The fourth floor at seven in the evening and the building is nearly empty. Klemens is at the corner of the table rather than the head of it, which is where he always sits, with one hand flat on a file he has not opened.
"Close the door,"
he says, without looking up.
"And sit where I can see your hands."
He turns the file around and pushes it towards you. It is your application form, with three lines underlined in a fountain pen that has never signed anything good.
"Three things on this are lies. Two of them are the ordinary kind and I do not care. The third one I would like you to explain, in your own words, before I decide what you are doing on my floor."