The Gardener from Ochakov (12 page)

‘No, I just wore it for a laugh.' Igor waved his hand dismissively. ‘Kolyan had a retro birthday party.'

This explanation seemed to satisfy Elena Andreevna's curiosity. She left the room, taking the parcel of fish with her.

As soon as he was alone again, Igor got out of bed. First he hid the police uniform in his wardrobe, then he put on a tracksuit and a pair of fur-lined leather slippers. They were soft and comfortable, and this pleasant sensation spread from the soles of his feet throughout his entire body; even his head started to feel better. Everything was back to normal. Apart from the taste in his mouth.

Igor spent a full five minutes cleaning his teeth. He brushed them with a hard toothbrush and thought about the tooth powder he'd used at Vanya Samokhin's house.

Should I tell Stepan about everything? wondered Igor, glancing at himself in the mirror above the sink as he listened to the flow of water. He decided Stepan would never believe him. Unless he could prove it . . .

His face broke into a smile. He felt rather pleased with himself.

‘Lunch is ready,' his mother called from the kitchen.

As soon as Elena Andreevna tasted the fried fish, her face softened.

‘Oh my goodness, that's incredible! Just a minute, I'll be right back,' she cried, jumping up from the table.

‘Where are you going?' asked Igor in surprise.

‘I'm just going next door to fetch Olga. It's so delicious! Just like it used to taste when I was a little girl!' Muttering to herself, she hurried out into the hallway. Igor shrugged as he heard the front door slam. He put some butter on his buckwheat, then wrapped a crispy piece of fish skin around his fork and put it into his mouth.

She's right, he thought. It is pretty good. But it's hardly worth running off like that!

His mother returned with their neighbour Olga about three minutes later and immediately started bustling about, placing another plate and fork on the table. She spooned some buckwheat onto Olga's plate and placed a fried flounder next to it.

Olga tried the fish first, and her face froze in an expression of deep concentration. Or rather, most of her face froze. Her lips were moving slowly, indicating the focus of her attention. Olga swallowed her mouthful and nodded.

‘Where did you buy this fish? At the market?' she asked. ‘Was it still alive?'

‘No, but it was freshly caught,' explained Igor.

‘How can it have been freshly caught? It's a sea fish, it would need to be transported.' Olga beamed at him. ‘They must have seen you coming! It's obviously been frozen.'

‘What about the flavour?' asked Elena Andreevna, mildly disgruntled. ‘What do you think of the flavour?

Olga shrugged. ‘They've probably added something to it. They put all sorts in food these days. Chemicals, MSG . . . They can make it taste like something else altogether!'

Elena Andreevna sighed heavily and put her fork down on the table. Igor glared at their neighbour.

‘Please forgive Mama for bothering you. I'm sure you were busy before she came round and interrupted you, and for something so trivial too . . . Why don't you go back to what you were doing?'

‘Don't worry about it. I'm here now, aren't I?' Olga waved Igor's concerns away, oblivious to the sarcasm in his voice. Unable to hide her enthusiasm, she turned her attention back to the food.

Igor finished his fish and helped himself to another from the frying pan in the centre of the kitchen table.

His mother picked up her fork, but she seemed to have lost her appetite.

Igor glanced at their neighbour. He noticed that she was eyeing the last remaining flounder. Igor stood up and took the frying pan from the table, covered it with a lid and placed it on the hob.

As Igor sat down, he and Olga looked at one another.

‘Sorry,' he shrugged. ‘Mama thought you'd like it.'

‘But I do!' said Olga, pursing her lips. ‘I love plaice!'

‘It's not plaice, it's Black Sea flounder,' Igor corrected her irritably.

Olga looked down at the unfinished buckwheat on her plate.

‘How are things working out with the gardener?' She asked suddenly, hoping to steer the conversation in a more favourable direction by alluding to her own part in the arrangement.

‘He disappeared a couple of days ago and we haven't seen him since,' Igor replied on his mother's behalf. ‘He's probably found a drinking buddy somewhere.'

‘But he doesn't drink!' exclaimed Olga.

‘He's been a great help,' said Elena Andreevna, turning to her friend. ‘Thank you for introducing him to us.'

Olga smiled, mollified, and on that positive note she decided that it was time for her to leave. Igor and his mother drank their tea together.

‘It's a shame you didn't buy more,' said Elena Andreevna.

Igor stood up. He took the lid off the frying pan, put the last fish onto a clean plate and placed it near his mother.

She smiled, put her cup of tea to one side and began eating again.

‘It wasn't too expensive, was it?' she asked.

Igor shook his head. ‘I'll buy more next time,' he promised.

In the afternoon, Elena Andreevna went round to Olga's house to make sure there were no hard feelings after their lunchtime disagreement over the fish.

Igor went out to the shed and contemplated the padlock on the door with irritation. He thought about breaking it, but he couldn't justify actually doing so. There wasn't anything in the shed that he specifically needed. Besides, the fact that Stepan had padlocked the door seemed to suggest that he was planning to come back at some point. The treasure – or at least part of it – must still be inside.

The sun made an unexpected appearance the following morning. A few birds that had not yet flown south for the winter started singing. As Igor's mother moved about the house, the wooden floor creaked beneath her feet. The morning was fresh and full of life. Igor got out of bed. Just at that moment, he heard a familiar cough from outside, although he couldn't be sure whether it came from the yard or from the street. He looked out of the window and saw Stepan walking towards the house. He was wearing a new dark green jacket, and a half-empty canvas rucksack hung from his shoulders. Stepan didn't notice Igor looking out of the window. Whistling a Russian folk song, Stepan went straight to the shed.

Igor got dressed and sat down at the kitchen table. He waited for his mother to make him tea and heat up some leftover buckwheat for breakfast.

‘It's a pity you didn't come to Olga's with me yesterday.' Elena Andreevna glanced quizzically at her son. ‘We had a lovely time. She'd baked a gooseberry pie, and it was delicious. She sent a piece for you too – it's in the fridge.'

‘Stepan's back,' said Igor, nodding at the window as though the gardener were standing right there, on the other side of the glass.

The news seemed to distract Elena Andreevna. She fell silent.

‘Why don't you warm something up for him? I'll take it out,' said Igor.

Armed with a plate of buckwheat, Igor approached the shed. He stood and listened outside the door for a moment, but he couldn't hear a sound. The shed seemed to be empty.

Igor knocked once and opened the door. The gardener was standing in front of the shelf unit, wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt and looking into a square mirror that was resting on the top shelf. He was holding his hand to his chin and the side of his face, as though he'd been contemplating whether or not to shave.

‘Good morning,' said Igor. He looked around, wondering where to put the plate.

‘Good morning to you,' nodded Stepan. ‘Though it might not have been,' he added darkly.

Igor suddenly noticed that the gardener's left hand was wrapped in a bandage.

‘You can leave it there,' Stepan said, nodding at the shelf unit. To Igor's great astonishment he proceeded to turn his rucksack upside down, emptying bundles of 200-hryvna notes all over the bed.

‘There,' he said with a sigh. ‘Now my life can begin again, with a clean slate. It's just a pity I'm not eighteen years old any more!'

He thought for a moment, then he picked up one of the bundles and held it out to Igor.

‘There you go. That's for your motorbike . . . For all your help.'

Igor weighed the bundle in his hands. ‘How much?' he asked expectantly.

‘Depends how you look at it. There might be more where that came from . . . It might include an advance payment,' smiled the gardener.

‘For what?'

‘Various things. I've got a daughter. She lives in Lviv. I want you to go and visit her, for a start. Take her a letter from me. See what her place is like, who she's living with. And tell her something good about me.'

Igor was delighted by Stepan's proposal, although he didn't show it. He thought about the two bundles of Soviet roubles in the pockets of the police uniform. Having a wad of cash in your pocket, does that make you rich? he wondered, stuffing the bundle of 200-hryvna notes into one of his tracksuit pockets.

‘When do you want me to go?' he asked, looking up at the gardener.

‘You might as well go today. There are plenty of trains to Lviv. Get an overnight train from Kiev, and another one back the following night. You'll be home the day after tomorrow.'

Back in the house Igor took his time counting the money Stepan had given him. Not because he was interested in the total amount, but because he was fascinated by the sheer number of notes. He'd never had so much money at one time before. The banknotes were crisp and new and seemed to whisper when Igor flicked through them with his fingertips. He enjoyed playing with the money so much that he decided to take out both bundles of Soviet roubles too. The Soviet hundred-rouble notes were bigger and more impressive than the Ukrainian 200-hryvna notes, but that seemed to make sense: the USSR had been much bigger than Ukraine. If they printed banknotes in proportion to the size of the country, then Igor would probably have been able to fit several bundles of Ukrainian money in the palm of his hand, not just one. This thought amused him. Comparing the two currencies again, Igor decided that the Soviet notes were more pleasant to touch and hold. The way they rustled in his hand felt somehow more impressive, more authentic.

Late that afternoon, before setting off for the station, Igor called Kolyan.

‘Hey, I'm getting the overnight train to Lviv. Why don't you come and see me off? I've got something to tell you. You'll never guess what it is.'

‘I can't,' answered his friend. ‘The bosses have asked me to investigate one of the clients, and it's going to take me until at least midnight to hack into his email account. He's applied for a big loan using dodgy documents. Let's meet up when you get back, though. A new club's just opened . . . we could check it out, if you like?'

‘OK,' Igor agreed reluctantly. ‘Why not? See you soon.'

AFTER AN ALMOST
sleepless night on the train, Igor splashed his face with water from the sink to wake himself up before stepping out onto the platform at Lviv station.

The station was a hive of human activity. Trunks, suitcases and rucksacks flashed past him. The square outside the station surprised him with its modest dimensions. A tram, far skinnier than those in Kiev, loomed into view then rang its bell and disappeared off down a straight track that clearly led to the centre of the town.

‘You looking for a taxi? Good price!' declared a sprightly old man with a thick regional accent.

Igor took Stepan's letter out of his jacket pocket and glanced at the address.

‘How much to Zelenaya Street?' he asked.

‘Forty hryvnas, if you can spare it!'

‘And if I can't?' grinned Igor.

‘In that case, thirty-five.'

The old Lada creaked and groaned for the duration of the journey. Every now and then Igor was thrown up into the air as the car lurched over the tram tracks that criss-crossed the cobbled streets. They left the beautiful old houses in the centre behind, and a winding road took them past a series of Khrushchev-era five-storey blocks. After that they passed a number of large industrial plots, with factory and warehouse fences stretching out into the distance on either side, before eventually reaching a district of neat, well-maintained private houses.

‘Number 271,' Igor said to the driver.

When they arrived, Igor's first impression was that the building didn't look particularly grand. It consisted of two houses joined together; three steps led up to a green wooden door on the left, and three steps led up to a dark blue door on the right.

Igor went up to the dark blue door. He couldn't see a doorbell, so he knocked three times. The door was opened by a young woman who was about thirty years old, wearing jeans and a dark blue sweater. Her hazel eyes looked at him enquiringly.

‘Are you Alyona Sadovnikova?' Igor asked cautiously.

‘Yes.'

‘I've got a letter for you. From your father.'

Alyona hesitated, a fleeting look of concern in her eyes.

‘Come in.'

She led Igor into a room that was furnished neatly and modestly. Indicating that he should sit on the sofa, she took the envelope from him and walked over to the window. She moved the curtain aside. Taking out a piece of paper that was covered with fine handwriting, she read it several times. Then the hand holding the letter dropped to her side and she sighed with relief.

‘I'd started to think something bad must have happened,' she said. ‘Does he want me to reply straight away?' Alyona looked pensively at her guest.

‘No. He didn't say anything. Just asked me to deliver it.'

‘Doesn't he trust the postal service?'

She left the room and returned a few minutes later, holding a piece of paper torn from an exercise book, which she had folded in half and then in half again.