

After a while a faint light appeared ahead of him, and this became a reference point. About twenty minutes later Igor recognised the illuminated gates of the Ochakov Wine Factory. He stopped under the trees, about twenty metres from the gates, and wondered what was going on. Was it really happening again? Was it going to be like that American film, where the same day repeats itself endlessly, driving the main character insane?

Just then the green gates opened. They seemed to be taunting Igor, mocking his apprehensions. He heard the rumbling of an engine, and then the same little old lorry that he’d seen before drove out of the grounds of the wine factory. It turned right and drove away from Igor, lighting up the road with its headlights. The gates closed and silence gradually seeped back to fill the space illuminated by the powerful factory lights. Strictly speaking, the factory lights illuminated everything on the other side of the concrete fence and the green gates; the square in front of the gates was lit by a street lamp.

The gates suddenly creaked again and opened slightly. A lad with a strange sack over his shoulder peeped out of them, just like the day before.

Now he’s going to come out and wave back at the guard. Then the gates will close, and the metal bolt will make a loud clang, thought Igor. Then I’ll come out from under these trees and walk over to him, and he’ll panic, throw the sack on the ground and ask me not to arrest him.

Just as Igor had predicted, the lad waved to the guard and the bolt made a heavy, metallic noise as the gates closed. Igor walked out from under the dark trees and took several decisive and exaggeratedly stern steps towards him.

‘Oh!’ Vanya exclaimed happily, a smile lighting up his face. ‘Where did you disappear to this morning? I brought you a cup of tea and some sliced sausage for breakfast.’

Igor continued walking, his demeanour no longer either decisive or stern. He stopped in front of Vanya and shook the hand that was held out to him.

‘Did you have some urgent business to attend to?’ enquired Vanya. He adjusted the sack of wine, which had slipped down to his forearm.

‘At it again, I see,’ remarked Igor, ignoring the question and nodding at the wine.

‘Er… I thought we had an agreement. I’ll write the declaration right now, if you like.’

‘Don’t worry about it.’ Igor brushed away the suggestion, irritated and confused by both this strange parallel reality and the fact that it didn’t quite correspond to his expectations.

‘Let’s go back to my place. I’ve got something to tell you,’ continued Vanya, with a friendly smile.

‘You’re Vanya Samokhin, right?’ Igor asked, keen to establish beyond all doubt that what was happening right now was a direct continuation of what had happened the night before.

‘That’s me! Come on.’

They set off into the darkness, just as before. Only this time Igor wasn’t glancing nervously around him but walking calmly behind Vanya Samokhin, who was carrying the sack of stolen wine with ease.

They went into Vanya’s house, trying to make as little noise as possible. Vanya led Igor to the room with the old-fashioned sofa.

‘Go ahead, get ready for bed,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’

About two minutes later he returned with a glass of wine, again full to the brim.

‘This is for you,’ he said quietly. ‘It’ll help you sleep.’

Igor took off the peaked cap and sat down on the sofa without undressing. He felt that as soon as he lay down and closed his eyes this parallel reality would cease to exist; then he would never find the answers to the questions that were multiplying by the minute.

He took the glass from Vanya Samokhin and drank the wine, feeling the familiar sharp, sour taste on his tongue. Then he nodded at Vanya, indicating that he should sit too. Vanya sat down.

‘So, you said you had something interesting to tell me,’ Igor said.

‘It’s just that… I haven’t written the declaration yet.’

‘All right then, go and get a piece of paper,’ said Igor.

Vanya left the room and came straight back bearing an exercise book and a tin inkwell with a fountain pen sticking out of it. He sat down at the oval table.

‘Tell me what to write, comrade lieutenant,’ he said.

Igor hesitated. It was taking him a little longer to get into character this time.

‘All right,’ he said after a pause. ‘Write this… I, Ivan whatever-your-patronymic-is Samokhin, agree to cooperate voluntarily…’

Vanya Samokhin bent over the exercise book and started scratching at it with his fountain pen, dipping it in the inkwell every few seconds. Igor waited until the scratching stopped. Vanya raised his head and looked questioningly at the police officer.

‘… to cooperate voluntarily with the police force,’ continued Igor, ‘and am prepared to risk my life to assist in the fight against criminal elements –’

Vanya suddenly looked up at Igor, panic and confusion written all over his face.

‘Is there a problem?’ asked Igor.

‘I never agreed to risk my life,’ Vanya said quietly. ‘I’m happy to help you, but not if it means risking my life. My mother’s not well. Her heart…’

‘All right,’ sighed Igor. ‘Leave out the bit about risk, just say that you’ll help.’

‘You’re paid to risk your life, and they give you a gun to protect yourself!’ Before returning to the declaration Vanya glanced pointedly at Igor’s holster.

‘To assist in the fight against criminal elements,’ repeated Igor. ‘Date, place, signature.’

Once he’d finished writing, Vanya neatly ripped the page from the exercise book, folded it into four and handed it to Igor, who took the piece of paper and put it into the breast pocket of his tunic.

‘Can I go to bed now?’ asked Vanya.

‘Why don’t we…?’ Igor wondered aloud.

‘Why don’t we what?’ asked Vanya cautiously.

‘Why don’t we go for a little walk? You can show me the sights.’

‘What sights?’ Vanya was puzzled.

‘Well, Fima Chagin’s house, for a start.’

‘Haven’t you ever seen it before?’ Vanya’s surprise was tinged with condescension, as though he’d suddenly realised that his guest was not a police lieutenant at all but the village idiot.

‘Of course! But it would be good to see it again, with two pairs of eyes!’

Sensing trust and respect in the way the police officer spoke to him, Vanya raised no further objections. He stood up eagerly and turned towards the door.

‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘I’ll show you a short cut.’

Vanya led Igor outside. They walked about thirty metres along the unlit street, then turned left. They crossed an abandoned yard and an old garden and came out onto a different street, which was evidently more important – the street lamps at the crossroads were not merely for show but actually worked. The single-storey brick buildings were more impressive too. Their dark windows reflected the night.

‘There it is,’ whispered Vanya, gesturing towards an unsightly building with a high socle all the way around it and a set of steps leading up to a pair of folding wooden doors.

They stopped. A motorbike roared somewhere in the distance. Igor felt on edge.

‘Someone’s up,’ said Vanya, staring at the house.

Igor glanced at the dark windows. ‘What makes you say that?’

Vanya gestured towards the right side of the house. Peering more closely, Igor noticed a glow of light that must have been coming from an unseen window at the back of the house.

Igor beckoned to Vanya to follow him. They stopped by the gate.

‘Has he got a dog?’ whispered Igor.

‘No! It would never stop barking.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘There are always people coming and going… Dogs don’t like being disturbed all the time.’

Igor nodded. Just then there was a muffled bang and he froze, listening intently. The sound of men’s voices came from somewhere nearby. Igor glanced at Vanya and gestured towards a broad apple tree about five metres to the right, which stood up against the fence. They moved quickly towards it and hid under its branches, which still bore several fruit.

Fima Chagin’s front door creaked open. Two men came out onto the doorstep and lit cigarettes.

‘When will he be back?’ asked one of them.

‘Two or three years. Maybe sooner, if they knock a bit off.’

‘Well, that would be great. Tell him to bring a note from you when he comes to see me.’

‘Right you are, then,’ said the second man. Throwing a large cloth bundle over his shoulder, he walked down the steps and headed towards the gate.

‘Iosip!’ called the man on the doorstep. He threw his cigarette to the ground and pressed the toe of his boot into it.

‘Yes?’ Iosip turned round.

‘What if he doesn’t come back in three years?’

‘What if he does come back and you’re not here? Or the house burns down in the meantime?’

‘Hold your tongue, Iosip! What a thing to say! If the house ever burns down, I’d better hope that I burn with it.’

‘You’ve got a point there,’ replied Iosip. He cleared his throat. ‘Don’t tempt fate. He’ll be back.’

The gate creaked. Iosip went out into the street, spat on the ground and walked away. The front door closed and silence descended once again. Igor and Vanya emerged from under the tree. Vanya picked an apple and bit into it. Igor glared at him.

‘What?’ whispered Vanya. ‘They’ve gone now, and I’m hungry!’

‘Do you know that Iosip chap?’ asked Igor.

Vanya shook his head.

‘What about the one who was smoking?’

‘That was Fima Chagin.’

‘Fima Chagin?’ repeated Igor. ‘But he’s so young.’

‘Why shouldn’t he be?’ Vanya shrugged.

‘Anyway, what did you have to tell me?’ asked Igor, referring to the comment Vanya had made when they’d been standing in front of the wine factory.

‘Oh yes, my mother said that Fima’s having an affair with Red Valya! She said he’s always calling on her at the market.’

‘Who’s Red Valya?’

‘She works in the fish section at the market. Everyone knows Red Valya.’

‘What does she sell?’ asked Igor.

‘Fish, of course. What else do you think they sell in the fish section? Her husband’s a fisherman. He catches it, and she sells it.’

‘Will you point her out to me?’

‘There’s no need. You can’t miss her. You’ll hear her from a hundred paces.’

‘All right,’ nodded Igor. ‘Let’s go back and get some sleep. Tomorrow morning we’re going to the market.’

Igor took off the peaked cap and the belt with the holster then lay down fully dressed on the ancient sofa, acutely aware of its invisible springs. He pulled the blanket up over himself. His body was exhausted and craving sleep, but his agitated mind was wide awake. Igor’s main concern was that if he fell asleep he would wake up in his own comfortable bed in Irpen, thereby scuppering his chances of finding out more or of ever setting eyes on Red Valya. What then? Would he have to drink brandy again and take another nocturnal stroll? Igor realised that he didn’t have a lot of choice in the matter, that at some point he would have to surrender to sleep whether he liked it or not. A plan was already in place for the following day, and as long as he didn’t drive himself mad trying to reconcile the real and parallel worlds then there was still a chance that he would make it to the market in Ochakov in 1957. If this plan came to fruition, then he would even be able to buy something there! He felt both pockets of the breeches, which bulged agreeably with the bundles of banknotes. Each individual note was big enough to twist into a perfect paper bag for carrying sunflower seeds.