The Gardener from Ochakov (24 page)

‘Someone's up there,' Valya whispered.

Igor shook his head. Silence had descended again, but the feeling of unease remained. Igor buttoned up his tunic and fastened the belt and holster around his waist. He was about to take the bundle of roubles out of the cloth bag and put it back in his pocket but stopped himself just in time. The insides of his pockets were still wet. He sat down on the sand to put on his dry socks and boots then stood up, ready to leave. Valya stood nearby, fully dressed, already wearing her scarf and her white shoes and clutching her white bag.

When she saw that Igor was ready, she led him to the path and they scrambled awkwardly up the slippery crevice to the top of the cliff. The path ran along the cliff towards the bushes. When they reached the bushes Valya suddenly stopped, as though she were rooted to the ground.

‘Someone's there,' she whispered.

Igor looked around her and saw two figures silhouetted in a narrow gap between the bushes.

‘So, bitch, drinking champagne with coppers now, are you?' The voice was coarse. ‘Well, let's see if it's their lucky night . . . Go on, Sanka, launch your blade!'

One of the figures made a sudden sharp gesture with his hand and a knife whistled past with a dull, sinister gleam, barely missing Igor's face.

‘I'll shoot!' cried Igor, instantly embarrassed by the fear in his voice.

‘Good shot, are you?'

Igor took the gun out of the holster and looked at it. Suddenly he wasn't just scared, but petrified. He imagined the men hearing the gun misfire. What would they do to them then? No, he had to scare them without actually pulling the trigger.

Igor held the gun out in front of him, stepped around Valya and pretended to take aim.

‘Look, he's got his gun out!' hissed a second voice.

The silhouettes disappeared. They had stepped back into the bushes.

‘Hey, Valya,' called the first voice, ‘I'm going to drop by later, to see whether you're sharing your bed with a copper or a fisherman. We'll have a little chat then!'

Igor could sense Valya's fear.

‘One more word and I'll finish you off!' he exclaimed in a fit of rage, feeling his own fear ebb away.

‘Coppers don't talk like that,' hissed the second voice. ‘Did you hear, Fima?'

‘Yeah, I heard,' the first voice cut him off. ‘I think this calls for my special blade!'

Valya put her arms around Igor from behind. She was trembling, and he felt his fear creeping back. Igor thought he could see the two men again, and they seemed to be approaching. Quietly, heads bowed and shoulders hunched, they looked like they were getting ready to pounce.

‘Stop, you bastards!' cried Igor, but they just ignored him.

Igor held the gun out in front of him and lowered his head. His finger pressed the trigger, and a shot rang out. One of the men wheezed and fell to the ground. The other man froze for a second before jumping into the bushes, and the ensuing rustling and snapping of twigs, receding into the distance, told them that he'd decided not to hang around.

Valya crouched down and began sobbing. Igor stood over her, not knowing what do to next. His eyes involuntarily returned to the motionless figure on the path ahead.

He went up and leaned over the body to get a closer look. The man's face was covered in blood. The bullet had obviously hit him right between the eyes. He went back to Valya and touched her shoulder.

‘Come on, I'll take you home.'

‘They'll find me,' she whispered through her tears. ‘Oh, why did I go with you? I asked you not to wear your uniform!'

‘It's all right, don't worry.' Igor squatted down beside her and started stroking her wet hair and her shoulders. ‘Come on, let's go. We'll think of something. Do you know who it was that ran off?'

‘Fima,' she sighed. ‘Fima Chagin . . . He wanted me, but I said no . . . I told him that I love my husband . . . What now? What's going to happen now?'

‘Don't worry,' said Igor, more confidently. ‘I'll definitely think of something.'

He took her home, but she wouldn't let him past the gate. She'd stopped crying by the time they reached her house; only her eyes betrayed her fear. Igor put his arms round her.

‘I forgot to tell you something important,' she whispered into his ear.

‘What?' whispered Igor.

‘You left your gobies on the counter. I'll give you some next time, if I have any.'

He managed to kiss her cheek before she gently pushed him away and hurried into her yard.

LEFT ALONE BY
the gate, Igor looked around. He took in the unfamiliar street, the sudden stillness of the cool air, the silence and the dark sky that rose up from the barely discernible outlines of trees, roofs and telegraph poles. The house that Valya went into hadn't reacted in any way to her arrival, neither creaking as she opened the front door nor lighting any windows to welcome her home.

The insides of Igor's boots were wet with the water running out of his breeches. The only thing that wasn't wet was the cloth bag containing the Soviet roubles.

The water felt as out of place in his boots as Igor himself felt standing in an obscure backstreet in this town, which was becoming increasingly familiar to him. Everything that had happened had lowered Igor's body temperature by at least two degrees. He stood there, constrained by his wet clothing, by inertia, by a strange fear, which felt alternately incredibly real and ludicrously childish. A sharp knife had flown past his head – close enough for him to see the predatory gleam of steel. But in reality he hadn't even been born yet. The knife had flown past his head on an autumn evening in 1957, which meant that it couldn't have killed him. Or could it?

Igor ran his left hand over his tunic. It felt cold and wet. The water was definitely real, there was no doubt about that, otherwise he would be feeling a lot more comfortable. So the knife must have been real too.

Igor looked along the fence outside Valya's house. Noticing a small bench outside her neighbour's gate, he went over and sat down on it. He pulled his boots off and shook the water out of them, then put them back on again.

The town was fast asleep. Igor's thoughts became clearer and clearer, as though someone were typing them out inside his head in large capital letters. He remembered how Valya had crouched down in fear. He'd been frightened, but her fear had been different – as though she'd known exactly what to be afraid of and was afraid with all her might. At that point her fear had intensified his own. Fear was what had pulled the trigger of the gun, but it wasn't supposed to fire! If it hadn't fired, though, then . . . Igor couldn't bear to imagine what those two would have done with them. The fact remained that a shot had been fired, and one of the men – the one who'd thrown the knife – was still back there on the path.

He recalled Vanya Samokhin's comment about Fima Chagin having an affair with Valya. If there was something between them, that would certainly explain both her fear and Chagin's fury. It also meant that the fear and the fury would stay with them for a long time, until the fear killed the fury or the fury killed the fear . . . Either way, there would be no happy ending. That much was clear.

Igor sighed. He looked around again. Suddenly he got the feeling that Fima was hiding nearby, knife in hand. Waiting for Igor to get up and walk away, leaving Valya's house unprotected. This thought made him uneasy. Should he sit here all night, guarding Valya's house until the sun came up?

A soft rustle came from the fence on the other side of the road. Igor leaned forward, peering into the darkness. Two green cat's eyes stared back at him. A dog barked somewhere in the distance and the cat's eyes disappeared.

‘No, I can't protect her,' Igor whispered to himself. He looked back at Valya's house. ‘She's got a husband – it's his responsibility.'

Igor stood up, but he couldn't bring himself to leave so he sat down again.

I can't prevent or change anything here, he thought. I have nothing in common with this town and its people. They have their own lives, their own time, and I have mine.

This argument wasn't particularly convincing. Chagin had been very much alive in the memory of the inhabitants of Ochakov quite recently, when Igor and Stepan had come here and broken into his house. Time is a flexible concept. The present is woven from the recent past, after all, and as long as people remember the past it will remain alive, somewhere nearby, watching you and telling you what to do.

I have to stop Chagin, Igor resolved. His fear had retreated. I'll give him some money and explain that Valya and I . . .

His thoughts trailed off into a series of questions. What exactly would he explain to Chagin? Was anything going on between him and Valya? If so, what?

I have to stop Chagin! The same thought kept coming back to him, and this time it demanded action.

Igor stood up more decisively. He grabbed the cloth bag and touched the cold, dry handle of the gun in its holster. Then he started walking.

He didn't know the way, but either his feet or his boots did. They led him first to the market then to Kostya Khetagurov Street.

Igor stopped in the same place as before, on the side of the street opposite Fima's gate, so that he had a good view of the three steps up to the front porch.

There didn't appear to be any lights on in the house, but Igor took a few steps to the right and saw a glow coming from a little side window, so faint that it was barely visible from the street.

Igor checked again to make sure the holster was open. His fingers brushed the cold metal of the gun, and this calmed his nerves. Feeling bolder, he crossed the street and went through the gate, then hunched over and crept towards the right side of the house. He stopped beneath the little window and listened. Silence. He crouched down and pressed his back to the brick wall, holding his breath. The cold from the wall passed straight through his wet tunic.

What should he do now? Burst into the house waving his gun? Knock on the window? Igor's thoughts buzzed about like agitated wasps. No, he shouldn't burst in. He had to try and talk to him. Calmly, man to man.

The silence was starting to irritate Igor. He didn't know what time it was because he hadn't brought the gold watch with him. He didn't know when it would start getting light. He had no idea what he was going to do.

Then suddenly, like a lifeline, he heard the sound of footsteps and men's voices in the darkness. The footsteps drew nearer, then the gate banged shut.

‘We should tell his mother,' said a familiar dry, wheezing voice.

‘No need. She'll understand,' replied Fima's voice. ‘Are you coming in?'

‘No. Here, take the spade.'

There was the sound of metal striking the stone doorstep. The door creaked as it opened, and the gate banged again.

So, Chagin had gone into the house alone. Igor was pleased. It would be easier to talk one to one, without having to keep an eye out for anyone else.

From somewhere above his head, on the other side of the window, came the sound of a bottle being placed on a table, then the sound of liquid being poured.

Perfect timing, thought Igor.

Surprising himself with the vigour of his movements, he stood up straight, took the roubles out of the bag and stuffed them into the pockets of his breeches, leaving the empty bag on the ground below the window. Then he crept round the corner of the house, went up the steps and carefully pulled the front door towards him. He expected it to swing open, but when the door had opened a little way it stopped. Igor stuck his hand into the gap and felt a long metal hook. He lifted it out of its catch, opened the door and went inside, to be met by the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps. Igor turned and shut the door behind him. The light bulb hanging from the ceiling in the hall was switched on, and Igor was temporarily blinded. Then he saw Fima, who was standing just a few paces away, with a less than welcoming expression frozen on his face and an empty shot glass in his right hand. Powerful fumes were emanating from his mouth from the vodka he'd just drunk. His eyes came to rest on Igor's open holster and his expression suddenly brightened.

‘We need to talk,' said Igor.

‘About what?' asked Fima.

‘What?'

‘What do you want to talk about? Sanka, the man you killed?'

‘No.' Igor shook his head.

Fima's slow reactions gave Igor the chance to get his thoughts straight.

‘About Valya. Look, there's nothing going on between us . . . I'm just helping her out. I want you to leave her alone.'

‘You're
helping
her?' repeated Fima, as though he genuinely didn't understand the meaning of the word.

‘She's really sick. I got her some medicine.'

‘Did you indeed? A police officer with contacts in the pharmaceutical trade, eh?' Fima's eyes widened in mock surprise. He held his empty glass up in his right hand and looked around. His eyes fell on a chair in the corner. Taking a step towards it, he put his glass down on the worn brown seat.

‘I'm not a police officer,' said Igor, as convincingly as he could manage.

Fima looked Igor up and down with a drunken sneer. Their eyes met again.

‘If you're not a police officer, does that mean you can drink with a thief?' asked Fima. A strange, involuntary smile crept over his face.

‘Yes,' Igor nodded. ‘We can talk over a drink.'

Fima opened a door behind him.

‘After you!' he declared with a flourish.

Igor knew Fima was being facetious, but he managed to hide his anxiety and walk past his host apparently unperturbed.

Igor heard the sound of the metal hook behind him as the front door was locked from inside. Fima stumbled after him and Igor quickened his pace, stopping only when he reached the window in the living room. He turned and looked around him. A half-empty half-litre bottle of vodka stood on the oval table, along with a plate of salted cucumbers, an earthenware salt cellar and hunks of black bread on an open newspaper. There was an oak dresser against the opposite wall, with cut-glass panels in the wooden doors. Igor watched as Fima took out a couple of glasses. He placed one in front of Igor and the other in front of himself, then pulled up a chair and sat down across the table from his guest. He picked up the bottle and emptied it into his own glass.