The Gardener from Ochakov (16 page)

‘I was worried you weren't going to come,' admitted Igor, sitting down and casually resting one foot on the opposite knee.

‘Did you arrest anyone today?' Valya asked playfully.

Igor shook his head. ‘I don't like arresting people,' he said, adopting the same tone. ‘I wouldn't mind arresting you, though!'

‘You cheeky devil!' She smiled again. ‘And where would you take me once you'd arrested me?'

Igor shrugged. ‘Not to prison, obviously!'

‘Well, I suppose I ought to be grateful for that! Have you been here long, in Ochakov?'

‘No, it's just a short visit . . . I'm here on business.'

‘Ah, that explains it! Business travellers are always bold when they're away from home. If you were from Ochakov, you would have thought not just twice but a hundred times before inviting me anywhere!'

‘Why, are the police officers in Ochakov afraid of you?'

‘Not me,' said Valya, adjusting her scarf and tucking a lock of red hair back under it. ‘My reputation! But really, I'm no different from any other woman.'

‘Come on, let's go for a walk,' suggested Igor. ‘You can show me the town. I don't even know my way round yet.'

‘So get the local police officers to show you!' Valya got up from the bench and looked around. ‘Maybe we can walk over to the trees, there aren't too many people over there.'

‘Let's do that,' agreed Igor.

They wandered companionably through the park then along a narrow street, past squat single-storey buildings where the windows were already glowing with light. It wasn't only the windows that had been set ablaze by the evening but the street lamps too, which burned brightly at every corner. Their light-hearted conversation about nothing in particular was relaxed and unhurried, as though it had fallen into step with their slow-paced stroll. Igor didn't realise that they'd left the last city street behind until allotments began to appear along the sides of the road. Then several trees emerged from the twilight and the wind began to rustle their leaves. Igor glanced up. A scattering of stars had already pierced the sky and were shining down through the tiny holes they had made. Igor found Valya's hand and took it gently in his own, as though he feared she might resist. But she didn't. They continued on hand in hand, without looking at one another, as though their shared enjoyment of this evening walk was all either of them needed.

Half an hour later Igor heard the sound of the sea. Waves were rolling and breaking on the unseen shore. Valya's hand was very warm. Igor gave it a little squeeze and immediately felt Valya squeeze his hand, hard, in response.

‘Be careful here,' warned Valya, leading him to the right.

They went down a narrow gully. They were walking on sand, which gave way beneath their feet.

When they reached the shore, Igor looked back and saw a cliff hanging over the narrow strip of beach. Valya sat down on the sand. Igor sat down next to her. He put his arm around her shoulders, and she leaned in towards him.

‘It's nice sitting here with you like this,' she said. ‘That uniform suits you. So does the gun!'

‘May I kiss you?' asked Igor, turning to face her.

‘No,' said Valya. ‘It would be inappropriate. We're still on formal terms.'

‘But you keep switching between formal and informal! Shall we just decide to address each other informally?' he suggested.

‘Well, we would need to toast each other to seal our friendship, and I bet you haven't brought anything to drink!'

‘No, I haven't,' agreed Igor, disappointed.

Valya put her hand on his shoulder in a gesture of consolation.

‘You're all so indecisive now, after the war,' she said. ‘All the brave ones must have died.' She smiled in mock sympathy.

‘I'm usually decisive,' said Igor, who was immediately embarrassed by the timidity in his own voice.

‘You mean, when you're catching bandits?' asked Valya, suddenly serious.

Igor nodded.

‘Are there that many of them?'

‘Who?'

‘Bandits,' said Valya, looking straight into his eyes.

Igor thought about Fima and remembered what Vanya had told him about his relationship with Valya. He shrugged. He couldn't quite see the two of them together.

‘There'll be more in about fifty years' time,' he said after a pause.

‘Fifty years?' Valya's eyes widened. ‘But the newspapers say that they'll all be gone in twenty years. They're going to train them as teachers and engineers, so that they can serve the country.'

‘You shouldn't believe everything you read in the newspapers,' Igor began but stopped short, realising that he was in danger of saying too much. ‘I mean, you should. Of course you should believe the newspapers. But you need to understand things for yourself.'

‘I prefer books. Newspapers are full of boring facts, whereas books contain facts
and
romance. I like Vadim Sobko.'

‘Who?'

‘Haven't you heard of him? He's famous all over the world. He was awarded two Stalin Prizes before Stalin even died!'

‘I've never read anything of his,' admitted Igor.

‘What a shame I've already taken it back to the library . . . You ought to go and get it out. Otherwise you'll be like that police officer in the joke.'

‘Which joke?' asked Igor, with mock indignation.

‘Sorry! The one where two police officers are deciding what to give the third for his birthday. One of them says, “Let's buy him a book!” And the other says, “No, he's already got one!”'

‘I've got more than one book at home,' said Igor, smiling.

Valya's eyes and lips were so close, so alluring and seductively aloof. Igor took her hand and pulled it towards him. He tried to kiss it but immediately felt her move his face firmly aside.

‘Don't,' said Valya, her voice soft and apologetic. ‘I'm sick. You might catch it too.'

‘What do you mean? What is it?'

‘I don't know what it's called. It's a disease that humans can catch from fish. Sometimes it makes me cough, leaving a bad taste in my mouth, and sometimes it makes my eyes water . . . It also means I can't have children.' These last words burst from Valya in a rush of emotion, as though she were on the point of tears.

She managed to compose herself and was silent for a few minutes. Then she looked up at the sky. The stars were shining down on them. In the distance a half-moon was floating on the surface of the sea, and the crest of a small wave could be glimpsed fleetingly in its light.

‘But,' began Igor, cautiously breaking the silence, ‘can't it be cured?'

‘Probably. The doctor says he'll cure me if I leave my husband for him. Can you believe that?'

‘You should report him!' Igor said indignantly.

‘What's the point?' Valya's eyes and lips were very close again, but her eyes looked so sad that it didn't even occur to Igor to try and kiss her.

‘What's the doctor's name?' asked Igor, feeling like a real police officer.

‘Don't worry about it,' said Valya, waving her hand dismissively. ‘Maybe he's just pretending that he knows how to cure me.'

It was after midnight by the time Igor returned to Vanya's house. The light was on in the kitchen and his young host was sitting at the table, reading the newspaper. When he heard footsteps on the porch he put the newspaper down and stood up.

The front door was open. Igor let himself in, went through to the kitchen and nodded at Vanya. They sat down at the table together.

‘Would you like some wine?' asked Vanya. ‘I'm not having any. I've already had two glasses.'

‘Tell me,' Igor put his hand in the pocket of his breeches and took out a hundred-rouble note, ‘is there a clinic or a hospital round here?'

‘A hospital.'

‘I want you to find the doctor who saw Valya. Give him this and get him to tell you the history of her disease, or at least the diagnosis. All right?'

Vanya shook his head.

‘You will find the doctor who treated Red Valya and find out what she's got! All right? Get him to write it down.'

This time Vanya understood what was being asked of him. He nodded and slipped the hundred-rouble note into his jacket pocket.

‘I'm going to bed,' said Igor, getting up from the table. ‘I'm leaving early in the morning, but I'll be back in a couple of days. Goodnight.'

Igor didn't need to put the light on in the living room. He already knew exactly where everything was – the ancient sofa with the high wooden back, the chair and the little table. He got undressed, folded the police uniform and placed it on the stool, then lay under the warm quilted blanket and fell asleep.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING
Igor had a headache. His mother put her head round the door to his room, saw him lying in bed and retreated. A tractor rumbled past the house and the noise revived Igor, forcing him out of bed. His face was contorted in a painful grimace. The world was becoming increasingly full of unpleasant, irritating noises, and Igor's head was like a vacuum cleaner – sucking them in, tossing them about, mixing them together so that they merged into a continuous drone.

Igor reached out and felt the police uniform that lay on his stool, neatly folded as usual. The bundles of roubles were still there, and the gold watch, but there was something else too.

Igor took the breeches from underneath the tunic and gave them a shake. He found the film cartridge and took it out, staring at it with a look of utter perplexity.

‘You're back then, are you?' His mother's face had appeared at the door again. ‘Do you want anything to eat?'

Igor turned round to face his mother. She looked worried and upset.

‘You've started drinking too much,' she said. It was more of an observation than a reproach, but her voice was trembling.

‘No,' he protested, shaking his head. ‘Not that much . . .'

‘I can smell it on you.' His mother shook her head too. ‘Have you got a new group of friends?'

Igor thought about it but didn't answer.

‘I'm just popping out for an hour. I've got a few things to do,' she said. ‘If you want anything to eat, it's all in the fridge.'

‘Ma, where's Stepan?' Igor suddenly asked.

‘Stepan? He was in the yard earlier, sharpening the spades.'

‘I might go to Kiev today,' said Igor. He glanced at the wooden floor, which would soon need of a coat of paint. ‘I won't be long . . . I just need to get a film developed.'

‘I thought you had one of those digital cameras,' said his mother, surprised.

‘I bought an antique one that uses film,' he lied.

‘Why are you so interested in antiques all of a sudden? And what about that old uniform?' His mother nodded at the stool.

‘It's no big deal. Everyone's into retro parties and vintage these days.'

Elena Andreevna left her son's room. Igor placed the film cartridge on the stool and got dressed. He stood at the window for a few minutes, looking out at the grey autumn day, which was about to burst into rain. His headache had subsided.

I wish I lived alone, he thought suddenly. Then I wouldn't be constantly under surveillance.

Igor smiled. He'd just remembered the bundle of 200-hryvna notes that Stepan had given him: 20,000 hryvnas! That was more than he needed to keep himself in beer and coffee . . . but not nearly enough for a place of his own. What if he were to invest it, though? Igor stopped smiling and grew serious as he contemplated this idea. There's no point investing in someone else's business, he decided. I'd never get it back. But what do I know about starting my own business? Nothing.

Igor decided to take the commuter train to Kiev. Although the sky hung low under the weight of the storm clouds, it still wasn't actually raining. He used to do this journey more often, taking the commuter train to Kiev and then walking to Victory Square. His route took him across the other platforms via the pedestrian bridge and down into Starovokzalnaya Street, which had been turned into a kind of market for suburban commuters. As well as kiosks and shops there were all kinds of little workshops, where you could prolong the life of an old pair of worn-out shoes, get the batteries in your watch changed or even fix the lock on a suitcase. Igor could remember seeing a little photo-processing place here. To Igor's delight, it was still there and the door was open. However, after inspecting the film the boy behind the counter shook his head.

‘Can't do anything with that,' he said, handing the cartridge back to Igor. ‘It's an old Svema film. Black and white, too. You need to take it to a proper lab.'

‘What do you mean, a “proper lab”?' Igor asked in dismay.

‘Fuji or Kodak. Let me think where the nearest one is . . .' He paused. ‘You'll have to go to Khmelnitsky Street. Or Lviv Square, that would be a better bet. It's only five minutes by minibus from the circus. There are a couple of places past the House of Artists.'

Igor put the film cartridge in his jacket pocket, glanced up at the sky and started walking towards the circus.

The slick Fuji salon on Lviv Square was a far cry from the little shack on Starovokzalnaya Street. The man behind the counter wore a solemn expression and an expensive suit; a large printing and processing machine, which evidently originated from Japan or one of its neighbouring countries, was humming busily away behind him. Nevertheless, he couldn't help either.

‘A Svema, eh?' He seemed surprised. ‘I'm afraid I can't help you.' He looked back at the machine. ‘It's programmed to work in colour. If we were talking a hundred black-and-white films, then we might be able to come to some arrangement.'

‘Right,' said Igor, his voice a mixture of disappointment and despair. ‘So isn't there anywhere in Kiev I can get it developed?'