The Gardener from Ochakov by Andrey Kurkov Page B

are already on their way to work,’ she said, glancing pointedly out of the window.
    Igor sighed. Now she’s going to start on about me getting a job.
    â€˜We manage all right, don’t we?’ asked Igor, getting out of bed.
    â€˜What if we didn’t have my pension?’ His mother’s voice sounded louder than usual.
    â€˜What difference does your pension make? It’s only one thousand five hundred hryvnas! I get the equivalent of two hundred dollars from the bank every month in interest. ‘Isn’t that enough?’
    â€˜But you’re not earning it, are you? You’re a parasite,’ his mother continued, lowering her voice. She was worried that any disagreement about the importance of work would lead, as it usually did, to a full-blown argument and two days of sulking. ‘You’d have been arrested for it in Soviet times!’
    â€˜It’s no wonder the Soviet Union collapsed then, is it?’ countered Igor, although his tone of voice had also changed. ‘Seriously, it’s not like we’re struggling financially, is it? If something interesting comes up, of course I’ll apply for it.’
    It was true – after they’d sold their apartment in Kiev and bought the house in Irpen, they’d put the rest of the money into a savings account and were now living off the interest. Igor went to the bank once a month to withdraw it. He would bring it home and put it on the kitchen table; then he would take half for himself, leaving the rest for his mother. He’d already grown so accustomed to this way of life that he’d come to think of the trips to the bank in Kiev as his job.
    Elena Andreevna soon calmed down. She ladled hot buckwheat into a bowl for her son, placing a knob of butter on top. The butter immediately began to melt, seeping down through the grains. Igor picked up a large spoon and ate his buckwheat slowly, looking out of the window.
    â€˜I’ll ask around,’ he promised suddenly, glancing apologetically at his mother. ‘Maybe something’ll turn up here in Irpen . . . I’m bored too, you know, just sitting around all day.’
    Elena Andreevna nodded.
    â€˜Prices keep going up,’ she said. ‘Cheese is already sixty hryvnas a kilo, for example . . . But they never increase my pension, and our interest rate hasn’t gone up either.’
    Igor had no desire to prolong this depressing conversation. After finishing his buckwheat he poured himself a mug of tea and started thinking about what sort of job he could get, but his thoughts soon turned to Stepan – or, rather, to his absence. He thought about the antique suitcase containing the police uniform and the Soviet roubles. He thought about the gun. Stepan’s ‘generous’ gifts. To be fair, some tourist would pay good money for a vintage Soviet uniform at the flea market in Kiev. Maybe he should take it into town and try his luck.
    Igor sighed and went into his bedroom. He opened the suitcase, took the uniform out and checked the pockets. In one of them he discovered an ID pass belonging to a certain Lieutenant I.I. Zotov.
    â€˜Maybe his name was Igor too.’ Igor smiled, looking at the small black-and-white photo. The young man in the photo was no more than twenty-five years old.
    Igor picked up the two bundles of Soviet hundred-rouble notes. They felt heavy. What did he really know about the era when this money, which was no longer of any practical use, had circulated around a country that no longer existed? Almost nothing, despite the fact that he’d been born in that era himself – during the last Soviet five-year plan, as his mother liked to say.
    Igor didn’t understand what the big deal was about five-year plans. What was the point of them? He pulled a face. School had been a ten-year plan, one he’d had to endure personally! But why were five years significant? He shrugged and threw the useless currency