INT. GROCERY STORE — VEGETABLES AND FRUITS SECTION
KLAVA, a sloppy woman in her fifties, with a wrinkled face, overly heavy eye makeup. Her eyes are small, her eyelids so low that you can’t distinguish the color. People with such faces are often seen in the subway in the morning. Klava is sorting through the oranges.
SLAP! A wrinkled, bad orange flies into the bucket. At the bottom, a few dozen similarly shriveled and small ones, some covered in mold, aromatic fruits from the equator, are already lying there.
Klava looks around the store — the hall is empty, no one is watching. Klava quickly drops a dozen good oranges into the bucket, picks it up, and heads to the door.
KLAVA
(while walking)
Ilyinishna, I’m going to the manager.
CASHIER ILYINISHNA, an old woman about seventy, glasses on her nose, lenses like saucers, is poking her finger at the cash register buttons.
TAP-TAP! Ilyinishna squints her eyes, a customer grumbles while rubbing his skin at the counter. The queue exchanges looks of hatred.
ILYINISHNA
(slowly tapping)
Not scanning the vegetables, don’t waste time!
Half of the queue disperses. Klava exits the hall.
INT. MANAGER’S OFFICE
Klava stands in the middle of the office. The bucket is on the manager’s desk. ANDREY IVANOVICH, a man in his forties, neatly groomed, dressed in a good blue suit, cufflinks probably with diamonds, stands at the desk, holding a bag. He is carefully selecting good oranges. Finally, his hand grabs a wrinkled, rotten fruit.
BAM! The orange flies back into the bucket. Andrey Ivanovich looks at his hand, dusts it off, and wipes it with a cloth. Klava stands there, her expression as if her own guts are in the bucket.
ANDREY IVANOVICH
(angrily, muttering to himself)
They ruined half a bucket of them, what kind of people are these!
(turns to Klava)
What am I supposed to give the kids? This?
(points to the bucket)
How am I supposed to take this crap to them?
Klava shrinks, now looking like a small, sad hedgehog.
ANDREY IVANOVICH
(arrogantly)
Go wash these…
(makes a face)
Fruits. Take them to the yard.
EXT. SHOP COURTYARD — DAY
…A MERCEDES shines with lacquer and chrome. Huge, like a barge, covered with antennas and God knows what else, humming with the engine, smoke coming out of the exhaust pipes.
INT. MERCEDES — INTERIOR
Andrey Ivanovich sits at the wheel, peeling an orange with a knife. Juice flows down his fingers. The orange peel is thick and sticky.
TAP-TAP! A knock on the window. P-S-H-H! The window rolls down, orange juice dripping down Andrey Ivanovich’s lips as he chews. The orange is in his hand.
Klava, with the bucket, shifts nervously from foot to foot.
KLAVA
(quietly)
Where should I put it?
CLICK! The car door lock clicks shut.
Andrey Ivanovich leisurely, without rush, wipes his hands with a towel, gets out of the car, looks condescendingly at Klava. He walks around the car, opens the trunk. Klava quickly approaches, helpfully placing the bucket in the trunk.
SLAM! The trunk shuts.
ANDREY IVANOVICH
I’ll be back in an hour.
He gets in the car. The Mercedes drives off. Klava picks up the orange peels that fell out of the car. CREDITS.