Peaches, melons, walnuts

'Fruits are like women.' Mr Lancelote explained inaudibly. 'Peaches. You treat them too hard, they loose their essence. You avoid them and don’t taste them for too long, they wizen. You have to treat them gently and give them all the attention they need. Melons. Be careful with them. They seem to be hard and tough, but once you go a little bit too far, it’s all broken, it’s irreparable. You have to give them the attention they don't demand. Walnuts. They are the toughest of all. Whatever happens, they don’t break. They keep their essence infinitely; they don’t get any older, because they were born old. You never get sweetness or softness from them, but what they promised you in the beginning, you will get until the end…’

It was a Monday night, two weeks after Mrs Lancelote's funeral. The bell rang after midnight in Herold's apartment. Herold didn't want to believe his ears, but after the third 'bing-bong' he gave in, switched off the television and opened the door. Mr Lancelote was standing in front of him in his night gown, with his fisherman's cap on his head. They lived on different floors of the same house, in the building of the grocery store.

‘Could we do the job interview now?’ Mr Lancelote asked.

Herold looked in the old man’s eyes, and decided to say nothing about how late it was. He gave Mr Lancelote hot milk, sat him on the sofa and covered him with a warm blanket. As long as he’s speaking, he can’t die, Herold thought.

'…there is a lot more to say about fruits.' Mr Lancelote finished his monologue. 'But for now, this might be enough.'

‘Tell me about your previous work experiences then,’ Herold continued with the interview. ‘I read your Curriculum and I was wondering how you could become a boarding school principal…’

Mr Lancelote blushed. Herold never saw him blushing. He never saw any old man blushing.

‘It’s not interesting.’ Mr Lancelote said.

‘Oh yes it is.’ Herold said. ‘It definitely is. Tell me, how is it possible, with only six years of education? Is there a one hit genius behind those wrinkles?’

So Mr Lancelote told Herold how he became a boarding school principal. He worked as a hall porter in the school for six years before the accident happened. His job didn't require much apart from being present at the same place all the time, representing continuity. Students came and students left, students got awards and students got dismissed, students fell in love and students fell apart, but Mr Lancelote's shadow behind the glass window was as stabile and reticent as the red brick walls of the school. To complete his main mission of killing time he built match-stick castles of seven storeys; became the undiscovered world champion of Solitaire; and learned the school policy by heart after reading it more than one thousand and eight hundred times. The accident happened following the scandalous dismissal of the previous principal, who thought that discipline should be taught to the children at every cost, tears and humiliation included. After a chain of protests the student commune forced through its initiative that the students should be allowed to appoint and elect the principal of the school. But in the anarchistic state of democratic transition no one clarified who could be appointed and who couldn’t, as no teacher dared to provoke the uproarious commune. So there he was, the experimental rabbit, the joke of the infants: Mr Lancelote, the hall porter, who was secretly appointed and who won the elections with great majority. In the middle of the students’ hysterical exhilaration, he was let to direct the famous institution for two months. The official yearbook of the school somehow forgot to mention this period, and he also didn’t mention it very often later on. His main activity at the top of his career was worrying about the certain upcoming humiliation, and praying for survival until his salary check would arrive. He could manage avoiding public appearance alluding to his arthritis for two months, until the day when the mayor came to visit the school and he had to give a speech on stage in front of all students, parents, teachers and officials. And he did. God is his witness, he did. He could still recall the words. ‘Ladies and Gentlemen. During the school day hours students are not allowed to leave the building of the school and the courtyard without permission. The appearance and the clothing of the students should be clean and appropriate. The consumption of alcohol and drugs is prohibited in all premises of the school…'

Herold laughed and laughed and Mr Lancelote couldn’t resist taking part in his unexpected hilarity. But as their laughter weakened, present crept back to the room and sat down between them.

'I'm so sorry about your wife,' Herold broke the silence finally.

'Don't be.' Mr Lancelote said. 'She's fine. She just cannot feel it.'

Herold stood up and switched off the lamp.

'I'm off to sleep,' he said.

'Good night.' The old man replied.

'What kind of fruit was Mrs Lancelote?’ Herold turned back to Mr Lancelote from his bedroom door. ‘She was a walnut, wasn’t she?’

‘No, she wasn't.’ Mr Lancelote said and smiled at his friend in the dark. 'A great bunch of grapes she was.'