Bertrand had lived in room two for six years and had never once used the front door before seven in the morning or after nine at night. He considered this a form of politeness. His neighbours considered it a form of mystery, which is what politeness usually becomes when it is practised without explanation.
He worked in the records office. He was extremely good at it, in the way that people are good at work that nobody watches.
On the ninth-tray morning he came down the stairs at six, which was unprecedented, and found Sofia sitting on the third step from the bottom with flour on her sleeves.
"Nine," she said, as though he would know what that meant.
The remarkable thing, Bertrand thought later, was that he had.