The Gardener from Ochakov (11 page)

‘Comrade lieutenant, can you change fifty roubles for me?' A woman turned towards him holding a banknote between her chubby fingers. She had a plump face and curly chestnut hair pulled into a chignon.

‘I'm afraid not,' said Igor, increasing his pace.

He noticed that he was in the vegetable section. Someone bumped into him accidentally and apologised. Igor began to feel claustrophobic. Spotting a passageway between the stalls, he quickly moved into the adjacent trading aisle. This aisle was less crowded, and the sellers seemed to have a calmer approach to business. They stood patiently at their stalls, waiting for customers to come to them rather than calling out.

Igor approached an old woman selling bunches of succulent, freshly washed carrots. ‘Where's the fish section?' he asked.

‘That way,' she gestured further down the row, to the right. ‘Before milk and cheese.'

The air began to smell of fish, both pickled and fresh. The smells mingled together, and there seemed to be a salty sea breeze in the air.

Igor heard a woman's voice up ahead, loud and melodic. ‘Sardines and herring, from Astrakhan and the Don River! Take a look, they're delicious!'

It's her! he thought. He almost broke into a run but stopped himself just in time.

Then there was the fish section, right in front of him. The peaked roofs of the stalls were decorated with clusters of dried gobies and sea roaches. The sun shone in and the flies buzzed about deliriously, luxuriating in the fish-saturated air. The woman whose voice continued to resound throughout the entire section stood behind four open barrels of salted herrings. She was using a little bundle of birch twigs to swat away the flies, but she was doing it almost gracefully, without even looking at the fish. She only had eyes for potential customers as she repeated her mantra, the same words over and over again: ‘Sardines and herring, from Astrakhan and the Don River! Take a look, they're delicious!'

‘Three herring.' An old woman had stopped in front of her, holding a string bag. The string bag already contained several beetroot, a head of cabbage and a jar of horseradish.

The seller took a brief respite from her sales pitch, but this made no difference to the general noise levels.

Suddenly Igor heard another voice, a little further on. ‘Black Sea flounder! Black Sea flounder!' This voice was stronger and more melodic than the first.

Igor stood on tiptoes, peering in the direction of the voice. He saw a queue of about five people ahead of him. As he approached the head of the queue, Igor spotted the striking red-haired young woman behind the stall. She was tall, maybe even taller than Igor himself. He wondered if she were wearing heels.

‘Black Sea flounder! Caught this morning! You won't find fresher unless you catch them yourself!' she continued, her penetrating gaze sweeping over the passing shoppers. ‘Hey, Brown-Eyes! Take a look! Your wife will thank you for it!'

Brown-Eyes was a bald man of about fifty, wearing glasses and a suit and tie and holding a bulging brown briefcase. He stopped and approached the stall obediently, like a tame rabbit.

‘How much?' he asked.

‘For you, I'll sell them at a loss,' said the seller. ‘Five for five roubles!'

‘But that's more expensive than herring!' Brown-Eyes was disconcerted but made no move to walk away.

‘The market's awash with herring! Barrels of them, everywhere . . . But only a handful of fresh flounder! You should try catching them – it's not easy!'

‘All right, I'll take five,' said the man, nodding his assent.

The seller took a newspaper from under the counter and spread it open. She tossed a flounder into the air, catching it deftly in her other hand.

‘See how beautiful they are!' she said.

She wrapped five fish up in the newspaper and took the money. Brown-Eyes regarded the newspaper parcel with suspicion.

‘It's bound to leak,' he said. ‘And my accounts are in there.'

The seller smiled. She produced another newspaper and wrapped it tightly around the parcel of fish, before holding it out to her customer again.

‘It won't leak now!'

The man opened his briefcase and hesitated, considering the matter, then clicked it shut and walked away, holding the newspaper parcel in his other hand.

Igor moved closer to the stall and pretended to be interested in the flounder as well.

‘Go on, treat yourself,' the seller said to him. ‘You won't regret it! Your wife will thank you!'

‘I'm not married,' replied Igor, looking boldly into the young woman's pretty freckled face. Now, standing in front of her, he had the impression that they were the same height.

‘In that case your mother will thank you,' she retorted cheerfully. ‘Women like fish more than men do!'

‘How much?'

‘To an officer of the law, five for ten roubles!' A mischievous smile lit up the seller's face.

‘Why so expensive?' he asked, returning her smile.

‘You're a figure of authority,' she replied, spreading her hands. ‘A pillar of the community. Is ten roubles really too much to ask?'

‘Fine,' said Igor, feeling his latent machismo awaken. He took out one of the bundles of hundred-rouble notes in such a way that his affluence was visible to her and her alone. He peeled a note from the bundle and handed it over. The smile fell from the seller's face, but this didn't detract from her beauty. She looked anxiously at the note.

‘Haven't you got anything smaller?' she asked.

‘Figures of authority don't carry small change,' joked Igor, still looking directly into her green eyes.

‘I'm going to tell my husband he ought to join the police force,' she declared, the smile returning to her face. ‘You get paid well, and you get a gun!' She glanced at the holster.

‘You get a gun,' nodded Igor. ‘But not everyone gets paid well!'

‘Only the bosses?' The seller's voice was playful, teasing. She seemed to have forgotten all about the fish.

‘What's your name? It wouldn't by any chance be Valya, would it?'

‘Why “by any chance”? Cats are named by chance, not people! So, five Black Sea flounder, was it?' she asked briskly. Her face had lost its light-hearted look.

Igor nodded. The seller wrapped the fish in newspaper and took the note from Igor's hand.

‘I'll be right back,' she said.

Igor watched her walk to a neighbouring stall. He saw her friends change the money for her and listened to her laughter. When she came back she put some coins and a pile of notes into Igor's hand, placing two ten-rouble notes on top.

‘If you enjoy them, come back for more!' she said. Her eyes were already over Igor's shoulder, looking for new customers.

‘Would you like to go for a coffee?' Igor asked cautiously. Her green eyes immediately looked back at him, wide with surprise.

‘Go where? What do you mean, for a coffee?'

‘Or tea, or cocoa,' stammered Igor, growing flustered. He could feel his cheeks burning in the heat radiating from her eyes. ‘Or champagne?'

‘Oh!' she exclaimed, temporarily nonplussed. ‘Why?'

Igor spread his hands helplessly.

‘So we can talk . . . Get to know one another . . .'

‘Is this part of your job?' she asked warily.

Igor shook his head. ‘No! I'm . . . new here, in Ochakov . . . I don't know anyone.'

‘Where do you usually work?'

‘In Kiev, mainly. I'm here on business.'

‘Well, people don't go for coffee round here,' she smiled. ‘Or cocoa. And as for champagne – you have to go to a restaurant for that, and I don't go to restaurants.'

‘All right then. Never mind,' replied Igor, desperately wishing that the ground would open up and swallow him. ‘Goodbye . . . and thanks for the fish!'

‘I'll pass your thanks on to my husband. Come again!'

Igor made for the exit, feeling a surge of awkward emotion. He felt as though he'd behaved inappropriately. Was it the feisty redhead who had made him feel so unsettled? He walked quickly and restlessly, full of pent-up energy, as though he were trying to get away as fast as he could without breaking into a run, but he let his feet lead him back to the street where Vanya Samokhin lived. Igor recognised certain familiar landmarks on the way – a particular house, a dark blue fence, the ‘Fashion Studio No. 2' sign affixed to the cracked plaster of an imposing building that extended right out onto the pavement, while the other buildings stood modestly back from the street, behind fences and front gardens where traces of green still remained.

When he spotted Igor lingering by the gate, Vanya went out onto the front porch and beckoned him inside.

‘I thought you'd get lost,' he said, closing the front door behind Igor. ‘What have you got there?' he asked, nodding at the newspaper parcel.

‘I bought some fish,' said Igor. ‘Can I put it in the fridge?'

‘We don't have a fridge,' grinned the lad. ‘This isn't a meat-processing factory! I can take it down to the cellar, if you like?'

‘No, don't worry about it,' Igor replied. He looked pensively at Vanya. ‘Is your mother here?'

‘Why would she be here? She's still at the market.'

‘In that case, I'm going to lie down for a bit,' said Igor. ‘But first, we need to have a little chat. Can you put the kettle on?'

‘Wouldn't you prefer wine?'

‘I thought you had to go to work this afternoon.'

‘The whole factory smells of wine. They never smell it on us!'

‘All right then, why not?' agreed Igor. ‘After all, you usually drink it before you go to bed, don't you?'

They sat down together in the little kitchen. Igor took a hundred-rouble note from the bundle in his right-hand pocket. He laid it on the table between them. Glancing at Lenin's portrait on the banknote, Vanya immediately tensed up.

‘Do you have a camera?' asked Igor.

‘Why would I have a camera?' Vanya shrugged. ‘I'm not a photographer.'

‘How much do cameras cost in Ochakov?'

‘Same as where you're from, I expect.' Vanya scratched his forehead with the fingers of his right hand. ‘They're not cheap. Maybe five hundred, maybe a thousand . . . I don't know.'

‘Do you know how to use one?'

‘I can learn, if you want me to. It's not complicated, is it? You just have to focus, then press a button. My friend showed me once.'

Igor took ten more notes from the bundle in his pocket and placed them on the table.

‘There, use that to buy a camera and a film.'

‘And then what?'

‘Then, when you've got some free time, find yourself somewhere to hide near Chagin's house and photograph all the people who come and go. I'll pay you for every photograph. Understood?'

‘How much?'

‘If the person's face is visible, then . . . twenty roubles.' Igor paused, checking Vanya's reaction to his proposal. Vanya was nodding gravely, indicating his acceptance of the terms. ‘And if not, then nothing. I need faces.'

‘I could take a picture of you and Red Valya, if you like?'

‘Good idea,' agreed Igor. ‘Get one of her husband too!'

‘Why do you want one of him? That would just be a waste of film.' Vanya gave a condescending smirk.

‘What do you mean?'

‘Well, he's just a fisherman. Belarussian Petka calls him an “old rag”. He's not a real man. He's always ill, never drinks—'

‘I see,' Igor interrupted his garrulous host. ‘Well, to your good health!' He raised his glass, which Vanya had filled generously with wine.

They drank.

Igor stood up. ‘Right, I'm going to bed,' he announced.

‘You won't be here when I get back, will you?'

‘No, I'll be gone by then,' Igor confirmed. ‘But I'll be back in a couple of days. What's your mother's name? Just in case?'

‘Aleksandra Marinovna.'

Igor left the kitchen and went into living room, where he put the parcel of fish on the floor next to the bed and began to undress. He folded the uniform neatly and put it on the stool, placed the belt with the holster and the peaked cap on top of it, and lay down under the quilted blanket. He still had the trace of a sour taste in his mouth from the local wine. He saw an image of Red Valya, her green eyes ablaze. Her voice rang in his ears. Unable to find a way out, the warmth of Igor's body began to accumulate under the heavy blanket. Once his energies were restored he would emerge like a butterfly, full of life, ready to make the most of the new day.

‘
WHY ARE YOU
still in bed?' cried Elena Andreevna, standing over her son. ‘You'll suffocate in your sleep one of these days!' She pulled back the blanket that was covering Igor's head. ‘It's nearly half past twelve!'

Igor raised his head and looked at his mother.

‘What's the matter with you?' she asked in surprise. ‘Were you drinking yesterday?'

He could feel the sour taste of the Ochakov wine in his mouth and there was a rocking, swaying sensation inside his head, which was preventing him from thinking clearly. Igor lay back down on the pillow. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed the newspaper parcel on the floor by his bed.

‘Take that,' he mumbled, pointing at the parcel. ‘We can have it for lunch.'

‘I'm cooking buckwheat for lunch,' said Elena Andreevna, but she picked up the parcel and sniffed it.

‘Why didn't you put it in the fridge? It's fish, isn't it?'

Igor nodded. ‘I was too tired,' he admitted in a slightly hoarse voice.

‘All right, you stay in bed,' his mother said graciously. ‘I'll call you when it's ready. What's that doing there?' Elena Andreevna's eyes had come to rest on the peaked cap and the neatly folded police uniform. ‘Have you got a job as a security guard?'