Stockholm School of Economics in Riga Students' Magazine

Life before working at the European Bank for Reconstruction and Development wasn’t easy. The beginning of 2009 saw me unemployed in Greece and desperately looking for a job in London. At the peak of the financial crisis, the timing could not have been trickier. Following the paved old route, I opened efinancialcareers and typed "Utilities Analyst" into search. To my utter surprise, a few results popped up. Indeed, someone out there was looking for Analysts specialised in the Utilities sector.

The first check was passed. Inspired, I flew to London for a few interviews. Arranging them may have been easy, but the first few turned out bland at best. I understood that many employers were meeting candidates purely opportunistically – not hoping to hire but rather screening the market, especially in more or less crisis-insulated sectors like mine. My hopes were waning – but, just as I was walking out of another such flavourless interview, a headhunter called. Would I be interested in attending an interview with a super-exciting, small infrastructure fund, she asked. They had just called her, singing praises to my CV and unquestionably interested in seeing the candidate in person for a 30-minute brief introduction. I duly agreed.

As soon as I had entered the interview room, I could smell trouble in the air. A Catalan man with a long surname greeted me, his eyes reflecting a distinct spark of insanity. I thanked the skies that the episode would indeed only last for half an hour.

What followed afterwards could best be described as mental assault. The Spaniard (let's call him Jose) began by looking at me for at least five minutes, in utter silence. He then cast a look at my CV lying on the table in front of him and said, Wow. What a great CV. So I think I am such a good candidate, right. Would I be up for a small testing session? Trembling deep inside, I smiled as I agreed. I had been kicked face in the mud at job interviews many times before. The guy was just a weirdo. I could surely confront someone like him without risking my nerval stability too much.

Before proceeding to the promised test, Jose made sure to go through every bullet point on my CV and check all the dates. How could I do an internship there if I was a student at another place? It took me a bit of effort to remain polite as I explained that, for example, I never ceased to be enrolled at my graduate school in Helsinki while doing traineeships in London and Frankfurt. I actually finished my studies afterwards, and that's what perhaps we should really care about?

We then went through a series of questions with varying degrees of ridiculosity. First, Jose asked why I had been made redundant from UBS. Any such question is wrong in the core. No redundancy justification goes beyond the generics such as "unfavourable market conditions", "cost-cutting" or "difficult times". Redundancies are not personal – at least theoretically. Jose, however, exploded when I tried to lay it out. They would never lay off a good employee, he retorted. I must be concealing something terrible about myself.

To worsen the matters further, Jose asked to my face which other interviews I was attending. I have not been in this market for too long, but such practice is simply unthought-of. There is a certain ethic which firmly disallows interviewers to push for exact details of other processes an interviewee is running. Everyone tries to make an impression of being sought after. Asking for names of people who interviewed you and at which companies is not acceptable, full stop. Jose was raging. The Latvian chica in front of him was being hugely uncooperative.

How about a little test, then, he asked, Let's see how you really like finance. Looking straight into my eyes, he started shooting questions at the rate of five per minute. I was being asked for headline interest rates and countless exchange rates in all major economies and a few economies best classified as minor. I had missed the US Fed rate by half a percentage point. Jose was thriving; he caught me. He went on to ask for some hardcore financial terminology, duly ordering detailed definitions. I dared suggest that real wisdom lies not in knowing every definition by heart; it is rather to know where to find it. Wrong tactics. Apparently, a good candidate knows all of these things.

At this stage, I had suddenly realised that the promised 30 minutes had well stretched into 90 and felt panic. A friend was waiting for me just round the corner. As Jose popped out of the room, I rushed for the mobile. It was blinking furiously inside my bag, loaded with missed calls and a dozen of unanswered messages. I had barely managed to send a desperate "save me" response to the awaiting friend when my torturer returned, this time reinforced by two of his colleagues. They entered the room and locked the door behind them.

I have a very blurred recollection of what followed. In an attempt to maintain some degree of sanity and a cheerful smile, I could not focus on much else. I was asked more questions, involving specific financial theory, normal and lognormal distributions, logical tests, economic terminology, political analyses from Russia to Zimbabwe and exact formulas from physics. Questions were fired from three fronts in a remarkably well maintained succession. There just didn't seem to be an end to it all. My heart was jumping up and down. I kept thinking, patience. A moment will come when it will all be over.

One hour more had passed. I was wondering if my friend was still waiting. Imagining the guy drinking coffee alone – a really cute guy, too – made me feel a massive urge to jump on Jose, grab his throat and then go for the eyes. Another torturer was notably interested in Latvian economy. "I know who you are", I kept thinking. Probably one of those British staggers who invade Riga every weekend, get entirely pissed and wet themselves on our national monuments. I was clearly beginning to lose ground.

But my prayers were suddenly answered. I was being let go; the door opened, and light came streaming inside the room. I saw three hands stretched towards me, shook them, and rushed outside. "You know,” Jose said as he saw me out, "You are the first one. The first one who didn’t cry." I wasn't sure whether to take it as a compliment. I barely had the energy to smile.

A few days later, the headhunter called with some feedback. The company "found it odd" that I had no clue why I was laid off. Also, I had made a “shocking” statement that the people who claim to know what they want in life are "simply faking" (the language I actually used was substantially different). I was therefore not being hired.

This time I had all the energy I needed to smile. Smile for the fact that I would never have to work with those guys. Ever.

Anna Aleksandrova