Apples &
Ripov/2
by Albert Russo
There was a constant flow
of people in and out of the lobby so that Ripov's
presence there remained unnoticed (or, I should
say, perfectly warranted). Finally, he grabbed a
Golden Delicious, rolled it against his trousers
and let it slip into the pocket of his jacket,
covering the bulge by drumming his fingers over
it in an impatient, business-like fashion.
Between a call and an announcement, the
receptionist addressed Ripov. “Whom did you
wish to see, sir?” Instead of answering, the
would-be client stretched out his arm and
pensively glanced at his watch, signifying that
he was late, thereafter gesturing that he'd come
back some other time. As he swung the door behind
him, Ripov heard the receptionist's last words:
“Your name. sir?”
Two days later at about the
same hour, Ripov was sitting in the I.O.U. lobby,
this time next to the basket of Granny Smiths.
After a moment's hesitation, he selected an apple,
felt its firmness, then munched at it as
naturally as he could, feigning not to mind the
bustle around him. When his turn came to be
announced (by then he'd eaten half of his Granny
Smith) Ripov stood up, gallantly let a lady
client go to the desk before him and, nodding his
head towards the lobby's futuristic clock, left
the premises.
This went on for a couple
of weeks. And though by now the receptionist
recognized Ripov, smiling at him upon his arrival,
she was obviously too busy to run after the now
familiar stranger as the latter inevitably
pointed at his watch. Or thus thought Ripov.
Until it happened that, suddenly, and though by
magic, the lobby emptied itself, leaving him
alone with the receptionist. The sweet taste of
the Golden Delicious soured in his palate.
With a sigh of relief the
girl said, “At long last! How many months
has it been now? I was afraid you'd lose patience.
You wouldn't imagine the nights I spent thinking
you'd give up on me. The subtle pretext of having
to leave when it came to your turn. Oh, darling,
we don't even know each other's name.” Tears
of laughter filled the girl's eyes as she added:
“And the way you kept munching at those
silly apples!”
'Silly apples ... silly
apples...' The phrase bounced up and down Ripov's
throat like a puppet's hiccough as he scampered
away through the streets of his neighborhood.
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