The Gardener from Ochakov Read Free Page A

everything.’
    â€˜Such a thinker,’ Igor muttered scornfully, as he turned away. He went into the house. As he left the bag containing the loaf of bread in the kitchen, he glanced at the old set of scales that stood on the windowsill. One pan of the scales held the weights, which ranged from 20g to 2kg. In the other, elevated pan lay the electricity pay book, which was held down with a weight as if to stop it flying away. Not only did his mother use them to weigh out ingredients when she was cooking, even though she was probably more than capable of cutting 100g of butter or scooping out 200g of flour by instinct alone, but she also kept all her paperwork and important documents in the pans. The scales were like her office desk.
    Igor poured himself a glass of milk and went into the living room to watch television. There was a detective film on the New Channel. Under normal circumstances Igor would have sat happily and watched it to the end, but today nothing seemed to hold his attention. Nothing, that is, except the enigmatic printout. After sitting in front of the screen for about quarter of an hour, Igor put his shoes on again and went out into the yard. He walked over to the shed and glanced inside, but Stepan wasn’t there. He wasn’t in the garden either, or the vegetable patch.
    Igor went into the shed to see if the gardener’s things had disappeared. They hadn’t – his rucksack was hanging on a nail above the bed, and his clothes, folded as though they’d just been ironed, lay neatly next to the woodworking tools on the old wooden shelf unit.

3
    THAT NIGHT IGOR went back to the shed, hoping that Stepan would have returned. He still wasn’t there.
    Puzzled by the gardener’s disappearance, Igor went to bed. He lay there for a long time, closing his eyes and turning from side to side, but he just couldn’t get to sleep. Something – either excitement after his trip to Kiev, or some vague, niggling anxiety – was keeping his body alert. A couple of times he thought he heard footsteps in he yard. He got up and went to the door to investigate, only to be greeted by silence – the kind of silence that was full of nocturnal noises. Somewhere out there, an aeroplane was flying high up in the dark sky. Somewhere out there, a drunken tramp was bewailing his loneliness. Somewhere out there, a foreign car was racing through Irpen at top speed.
    To eliminate all distractions Igor shut the little top window, and eventually sleep overcame him.
    In the morning, his lack of sleep was further exacerbated by a mild but persistent headache. He’d always had headaches like this, ever since he was a child. He was used to the pain. Sometimes he barely even noticed it.
    â€˜Are you up yet?’ called his mother from the kitchen. ‘Come and have breakfast.’
    Igor ate a fried egg, drank a glass of milk and then made himself a mug of strong tea. While he was drinking it, he noticed the telephone bill in the raised pan of the scales, held down by a weight. With a smile, he took a second weight from the other pan and put it on top of the bill.
    â€˜Can you make Stepan a cup of tea too? And take him some bread and salami,’ said Elena Andreevna.
    Igor nodded automatically, then remembered the previous evening.
    Maybe he’s back already, he thought. If he is, then he’s bound to appreciate a mug of tea and a sandwich. Hopefully it’ll put him in the mood to talk.
    The Darnitsky bread was still perfectly fresh – Elena Andreevna always kept it sealed in a plastic carrier bag. Igor cut two thick slices, spread them thickly with butter and placed a slice of salami on each.
    The door to the shed was ajar. Igor couldn’t remember whether or not he’d shut it the night before. He knocked anyway. There was no answer.
    Leaving the mug of tea on the doorstep, Igor went inside. Everything was exactly as he’d left it. Stepan clearly hadn’t been