The Gardener from Ochakov (18 page)

He was woken early the following morning by the cacophonous medley of birdsong and human voices outside Vanya Samokhin's house. The sounds were already familiar, but so different from his own home. Igor felt different too – full of energy and impulsive enthusiasm. He got up, brushed the creases out of the uniform and put on the belt and holster. Then he heard Vanya's footsteps on the other side of the door.

‘Mother and I will head to the market first,' said Vanya, looking into the living room with shaving foam on his cheeks and a razor in one hand. He had obviously heard his guest getting up and rushed in to tell him the plan.

‘But you're supposed to be taking photographs of me!'

‘I'll take the camera with me. I just need to drop the wine off at my mother's stall. I dare say you'll be going to the fish section first anyway.' A sly smile spread across Vanya's face.

‘Fine. I'll pull the door shut, like last time,' said Igor, choosing to ignore both the insinuation and the smirk.

He rolled up the blanket and put it at one end of the sofa. Then he went over to the window and looked out through the white lace curtain. The sound of a bicycle bell caught his attention, and he watched a man in a grey suit cycle directly towards two women, each of whom was carrying a three-litre milk churn. The women didn't seem to mind, though – on hearing the bell they jumped apart, and when the man had passed they came together again and resumed their animated conversation.

Igor soon saw Vanya Samokhin and his mother leave the house. They were both carrying heavy shopping bags. Igor felt quite sorry for them, while simultaneously marvelling at the impracticality of their system. Why not use a trolley or, as he'd seen numerous times in the provinces, an old pushchair?

Both Vanya and his mother were moving relatively swiftly in spite of the obvious weight of their loads. They turned left out of the gate and soon disappeared from view. Half an hour later Igor himself went through the gate and turned left.

He could feel salt on his lips from the light wind that was blowing into his face, reminding him of the proximity of the sea. Igor quickened his pace as though he were heading towards it. He even imagined that he could hear waves crashing to the shore. But real sounds took over as he approached the market. Igor strode through the familiar gates without even glancing at the fruit and vegetables on display. He was heading straight for the heart of the market in any coastal town – the fish section. He could already hear the voices of the sellers exalting their husbands' catches of herring, or mussels, or whatever else they had hauled from the waters.

‘Damn!' Igor stopped suddenly, realising that he didn't have anything in which to carry the fresh flounder home. He looked around and saw an old woman selling string shopping bags, the kind he remembered from his childhood. He went over and bought one from her, then looked around again. Unable to spot Vanya, he continued on to the fish section at a more leisurely pace.

Red Valya was at her stall. Her face lit up when she saw Igor in his police uniform.

‘Have you got any Black Sea flounder left?' Igor asked affably.

‘I put some aside for you,' she said, smiling sweetly. Brazen sparks flashed in her eyes. ‘Will five be enough?'

‘Yes,' said Igor.

Valya spread a piece of newspaper on the counter, lay the flounder on top and deftly wrapped them up.

‘How much do I owe you?' asked Igor.

‘Ten roubles.'

‘Are you doing anything this evening?' he whispered as he paid.

‘Why do you keep pestering this married woman?' she whispered back playfully. ‘If that bench suits you, I'll be there again at six.'

Igor tried to look around discreetly, hoping to see the camera lens trained on him and Valya, but he couldn't see anything. He put the parcel of fish into his string bag, smiled at Valya and walked slowly away from the counter. He stopped about five metres away, near some barrels of herring, to see whether Vanya was taking photos of him as agreed. Try as he might, he couldn't spot him among the colourful human chaos of the market.

Igor wandered about for another half an hour, sampling home-made salami, lightly salted pickles and fresh lard, before leaving the market via the side entrance. It was calmer there. He called into the little bar opposite the entrance for a glass of mineral water, then continued walking in the direction of Fima Chagin's house.

His feet seemed to be taking him there of their own accord. Unless it was the boots, which had been discovered in Fima Chagin's house . . . Maybe they wanted to go home?

Igor smiled. He stood outside the gate, looking at the house. Suddenly the front door opened and Chagin himself appeared on the threshold, a cigarette hanging from his mouth. He was about the same age as Igor. He stared at the police officer standing on the street outside his house. Igor, meanwhile, was rooted to the spot – his brain was telling him to leave, but his body refused to obey. Chagin walked up to the gate and fixed Igor with a cold, hostile glare. Then he took a deep drag on his cigarette before demonstratively stubbing it out against the gatepost and flicking it into the street.

Igor finally broke free of Chagin's stare. Lowering his eyes and keeping his face free of expression, he walked purposefully away. The bag of fish swung in his right hand and bumped awkwardly against his knee. Sensing Fima Chagin's eyes on his back, he didn't look over his shoulder or even slow down until he'd turned the corner into a different street.

Later that evening – after his date with Valya, during which he'd been seconds away from his first real kiss – he sat down at the kitchen table and once again interrupted Vanya's preparation for his future wine-making career.

Vanya laid five films on the table. His face bore an expression of naive and unabashed self-satisfaction, like a peasant who has managed to dupe someone into buying lame livestock.

Igor gave Vanya one hundred roubles to buy new films and two hundred roubles as a bonus. Vanya's expression changed to one of pride.

‘Looks like I'm on the early-morning shift this week!' he joked as he tucked the money away in the pocket of his trousers, which looked like they had seen better days.

‘Take as many as you can!' urged Igor, trying to curb Vanya's enthusiasm.

Vanya composed himself and nodded.

‘Would you be able to bring me a couple of burnt-out light bulbs? I broke one by accident, and –'

‘What do you want burnt-out light bulbs for?' interrupted Igor, surprised.

‘Mother uses them to darn socks and tights. It's easier if you put a light bulb inside them.'

Once again they concluded the evening, and their conversation, with two glasses of dry white wine. Then Igor went through to the living room where he undressed, placed the uniform on the stool, put the bag containing the fish on the floor and lay down on the sofa.

SLEEP DESERTED IGOR
at about midday, chased away by his mother's cheerful humming and the appetising smell of fried fish.

Igor wandered into the kitchen barefoot, wearing just a pair of boxer shorts.

‘Thanks, son!' Elena Andreevna looked up from the spitting frying pan.

‘A promise is a promise,' said Igor with a nod. ‘You haven't invited Olga to lunch this time, have you?'

His mother shook her head.

‘Stepan's coming, though,' she said. ‘He's bought himself a suit!'

‘A suit?' Igor's brain had trouble processing this piece of information. ‘For lunch? That's a bit over the top, isn't it?' he added with a smirk.

Elena Andreevna was offended, apparently on Stepan's behalf.

‘You should think yourself lucky. I bought you your first suit when you graduated from school. Some people never get the chance to wear a suit!'

Igor shrugged. ‘I've got nothing against suits,' he said calmly. ‘Would it make you happy if I wore mine for lunch too?'

‘Get out of here, you and your smart remarks!' His mother waved him away mildly and began turning the fish in the frying pan.

Half an hour later the flounder were melting in their mouths. They ate them with marinated cucumbers and boiled potatoes with dill, which complemented the fish perfectly. Stepan wasn't wearing a suit after all – he'd come wearing his normal clothes, although Igor couldn't help noticing that the gardener had shaved before joining them. So, he thought, his mother's invitation to lunch must have meant something!

‘Is there any news from your daughter?' asked Igor, helping himself to boiled potatoes.

Stepan raised his eyebrows and turned to look at Igor.

‘There will be, when the time is right,' he answered brusquely.

Elena Andreevna put another piece of fish on Stepan's plate.

‘No, no, I've had plenty!' he protested.

‘Isn't she married?' she asked cautiously.

‘No. It's not easy to find a good husband these days.'

‘Or a good wife, for that matter,' agreed Elena Andreevna, looking at her son.

Stepan also stared thoughtfully at Igor. Acutely aware of both sets of eyes upon him, Igor choked and began coughing. Stepan leapt up and thumped him hard on the back. Igor raised a hand to try and stop all the fuss.

‘I swallowed a bone,' he said quickly, trying to suppress his cough.

When Elena Andreevna stood up and began collecting the plates from the table, Stepan looked at Igor again.

‘Do you know anyone who might make a good husband for Alyona?' he asked. ‘She's got a dowry now.'

‘I don't know that many people,' confessed Igor. ‘And I've only really got one friend – Kolyan.'

‘The one who works in a bank?'

‘That's the one.'

‘Will you introduce them?'

Igor was taken aback by the request. ‘Well, he was planning on coming out here soon for a barbecue . . . But I should warn you, he likes a drink or two!'

Stepan thanked Elena Andreevna for lunch and went out into the yard. A little while later Igor's mobile phone rang. It was the photographer's wife, letting him know that the prints were ready for him to collect. Igor was delighted by the news and quickly got ready to leave, taking the next lot of films with him.

The autumn sun was shining over Kiev, and Igor couldn't help feeling pleased – as though the sun were trying to support and enhance his good mood. People tend to walk faster when they're anticipating miracles. Igor had indeed quickened his pace, but he showed no sign of exertion – he wasn't at all tired or out of breath, even though he was walking up Proreznaya Street this time instead of down.

He reached the studio, turned into the courtyard and rang the doorbell. The photographer's wife opened the door and let him in. She was wearing the same dark blue robe and slippers as before. The air inside was different this time. It no longer smelt of freshly ground coffee or menthol cigarettes but of certain chemical compounds. The smell itself wasn't particularly offensive – just overtly professional, which was at odds with the domestic surroundings.

Looking through to the room with the sofas and armchairs, Igor could see a number of large-format black-and-white prints hanging from lines across the room, where they were drying.

Are they really mine? thought Igor, and his heart skipped a beat.

He took a step towards them, to get a better view. Without saying a word, the photographer's wife disappeared behind the kitchen door. The black-and-white prints featured naked girls sitting astride broomsticks, pretending to be witches. There was no way Vanya Samokhin could have taken those, especially not in Ochakov in 1957!

Igor walked over to the kitchen and looked through the door. The photographer's wife was standing with her back to him, facing the coffee machine. She seemed to sense Igor's presence and turned round.

‘Would you like some coffee?'

Igor nodded.

‘Take a seat in there,' she said, nodding towards the reception room. She followed him in, carrying three cups of coffee on a tray.

There was the sound of curtains being pulled back vigorously, followed by the sound of running water. Then the photographer came through another doorway into the room. He was wearing a checked shirt with the top two buttons undone, as before, although the shirt was a different colour. Igor noticed that it was hanging out of his jeans. Following the direction of his gaze, the photographer tucked it in.

‘I'll be right back,' he said, then went behind a screen that was covered in black cloth and started making rustling noises.

‘There you go. See what you make of those,' he said, holding a padded envelope out to Igor and sitting down in one of the armchairs.

Igor reached into the envelope and took out a pile of photographs. He was hit by the same chemical smell he'd noticed on entering the studio. His hand automatically reached for his coffee cup, and he took a reassuring sip of thick, aromatic espresso.

Igor saw that the photographs were shaking in his hand. He placed them on the glass tabletop in front of him, then picked up the first one. It showed a plump woman standing in front of a gate, holding two bulky shopping bags. A single-storey building was clearly visible behind her. It seemed a bit odd that she was just standing there holding the bags, when she could have put them down on the ground . . . Not even her smile could conceal the weight of the bags, or rather the effort required to carry them, which was written all over her face. Puzzled, Igor held the photograph up to take a closer look.

The photographer stood up and moved a floor-standing spotlight over to Igor's armchair. He angled the lamp so that it was pointing at the photograph and switched it on. Igor's hands were immediately bathed in a warm glow. Furthermore, the photograph suddenly seemed to come to life, as though infused with colour.

That's Vanya's mother! realised Igor, peering at the woman's face. And I paid a hundred dollars for
this
?