The Gardener from Ochakov Read Free Page B

back.
    Igor picked up the mug again and shut himself inside the shed. His eyes came to rest on the gardener’s rucksack. The only source of natural light in the shed was a small window to the right of the door, and the strange, unnatural gloom created a rather mysterious atmosphere. Of course, there was nothing to stop Igor flicking the switch and revelling in the brightness of the 100W light bulb that hung from the ceiling. He could have brought the reading lamp over too, as the shed had been fully adapted for the use of power tools and boasted three electrical sockets. The tools themselves lay on the shelves and in two wooden boxes.
    But Igor preferred the mysterious atmosphere, perhaps because Stepan himself had disappeared so mysteriously after reading what had been tattooed on his shoulder . . . Or perhaps because, in spite of the gardener’s disappearance, part of the mystery was still here, waiting to be discovered. But where? Could it be in the rucksack?
    Igor had been brought up to respect other people’s property, whether it was fixed or movable or even jumped and barked, like their neighbour’s dog Barsik. But he was in the grip of an urgent, insistent curiosity, which would not allow him to take his eyes off the half-empty canvas rucksack. Moreover the rucksack had been left open, its buckles undone.
    Eventually Igor lifted the flap and cautiously looked inside, but he couldn’t see anything at all. He switched the light on and looked into the rucksack again. At the bottom of the rucksack lay a box with a picture of an electric razor on it, along with various items of clothing, some socks and a pair of canvas shoes.
    Igor paused for a moment to listen to the outside world, then took the cardboard box out of the rucksack and carefully opened it. It did actually contain an old-fashioned razor, complete with instructions and a spare set of rotating blades. Igor turned the razor over in his hands. It seemed odd that Stepan should choose to use such an antique. Then again, Stepan himself was something of an antique, at least in comparison to Igor. Not in any way rare or valuable, but still a relic of the twentieth century. People like him were always hoarders, hanging on to things that were familiar from their childhood.
    As he went to put the razor back, Igor noticed something sticking out of the instruction booklet in the bottom of the box. He lifted the instructions up with one finger and took out an envelope, which was also from the previous century. The postmark was clearly visible: 19.12.99.
    Suddenly he heard a noise outside in the yard. Panicking at the thought of being caught in the act, Igor thrust the box containing the razor back into the rucksack. Only then did he realise that he was still holding the letter. He hurriedly stuffed it into his trouser pocket, switched the light off and left the shed.
    But Igor had no need to worry as Stepan was nowhere to be seen. Igor heard the noise again and realised that it was coming from the yard next door, where their neighbour was attacking an old cherry tree with a chainsaw. He was evidently stocking up on firewood ahead of the winter – for the sauna, not the house. His house, like the one Igor and his mother lived in, was heated by a gas boiler.
    Holding the chainsaw away from the trunk of the tree, which was already lying on the ground, the neighbour called out to Igor, ‘How’s it going?’
    â€˜Not bad,’ answered Igor, his voice unusually loud. ‘Everything’s fine!’
    â€˜For now, maybe, but it’s going to start getting colder next week.’ After sharing this piece of information, the neighbour turned his attention back to the job at hand. The chainsaw resumed its high-pitched whining. Igor nodded and hurried into the house.
    â€˜How’s Stepan? He’s not too cold out there, is he?’ asked Elena Andreevna.
    â€˜He’s not there. I don’t know where he is, but I think he’s