IN A WEB OF MINUTES

Ferenciek tere's former bustling, rather unfriendly bustle of cans is now a thing of the past. It is as if one were walking in the ghost town of Nineveh, which is only visited by the colder winds of autumn...

I see a very familiar person who I used to go to school with. However, I don't usually make acquaintances, since I avoided people all my life. It's quite unfortunate. I last saw him maybe three or four decades ago. At that time, he still wore brand-name, expensive things, which were mainly bought for him by his more affluent parents. His father was a bit of a boss in one of the car dealerships, so it goes without saying that Vajkó got a brand new sports car for his eighteenth birthday, as if he had won the lottery or some raffle that seemed out of reach for ordinary people.

He comes face to face with me, and although I almost - without exception - always drive with my head down and a hat on, like some suburban hermit figure, he immediately thanks me and almost cheers with happiness:

"Hello, please… oh, say it!" What's your name?! �" and he starts talking endlessly, which then mysteriously turns into an intimate confession. In vain! A person can be senile close to forty, or certain brain processes can deteriorate.

I try to replace his extremely familiar face, which now mostly resembles the image of a withered old man. Like an avenger, at least an Old Testament prophet.

What happened ended when he asked me to do the seminar presentation for him at the university.

"Listen, little friend!" If you do this to me now, I swear on my mother's life that I will help you later! �" with that, he got into his expensive luxury car and made out with two hot, blonde bombshells. Later, of course, I did the entire material of the short performance for him, just because I couldn't wait for him to get off me for good without a fight or a difference in physical appearance.

�" Here is the entire curriculum! I gave him the sketches. I gave a good amount of paksamets to the rightful hands.

"Hey buddy!" This much?! he surprised me. "Didn't you say there would be so many?"

"Well!" Sorry to disappoint you! A thank you will suffice! I answered.

- OK. You don't have to boil right away, honey!

The conversation started quietly, a little insidiously, as if it was part of a long-planned, vague or predictable bargain, which most people enter into in the hope of their release or redemption.

The next day, however, at the literary seminar held by our favorite tenorangu professor, it turned out that he had invited the very student for whom I had prepared the material for the entire short lecture to give a short lecture.

"Well then!" Dear Ladies and Gentlemen! Let's get to it! Mr. Vajkó, if you would honor us by presenting your lecture, perhaps we would all be smarter!

With an apparently trembling stomach, Vajkó regularly paints as if he is completely confused and does not understand anything. For now, he waits as he stumbles back and forth hesitantly. "I wonder what to do now?!" Because when he starts talking, the worn-out old fox can easily sense that he wasn't prepared for this class either. Not that he was prepared for any other class at all.

He stands up cautiously, like someone who has just been released from the captivity of the ward after a serious operation, but stays in his place and begins to read diligently. Well, not fluently, because he doesn't understand it. The smaller, ant-like letters, which are now swarming back and forth on the filled-in papers, like ants or beetles, can hardly be calmed down.

- Then... I will now... tell you about Mihály Babits' book of poems entitled "Sziget és tenger".

The professor looks appropriately, yet questioningly, through his large SZTK-framed glasses at Vajkó, whom he has been admiring ever since he set foot in his literary pursuits. He considers him to be a coward, a coward, and a nobody's figure, and his opinion of this does not change, in fact, it increases in direct proportion as time accelerates. The minutes are ticking and pointers. Everyone is listening intently.

For now, the old man is waiting for Vajkó to try to read my handwriting and who the hell could Mihály Babits have been?

"Well... so... taste... It was early in the morning and unfortunately I wasn't able to properly prepare yet..." he confesses, like a guilty person who can't be trusted even in his innocence.

"Vajkó, my son!" Why don't you try saying it from memory? He just knows something! Whoever holds so many pieces of paper in his hands must not be stupid! - the old man deliberately suppresses the word "stupid", as if the secret had already been revealed, or at least that Vajkó had no idea about the curriculum.

- Well... the truth, dear teacher, is that I can't read my writing... - another old, pitiful lie made up who knows when, which he thinks can save his pitiful life.

The group is suddenly relieved, bursting with laughter and guffaws but everyone stops as soon as the professor continues his speech:

"Please give me your papers, then take a seat!" asks the old but wise teacher. The moment he takes the full-written A/4 sketches in his stout, peasant hands, the exact precision of which is eerily similar to that of one of his ever-preparing, poetic students, the old man immediately loses his temper. He looks cautiously towards my chair and squints as if he were an accomplice; a thin, sharp expression crosses his face. You don't know if you want to punish or reward?!

- Well, then Ida Hegedűs will tell us what is worth knowing about Mihály Babits' book of poems Sziget és Tenger!

Each member of the small group listens to every word uttered with tense, frozen silence, diligently taking notes as if their lives depended on it. I also prefer to delve into my large spiral notebook and write everything down, even though I already know everything there is to know about the given volume.

The forty-five minutes of the hour fly by in almost a fraction of a second. Everyone sneezes and diligently puts away their belongings and says goodbye to the old teacher. There are only three of us left in the room. I swallow the poisonous drops of terror and fear in greedy gulps. Could this be the last break in your liberal arts studies?

"Mr. Vajkó should come to me, and you should work here too, dear Albert!" - the professor's voice is now really so cold and measured, as if it were the knocking ghost of Hamlet coming out of the grave.

We both go there hesitantly, bewildered. I suddenly find courage, but only to hide the massive, unforgiving cry that is about to break out. "It's not my fault! If I don't prepare the short performance, my group mate might even beat me or even slap me on Szerb Antal Street!" �" I wonder what the right answer would be?

The professor turns to face us; a war of wrinkles is actually taking place on his serious, stern expression, like a stage picture of some ancient, inner, spiritual battle. He folds his large, peasant, gnarled hands in front of him.

"Tell me honestly who was the lesser and who was the greater traitor!" I want to hear the truth! �" his voice rings bitterly, sadly, as if he has just been disappointed enough in life and has therefore become stoic and cynically skeptical.

"Teacher, I really tried to prepare myself, but unfortunately I had to..." Vajkó gathers all the emotions he can imagine to save his hair, while he keeps looking at me like an accuser, thus keeping him in check. "Albert can do everything!" Yes, yes! Why did he have to prepare so much?! He takes away the opportunity from others! he blurted out, as if he had been seriously hurt.

I bow my head, like a repentant person who steps into the field of actions instead of words.

The professor patiently shakes his head, with his stern gaze I can really feel that he is already looking into my kidneys.

"Albert?" How do you see it? Do you think this is the truth?! - his voice does not tolerate superficiality or falsehood.

"Dear Professor!" I'm sincerely sorry if I made any mistakes, but... I feel that I had to help... - I blurt out with a heavy burden on my soul. I really just wanted to escape the physical abuse.

The wise teacher shakes his head for a while; deep in thought. Then a few minutes later:

"Mr. Vajkó!" You can go now! But if you can't produce a decent average grade for me at the end of the year in the rigorous exam, I'll bring up this little case of yours again! Did you understand?!

Vajkó nods silently, ashamed, like someone who has lost a great war, then he walks out with his head down in front of his sports car parked in a prohibited place in front of the building, deliberately revving the engine and driving away with screeching wheels, as if to take satisfaction.

"As for you, dear Albert!" I respect and appreciate the fact that he helps and patronizes his group mates, but think about why a person who was never worthy of his trust and only used himself would be worth it to save him from trouble?! - he wanders sadly to the huge, walnut bookshelf, where at least ten thousand volumes can be found with absolute certainty, then he carefully takes a book of poems in his large hands and returns to me.

- I heard that he is very interested in American and English poetry of the 20th century. century! Here we go! - give me the thick book! �" you can write a great literary study out of this! You don't have to rush! When you're ready, just bring it in and we'll discuss it together!

I want to believe so much that maybe he is no longer angry or resentful of me and that we have become real, honest friends. I bow like an actor after a well-done performance, then quickly gather my goodies and carefully walk out the big oak door.