And there on the table, looking out of place in the glow of three lamps placed side by side sat the most expensive item in the place, the gold-plated fountain pen I remembered from so long ago. Blank sheets of paper lay strewn like shrouded corpses across the table top, waiting there for someone to gather them. The curtains were drawn and the thick odour of stale tobacco and alcohol added to the impression that the windows hadn’t been opened for a very long time. Hundreds of empty booze bottles carpeted the parquet floor from wall to wall. I noticed that it was bolted to the floor just as they are in seedy bars where inevitable fights break out and everything is a weapon. In the centre of the room was a walnut dining table that looked as if it had been bought in a junk shop. The walls of the lounge were plastered with posters and photographs. Just as I had thought, there was hardly any furniture inside. We entered the apartment with 17 on the door. The lift came to a halt at the fourth floor.
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