The Gardener from Ochakov (3 page)

But Igor preferred the mysterious atmosphere, perhaps because Stepan himself had disappeared so mysteriously after reading what had been tattooed on his shoulder . . . Or perhaps because, in spite of the gardener's disappearance, part of the mystery was still here, waiting to be discovered. But where? Could it be in the rucksack?

Igor had been brought up to respect other people's property, whether it was fixed or movable or even jumped and barked, like their neighbour's dog Barsik. But he was in the grip of an urgent, insistent curiosity, which would not allow him to take his eyes off the half-empty canvas rucksack. Moreover the rucksack had been left open, its buckles undone.

Eventually Igor lifted the flap and cautiously looked inside, but he couldn't see anything at all. He switched the light on and looked into the rucksack again. At the bottom of the rucksack lay a box with a picture of an electric razor on it, along with various items of clothing, some socks and a pair of canvas shoes.

Igor paused for a moment to listen to the outside world, then took the cardboard box out of the rucksack and carefully opened it. It did actually contain an old-fashioned razor, complete with instructions and a spare set of rotating blades. Igor turned the razor over in his hands. It seemed odd that Stepan should choose to use such an antique. Then again, Stepan himself was something of an antique, at least in comparison to Igor. Not in any way rare or valuable, but still a relic of the twentieth century. People like him were always hoarders, hanging on to things that were familiar from their childhood.

As he went to put the razor back, Igor noticed something sticking out of the instruction booklet in the bottom of the box. He lifted the instructions up with one finger and took out an envelope, which was also from the previous century. The postmark was clearly visible: 19.12.99.

Suddenly he heard a noise outside in the yard. Panicking at the thought of being caught in the act, Igor thrust the box containing the razor back into the rucksack. Only then did he realise that he was still holding the letter. He hurriedly stuffed it into his trouser pocket, switched the light off and left the shed.

But Igor had no need to worry as Stepan was nowhere to be seen. Igor heard the noise again and realised that it was coming from the yard next door, where their neighbour was attacking an old cherry tree with a chainsaw. He was evidently stocking up on firewood ahead of the winter – for the sauna, not the house. His house, like the one Igor and his mother lived in, was heated by a gas boiler.

Holding the chainsaw away from the trunk of the tree, which was already lying on the ground, the neighbour called out to Igor, ‘How's it going?'

‘Not bad,' answered Igor, his voice unusually loud. ‘Everything's fine!'

‘For now, maybe, but it's going to start getting colder next week.' After sharing this piece of information, the neighbour turned his attention back to the job at hand. The chainsaw resumed its high-pitched whining. Igor nodded and hurried into the house.

‘How's Stepan? He's not too cold out there, is he?' asked Elena Andreevna.

‘He's not there. I don't know where he is, but I think he's been gone since yesterday.'

To Igor's surprise, his mother did not react at all to the news of the gardener's disappearance. Well, he thought, I suppose he's left all his things here so he can't have gone for good. Noticing with relief that his headache had passed, Igor decided to stop worrying about it and made himself another mug of tea.

Elena Andreevna looked into the kitchen a few minutes later, dressed in a smart outfit. ‘When he gets back, ask him to sort through the potatoes again,' she said. ‘And he can start taking them down to the cellar.'

‘Where are you going?' asked Igor.

‘To the post office, to pick up my pension, and then to the cobbler's – it's time to fix my winter boots.'

The front gate was visible from the kitchen window. Igor watched his mother leave, then took the envelope out of his pocket. Inside was a New Year's greetings card, which read: ‘Dear Papa, I hope the new millennium brings you happiness and joy! I wish you good health, your Alyona.'

Igor looked in surprise from the card to the envelope. It had been sent by Alyona Sadovnikova, 271 Zelenaya Street, Lviv, and was addressed to Stepan Iosipovich Sadovnikov, 14 Matrosov Street, Brovary, Kiev Region.

Sadovnikov, that means ‘gardener', he thought, smiling. So, he's followed his destiny!

Igor sipped his tea and looked out of the window again, at the young apple trees that had been planted in front of the house three years previously. He noticed, possibly for the first time, their yellowing leaves. They were a late-cropping variety, and the rosy-cheeked apples that still hung from their branches would keep well in storage until April.

Torn scraps of wispy cloud were racing across the sky. Rays of sunlight, their warmth and brightness already fading, fell through them and among them to the autumn ground.

Igor felt like going for a walk, but first he copied both addresses from the envelope into a notebook. Then he went to the shed and put the card and the envelope back where he'd found them.

A cool breeze blew into Igor's face. He walked as far as the bus station, where he brought himself an instant coffee from a kiosk for one hryvna. He moved to the side of the kiosk and stood there, enjoying the way the thin disposable cup burned his fingers. He would have to wait three or four minutes before he could drink it. Igor looked around, watching the cars as they drove past.

A minibus from Kiev pulled up at the station. As the passengers began to get out, Igor suddenly spotted Stepan among them. Stepping down from the minibus, he stopped to light a cigarette. He looked preoccupied, maybe even depressed. When he finished his cigarette, he threw the stub to the ground and crushed it with the toe of his boot, then set off down the street towards their house.

Igor took his time finishing his coffee, then followed the gardener home. On the way he remembered that he had left the bread and salami and the mug of tea in the shed. The tea would be stone cold by now, of course. The bread and salami would be fine, though – unless the mice had eaten it.

About twenty minutes later, holding a fresh mug of tea, Igor knocked on the door of the shed.

‘What are you knocking for?' Stepan asked in surprise as he opened the door. ‘It's your house, not mine.'

Nevertheless he was glad of the tea and seemed to enjoy the sandwiches too, smacking his lips with pleasure as he ate.

‘I went to visit an old friend of mine,' said Stepan. ‘I was going to ask him for money for the trip. I saved his life once, so he owed me one. But he never got the chance to repay me – turns out he's dead. He moved in with a good woman in Boyarka about ten years ago and she kept him off the drink, which always used to be his weakness, but he died anyway. It was his heart, apparently. I have to get the money somehow . . . I have to go back there.'

‘Go back where?' asked Igor.

‘To Ochakov, of course! To Chagin's house. My father was definitely there at some point. Maybe I've still got some relatives there, and I can finally found out the full story. I don't suppose you could lend me a bit of money, could you?'

Igor thought about it. He did have some money, since he'd been saving up for a motorbike. But there was no point buying a motorbike until the spring.

‘Can I come with you?' he asked.

‘If you like. I'd be glad of the company. What if we find treasure there?' asked Stepan, smiling. ‘We can split it between us. No, that wouldn't be fair . . . You're half my age, so I'll give you a third of the treasure!'

A cunning smile played on Stepan's unshaven face, with its prominent cheekbones.

‘We won't need much cash,' he continued. ‘Just the cost of the minibus to Kiev, train tickets to Nikolaev, the minibus to Ochakov, and food and accommodation when we get there.'

‘All right,' Igor nodded. ‘When are we going?'

‘As soon as possible . . . Tomorrow!'

Igor shook his head. ‘My mother wants you to sort through the potatoes and take them down to the cellar. And you'd better tidy the garden and the vegetable plot up a bit too, otherwise it'll start to bother her.'

‘That'll only take a couple of days,' promised Stepan. ‘And I'll come back here afterwards, for as long as you'll have me! At least until the spring.'

‘All right,' said Igor, looking closely at Stepan. ‘I'll phone and book the train tickets. But I'll need to give both our surnames . . .'

‘My surname is Sadovnikov,' said Stepan.

Igor couldn't help smiling. He felt childishly triumphant, as though he'd managed to catch someone out. He already knew Stepan's surname!

‘What's so funny?' Stepan asked mildly. ‘Everyone should try and live in accordance with their name. If your surname means cobbler, you should become a shoemaker, and if it's Sadovnikov, you should become a gardener. That's all there is to it. What's your surname?'

‘Vozny.'

‘“Carter”, but you haven't got a horse or a cart!' Now it was Stepan's turn to smile.

‘I'm buying a motorbike in the spring,' Igor declared earnestly. ‘Or maybe earlier, if we find treasure in Ochakov.'

‘A motorbike? Good for you,' nodded Stepan. He had suddenly grown serious too, only more genuinely so than Igor.

IGOR TOLD HIS
mother about the trip to Ochakov three days later, on Friday. Elena Andreevna was in good spirits, either purely by chance or because the house and garden were both looking tidy. She was only mildly surprised to learn of her son's planned trip to Ochakov with Stepan.

‘What are you going to do there at this time of year?' she asked. ‘The sea's too cold for bathing.'

‘Stepan used to have family in Ochakov,' replied Igor. ‘He wants to find their house, to see if anyone's still living there.'

‘When's the train?'

‘Tomorrow night, at seven.'

‘Well, tell Stepan that he can join us for dinner this evening. I bought a whole chicken.'

Stepan's face had a bluish tinge from shaving just before dinner, and his shoes were freshly polished. He looked quite smart, in spite of his creased trousers and his baggy black sweater.

Elena Andreevna straightened the yellow tablecloth that covered the round table and set out plates and glasses. She took from the dresser an opened bottle of vodka and a small bottle of home-made wine that their neighbour had given them. Then she went to the kitchen and came back carrying a deep earthenware dish, which contained a roast chicken and braised potatoes. She carved the chicken herself and served it out.

‘Please, help yourself,' she said to Stepan, indicating the vodka with a nod of her head.

‘Thanks, but I don't drink,' he said quietly.

‘Would you prefer wine?' she asked, looking at him kindly.

‘I'm better off not drinking at all,' said Stepan, a little more loudly this time. ‘I've already drunk more than my fair share, as they say. I prefer to keep my mind, body and soul in balance these days.'

Igor shook his head in astonishment. He sounded just like the Baptist they knew, who lived three houses down.

Elena Andreevna fetched a large jar full of home-made cherry juice.

‘There you go,' she said, passing it to Stepan.

Stepan calmly poured some for himself and then turned to Igor. Igor held out his glass. Elena Andreevna decided to treat herself to a glass of home-made wine.

She wished them an enjoyable meal and began eating, with an occasional surreptitious glance at the men to check that they were indeed enjoying the food.

‘Will you be gone for long?' she asked, after a pause.

‘A couple of days,' Igor shrugged. ‘We'll call you.'

Her gaze came to rest on Stepan, who suddenly seemed uncomfortable. He ran his hand awkwardly over his freshly shaven cheeks.

‘I'll make up for it when I get back,' he said. ‘I mean, if I end up staying a bit longer.'

‘Don't be silly!' Elena Andreeva waved her hand. ‘I didn't mean that. I just get a bit bored here on my own.'

After lunch the following day, Stepan and Igor took the minibus taxi to Kiev. The gardener's half-empty rucksack lay at his feet. Igor's bag contained a sweater and a parcel of food that Elena Andreevna had prepared for the journey. Radio Chanson was blaring out of the minibus speakers.

Igor glanced at Stepan, who was sitting next to the window.

‘Where are we going to stay?' he asked.

The gardener flinched.

‘We'll find somewhere . . . It won't be a problem finding a bed for the night. Let's just concentrate on getting there, for the time being.'

After drinking a cup of tea in the glass-fronted cafe at the station, they sat for about two hours on a hard bench in the waiting room. Finally there was an announcement to say they could board their train. Stepan threw his rucksack over his shoulder and glanced back at Igor.

They were the first ones in their compartment.

I hope we'll have it to ourselves, thought Igor, shoving his bag under the little table by the window.

Sadly, Igor's hopes were dashed just a few minutes later when two business travellers stumbled into their compartment, both of them around forty years old. They asked Igor to stand up and stowed two identical suitcases into the space beneath the bottom bunk. They also had a large carrier bag full of clinking bottles, which they left standing in the middle of the floor.

‘Are you guys going all the way to Nikolaev?' one of them asked.

Stepan nodded.

‘In that case we'll have no problem passing the time,' promised the business traveller. ‘We've got enough beer to go round, and if it runs out we can get hold of something stronger from the carriage attendant. We're on first-name terms!'

Igor noticed Stepan frown and turn to look out of the window. Meanwhile, the business travellers wasted no time emptying the bag of its contents: five bottles of beer, half a litre of Nemirov vodka, a whole salami, a loaf of bread and a small plastic bag full of salted cucumbers. The compartment immediately began to smell like a drinking den.