SPECIAL GUALLERS

They were already gathering in the corridor. Nervous wild horses or restless-looking gazelles were walking around in unbuttoned jackets, some were even talking in smaller or larger groups; everywhere there were those who preferred to withdraw into one of the less conspicuous draughty window recesses and rather gazed at the spacious Renaissance courtyard with single-minded dignity. The others preferred not to speak to them, because they felt and could know that they simply could not violate their personal private space, from which their shell-like, syrupy loneliness was nourished, they could not be excessively intrusive or unpleasant. Down there, two people dressed in teddy bear overalls were just trying to sweep the snowballs out of the way, lest by sheer chance some employee or senior manager slip and break their neck. Sometimes the nervous honking of a car echoed on the gloomy, depressing, bullet-ridden walls of the house, which eerily reflected the monotonous secretions of the silence stuck above them.
Later, the listless gurgling movement began again, with a hint of grunting mixed in once or twice. Most passers-by stopped for a second or two; he was forced to pay close attention. It was as if only a consciously forced inner voice or command had warned them or warned them that they should notice something very essential and important, otherwise even more trouble might happen. Then as many as gathered on the street went on, as if they originally had nothing to do with each other.

A limping, slightly lame young man - a kind of bourgeois humanities form - walked up and down the narrow, rectangular corridor with a small note that could be conveniently hidden in the palm of his hand at any time, and while muttering the day's course material to himself in a low voice, as if he were talking to an imaginary friend he meticulously inspected the notebook-sized volumes of poetry displayed on the tables. He has already imagined in countless versions how great and appreciable value it can be if someone's name can appear in a prestigious cultural magazine. "It's certainly not the equivalent of a knighthood." he thought. László and Dezs�' were hanging out by the wall as always, when the SZTK-framed professor with a dignified growling voice approached them, and since he had a reputation for being a cultured person, whose character also included professional curiosity, he liked to linger a bit over the rabbit-sized volumes of poems; he took each one in his large, crusty hand, turned it, smelled it, and then read a poem. He savored the words in their delicious, crystal-clear presence, almost as if he were tasting honey or some mouth-watering confection. A small pleasure in the midst of the gray eternity of everyday life.

"Ah!" Is that you? - the professor was surprised when he spotted the limping young man with a gloomy and obviously desperate face. He had already extended his palmed hand towards him, which the young man had to accept reluctantly, since he was his teacher, who deserved respect.

"Good morning teacher!" he greeted. It was as if his mouth had become a squeaky, or even rusty pincers, from which the right sounds were trying to come out with great difficulty.

"Well, eat it my dear friend!" Why the hell is he so broken, he says?! - the old but wiser teacher could rarely be fooled, because being a good connoisseur of people, he could get to know exactly the character of all his students and colleagues.

�" I was just thinking about what I would do with my future, because even though I like to write poetry and prose, I believe that I would be able to earn some money with it! - his voice sounded so sincere and sad that there could rarely be a good person who did not wonder how right he was. The university is as if it were a diploma factory, where official certificates are issued for huge sums of money, yet when the symbolic four-year training period is over and everyone is released into the world of big letters, it is rare for a person to have a suitable place and to be able to even you can go to work the very next day.

Several people became impatient in the corridor. At the very end of the corridor, a porter or caretaker turned in, spectacularly jingling his keys and waving.

"Come on, dear colleague!" You shouldn't take things so personally and be bitter to the core! Enjoy your life, as there will probably be plenty of opportunities for your career! - the teacher also felt that there was no essential content behind his words. It's as if he had grinded down a template-like text, just like the kicker of a clock, which suddenly gets bored so that it can then snap.

"Just listen here!" - he leaned closer to the half-hearted young man. �" If you have obtained your degree and are a little recharged, I know one or two editors and writers who would be very happy to review your texts and poems, and it is possible that you may even submit them for publication. they can do it! Woman? How about that?!

A thin line of hope crossed the young man's sullen, somewhat self-deprecating face, but only temporarily. It was not clear whether he was looking at his aging professor questioningly or accusingly.

"I would be honored by the opportunity!" - he answered, but so softly that even those with great hearing had to strain themselves if they wanted to hear his spoken words at all.

"...And how are your current exams going?" asked his teacher just to distract his favorite student from his real problems.

"Weed!" Dear teacher! That's a great question! If I were an optimist, I could say that everything will be fine, there is nothing to worry about! However, since life is unfortunately not a fairy tale, the only thing certain is that I am not particularly popular among linguists! �" his black humor always sobered him up a bit and helped him keep reality.

"Well, that was both witty and wise!" - acknowledged the teacher, then in the next minute he grabbed a small notebook of poems from the table, looked at his watch, said goodbye and hurried away.

"What the hell could he know that I don't?!" - he morphed for a while, then decided that if a well-respected and highly respected teacher could take a book of poems, then why not him too. He had never before in his life done such a thing as to take things without payment; she looked both seductive and had an eerily good sense of chill about her that spiced up this whole little operation.

He carefully looked around in all directions, and as quickly as he could, immediately sank the small volume to the bottom of his canvas-like gray bag, so that no one could accidentally see it.

A few years later - when he received his diploma with bittersweet feelings and as someone who had been shamed - he almost couldn't wait for his personalized book of poems to be accepted by a state publisher and to finally reach the status of an employed writer. He thought once and, thanks to the contact and digital network of the Internet, he tried to find several contemporary literary greats and famous people with his creative thoughts. There were those who clearly stated that they congratulated him with much love, but they could not help him, while one or two of the literary historians who were a bit more arrogant and engaged in passive resistance even threatened him in writing if he only bothered to send his poems or short stories to them again immediately a police report is filed.

Undoubtedly, this took a heavy toll on the novice writer, who was still labeled as an amateur, who was already publishing numerous articles and texts independently at his own expense.

He was just walking down Kecskemét Street in front of the Rector's Main Office, and he had already repeated to himself a million times what he would say exactly, precisely, if he managed to make an official visit to his favorite professor. The porter started looking at him a little distrustfully and with a bad eye as soon as he opened the rusty creaking entrance gate and told him the name of his professor along with his exact title because he thought that this would enhance his former treasured reputation.

"Ostan, what do you have to do with him, huh?" asked the unfriendly porter.

"Please, as I said, I want to talk to him!" - he answered, and in order to give his request momentum, he already added: - I want to act on an official matter! - although the wording was too rigid and dogmatic, it was enough to let the doorman in with his already jingling keys.

"Wait a minute, Mr. Colleague!" The secretary is coming down!

"How different all human speech sounds when you consider a person a little human, isn't it?" he thought.

In less than ten minutes, the pretty little secretary came with exaggerated make-up and smeared with lipstick. He shook hands with the former, well-known student, and already accompanied him up the well-known, slightly dirty, dusty marble stairs.

- Forgive me, dear Sir, but unfortunately the professor is very busy, but he is always very happy to make time for you!

"I'm begging you to excuse me!" If I came at the wrong time... I can leave... - he hesitated, because now he didn't want another upheaval in his life in the least.

"No, no!" Please don't let them loose, you are now a guest and we are always very happy to have your company! �" the secretary had already ushered him into the large reception hall, where he had once been austere, and offered him coffee and cake, which he freely refused.

"Please wait here for a few minutes!" I am already telling the dear professor that he has arrived! Until then, take your seat! - answered the secretary directly, and it seemed that she was even more embarrassed than the young man.

Since Robert didn't feel like sitting down, he rather precisely and thoroughly examined every volume on the large, ceiling-high bookshelf. There was everything here, please, that would stimulate the eyes and mouth. Starting from the legal and official books up to the twenty-four-volume Révai, and Britanica Hungarica lexicon to various world literatures in foreign languages. And of course, the book of the professor himself, which he wrote about folk poetry and the folk traditions of Táltos, was blooming there, in one of the very first rows, in alphabetical order, since one of his favorites was János Arany.

A little after half past ten in the morning, the large, hideous oak door opened and his former favorite professor entered. He opened his large, dignified head in a wide smile, yet it was noticeable that the past years had accentuated his marked, worried features even more.

"Ah!" This pleasant surprise! - he extended his wide, peasant hands in greeting, as if welcoming an old friend. "How are you?" What happened to you? Tell me. - with his broad shoulders, he carefully took a seat in his also dark-colored, padded office chair. "Well, sit down!" What are you hanging around for?

"Oh!" I'm sorry! he said, then sat down. �" I recently finished a new volume of poems and short stories, and I dared to approach the professor because he mentioned that he might be able to help!

The professor was always very impressed by the honest and truthful speech of his students. He is pleasantly disappointed that, after so many meaningful years, the good people fortunately have not changed. At least as far as their goodness and human values ​​were concerned.

"Never mind!" Well, I congratulate you with much love! A devoted literary man! This is the profession from which only those who at most start a career abroad will benefit. I have a couple of well-known acquaintances and a friend! I'm guessing you've already contacted quite a few publishers, haven't you?

Robert nodded.

"That's right, that's how it should be!" I don't want to dampen your enthusiasm, because I know that culture is also a matter of your heart, just like me, but if we are moving on the ground of reality, then I have to say that Milán Füst did not receive the Nobel Prize either because he did not deserve it.

"I just... wanted to ask for help..." Róbert answered, but the inner self-mutilation and doubt that was constantly fighting with himself returned to his voice.

"However, I sincerely hope I didn't spoil your mood." he replied with a fake smile. He leaned a little forward at the dignified, old-fashioned, baroque oak table and with an old-fashioned fountain pen, the tip of which shaped an arrowhead, a couple of names scribbled on a curved, specially embossed paper, then with noble dignity he handed the paper to his favorite student.

- I hope you will find what you are looking for among these writers! You are a very good person Robert! Please remember! Humanity and noble humility are always born in the heart, and even though life is sometimes excessively hard and adversities, one must endure the trials. - he stood up, pulled himself straight. At this moment, he actually looked like a chamberlain, or an eminence, who is a direct ambassador of culture. He held out his gnarled peasant hand as a sign of trust:

"I'm glad that I was able to shape you into a recovered person." Goodbye!

"Thank you, dear teacher!"

Both of them bowed deeply to each other, just like the old gentry, or gentlemen...