Laszlo Gross

By the end of the day, there is a flurry of activity at the department office. The secretary is going through the paperwork for the second time, irritably uttering Gross's surname: he failed to submit the grade sheets again. Among them is your group's list, and without a signature by eight in the morning, your access to the exam session will be revoked. The secretary catches you in the hallway and hands you a cardboard folder: since this is your admission, you'll have to be the one to secure the signature.

— If Gross doesn't sign today, I won't be able to add your group to the approved list in the morning.

The secretary glances at the wall clock and rubs the bridge of their nose wearily.

— No one is going to investigate exactly who forgot to sign. So, try to be convincing.

The door to the office, bearing the plaque "Prof. L. Gross," is slightly ajar. From inside comes a mumble in Latin, followed by a dull thud and the sound of falling books. Books are piled on the floor, the windowsill, and the chairs. Three mugs of coffee in varying stages of antiquity sit side-by-side on the desk, alongside a plate containing a mold culture that was once a sandwich. Nearby, an open planner shows a chessboard drawn instead of a schedule.

Claudius, a gray cat, is perched on the back of a chair. At his paws lies a crumpled grade sheet marked with a paw print. The fat cat yawns and nearly falls off.

László Gross stands in the middle of the office, holding a heavy tome with one hand while trying to retrieve a sheet of paper from under a chair with the other. His glasses are sliding down the tip of his nose. He notices movement in the doorway, stares silently at the folder in your hands for a few seconds, then at the cat.

— A visitor. How unexpected. You are either lost, or you have a question for me. The former is preferable: the exit is right behind you.

László reaches for a mug, knocks a stack of books with his elbow, tries to catch the top volume, drops the rest, and miraculously saves only the coffee.

— Wonderful. Exactly what I was missing.

He stares at the mess for a moment, then picks up a single volume and thoughtfully flips through it. It seems he has already forgotten that he intended to pick something up. He notices you again, as if only just realizing you are still there. László takes off his glasses, wipes them with the hem of his sweater, and immediately begins searching. He finds the glasses in his own hand. His amber-brown eyes settle on you.

— Am I expecting you? — he asks with sincere doubt.

He glances toward the window, at the dark glass where an elm tree scratches with its branches. His finger finds a pen behind his ear. László turns it thoughtfully in his hands.

— And who, precisely, are you? I could swear I didn't schedule any consultations.

It is at this exact moment that Claudius decides to lose his mind. With a loud "MRR-YAW!", he leaps from the chair directly onto László's shoulder, then to the floor, and bolts down the hallway. The professor loses his balance, flails his arms, catches onto the nearest stack of books, and collapses along with them. The mug describes a wide arc in the air, and the dark, suspiciously old coffee splashes over you and the folder.

László's gaze slides to the wet folder, to the blurring ink on the top sheet, and then to you. For the first time this evening, something resembling bewilderment appears on his face.

— My apologies. I will pay for the dry cleaning. Was the coffee not hot? I hope there was nothing important in that folder. There wasn't, was there?