The Gardener from Ochakov (10 page)

‘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.

A CREAKING, CLANGING
noise started up outside the window just before 6 a.m. the following morning. Igor opened his eyes and immediately looked around to see where he was. His eyes took in the high wooden back of the sofa above him, the mirror, the shelves and the black leatherette that was fastened to the sides of the sofa.

Igor was just contemplating the two porcelain figurines of children that stood on the shelves when the door opened and Vanya came in, already dressed. He was splashing cologne onto his cheeks.

‘Good morning!' he greeted Igor brightly. ‘So, are you ready to go to the market?'

Igor threw off the blanket and stood up. He brushed out the creases in the uniform and pulled on the boots, which were standing on the wooden floor next to the bed.

‘Where's the toilet?' he asked Vanya.

‘Outside, at the back of the house.'

‘And the washroom?'

‘That's outside too, just round the corner. There's a sink on the wall of the shed.'

Igor cleared his throat and glanced at the peaked cap.

‘Where's your mother?' he asked.

‘She's already at the market. People get up early here. They're at work by six . . . and drunk by three,' Vanya answered with a grin.

Emboldened by the knowledge that there was no one else at home, Igor went out into the yard and immediately spotted the sink. He washed his hands and face. The sour taste of the wine from the night before lingered on his tongue. Igor rinsed his mouth out with water, but the sour taste refused to go away. He looked at the little wooden shelf that was fixed to the wall of the shed next to the sink. It held two slivers of soap, a small tin box and several frayed toothbrushes, but there was no toothpaste.

Igor moved the toothbrushes to check underneath them, but there was definitely no toothpaste. He opened the tin box. It was full of white powder.

‘Is this what they use instead?' he wondered, vaguely recalling something he'd once heard about people in the olden days cleaning their teeth with powder rather than paste.

Igor selected the least frayed toothbrush, rinsed it under the tap and stuck it into the powder. When he took it out, the brush felt noticeably heavier. He brought it to his mouth and was surprised to discover that the powder didn't taste of anything at all. He brushed his teeth, rinsed his mouth out again and noticed that the wine taste had disappeared. Not the slightest trace remained.

‘I've made you some cocoa,' said Vanya, meeting him in the hallway with a white enamel mug. ‘Here.'

The cocoa was far too sweet. Igor sat down with the mug at the kitchen table and looked out of the window, which was hung with a fine lace curtain. The delicate fabric featured exactly the same pattern as the cloth – either a serviette or a tablecloth, Igor couldn't tell – that was arranged neatly over the large radio on top of the chest of drawers.

‘I, uh . . .' Vanya sat down opposite him. He looked like he was wrestling with his thoughts. ‘You'll have to go to the market on your own. If I went with you . . . well, it wouldn't look good. Our police officers only accompany people to the market when they've been robbed. They go there to try and recover the stolen property.'

‘But how will I recognise Red Valya?'

‘Easy,' Vanya Samokhin waved his hand. ‘You can't miss her. She's the only redhead there. You'll hear her first, and then you'll see her!'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Her voice is loud and distinctive,' explained Vanya. ‘Perfect for the market.'

‘How will I find my way back? Have you got a map?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘A map of Ochakov, showing the streets and the market, so I can find your house.'

‘There aren't any maps of Ochakov. You must know about the military aircraft, and the port . . . It's all very hush-hush. We're not allowed maps.'

‘All right, in that case draw me a map showing the way to the market, and I'll work it out from there.'

‘I can do that,' nodded Vanya. He fetched the exercise book and a pencil and busied himself with an elaborate sketch.

‘Keep it simple, so I can understand it,' remarked Igor.

‘All right,' murmured Vanya, without looking up.

When he eventually finished his sketch, he carefully tore the page from the exercise book and passed it to Igor. ‘There, you see . . . that's my house, there's the street . . . you have to go past the park and turn left, then keep going straight and you're there.'

‘Write down your address, just in case,' said Igor.

Vanya took the piece of paper, added his address and gave it back. Igor studied the map and found it reasonably comprehensible. He finished his cocoa and looked at Vanya.

‘Are you going to stay at home?' he asked.

‘I'm on the second shift today. I'll be at home till midday, then at the factory.'

‘What do you actually do there, apart from steal wine?' Igor asked with a smile.

‘I'm a general worker,' said Vanya, lowering his eyes. ‘They're going to send me to the Nikolaev College of Trade and Industry in the spring, to study wine-making. When I graduate, I'll be a wine technologist.'

‘All right, stay here. I'll be back before twelve,' said Igor. He went in to pick up the peaked cap, put it on and looked in the mirror. Then he nodded goodbye to Vanya and went out onto the doorstep.

Vanya's hand-drawn map was surprisingly easy to follow. The closer Igor got to the market, the more people he encountered, and the air was filled with a joyous chirruping, twittering noise, like a chorus of human birdsong. Several young army officers cycled past, and one of them waved to Igor. He was overtaken by a brand-new brown Pobeda car with a chubby, red-faced driver at the wheel.

Igor really wanted to stop for a few minutes to look at the world around him, to watch the people and study their faces, to let it all sink in. Everything seemed slightly strange, natural and unnatural at the same time, as though old black-and-white newspaper images had been scanned into a computer and digitally coloured. Nevertheless he managed to suppress this desire and his curiosity and kept walking at a steady pace, rhythmically measuring out each step on the pavement.

Finally he noticed the gates to the market, through which a steady stream of cheerful humanity flowed in both directions – some holding baskets, others with bags. To the right of the gates two men wearing dark blue quilted jackets were gluing a colour poster to the noticeboard. The poster appeared to show a flying ball with four knives sticking out of it. A little further along a woman wearing overalls in the same colour blue, with a broom at her feet, was pinning the day's newspaper into a flat, glass-fronted display unit designed for the purpose. As Igor approached she closed the window and started wiping the glass with a cloth, enhancing its transparency in order to render the contents more accessible to the curious public.

Stopping in front of the poster, Igor realised that the ‘ball with knives' he'd seen from a distance was actually the first artificial satellite in space. Several other people gathered around the noticeboard, and Igor took advantage of this legitimate opportunity to observe them more closely. He noticed a couple of police officers nearby, wearing exactly the same uniform as him. Alarmed by the prospect of a possible encounter with ‘colleagues', he strode decisively into the market and instantly felt as though he'd fallen into a beehive.

‘Hey, comrade lieutenant, try one of my apples!' An ample saleswoman with plump, painted lips immediately started making eyes at Igor. ‘Sweet as a peach!' she cried, holding an apple out to him.

The seller's voice was also as sweet as a peach, and sticky too. Igor could almost feel it clinging to his ear and trickling down his cheek. Smiling self-consciously and shaking his head, he walked away from the woman and continued down the central aisle of the market.

The noises, sounds, voices and words began to revolve slowly around Igor's head, making it spin. He screwed up his eyes and stopped walking, then opened his eyes again. It felt like he and all the other people at the market were in a giant aquarium, except instead of water this aquarium was full of a strange, dense air, in which bodies moved slowly and words were stretched and drawn out. As they reached your ears the words became louder then gradually faded again into silence as they receded into the distance, like aeroplanes high up in the sky.

Igor tried putting his hands over his ears and contemplating the world without sound. Everything looked perfectly normal, including people's faces and their expressions. The only indication that he was in the previous century was the way people were dressed – that and a few other details, such as the old-fashioned scales.