Zsolt Bajnai
Translated from the Hungarian by Diana Senechal

“Did you seriously think anyone would show up for this?” the middle-aged woman snapped. She and a young woman were setting up chairs in the suburban House of Culture’s small room. “Of course the rental fee isn’t refundable. The House of Culture needs these funds to finance the more popular programs.”

“I have already done recovering alcoholic therapy, drug quitters’ therapy, and broken family therapy, but I think more people suffer from corruption,” the younger one replied. “Haven’t you had to corrupt anyone yourself?”

“Are you kidding? Me, an adult educator?”

“And no one has ever corrupted you?”

The middle-aged woman gargled a laugh. A fortyish, suited man entered the decrepit room.

“Is this where the corruption discussion will be?”

“We’re starting now,” said the young moderator, giving her House of Culture senior an imploring look. “Let’s take our seats!”

The man sat face to face with the young woman. The House of Culture woman hesitated, looked at her watch, and then, with a dismissive hand-flourish, sat by her side. The young woman spoke first.

“I am Judit, 28 years old, and I feel that corruption has sucked me in. Today I handed over twelve thousand forints to a doctor so that he would examine me out of turn in his state hospital office—”

“That’s not corruption, that’s medical tipping—”

“One of the ground rules is that we hear each other out and not assess others’ problems. Let us listen to the gentleman!” the middle-aged woman snapped.

Startled, the man looked at one woman, then the other. Slowly he began to speak.

“I am Laci. László. 43 years old. And I hate how our two-tongued politicians are pillaging our country.”

“László! Let’s turn things around! First let’s talk about our own corruption! Haven’t you ever tried to get ahead with a little money or gift?”

“When my children were born, I paid a little extra to the doctor, midwife, nurses, but that’s different, because I just wanted the best for my family. It’s not like I siphoned funds from the highways, right?”

“That depends on how many children are born in one year. Sorry for interrupting again. I am Magdi. As for my age, let’s leave that out. No one has been willing to pay me to do my job, since I already receive a salary. But it isn’t much.”

A paunchy, leather-vested man burst through the door.

“Wow, it’s good that you’re all still here,” he said, and sat down next to Laci as the others gazed on in surprise. “I have to finish therapy, or else I’m fired.”

“And what are you, a mayor?” Laci queried, turning in wonder to the new arrival.

“Taxi driver. My name’s Pisti, by the way”—and he offered his neighbor his hand.

“We’re glad you came. Have you corrupted anyone, by any chance?” the young woman asked him.

“Are you kidding? Show me one person in this country who hasn’t shelled out cash for a small favor!”

“Could you share one instance of your own?”

Pisti put his car bag on the chair next to him, squirmed, and reluctantly began.

“Well, if it’s necessary for the therapy certificate…. For example, a few weeks ago I bought my very first garden house from an entrepreneur. Newly built. The interior wasn’t finished yet, all you could see were the bare brick walls. However, for the loan I needed an occupancy permit from the municipality. Forty thousand forints and a day later, the permit was mine, without an inspection.”

“My dear Judit, if you think making life a little easier is the same thing as corruption, then I bought off a teacher with money from my public educator salary. Sorry, my name is Magdi. That is, I found out which teacher at the city’s best high school I should send my eighth-grade son to for private lessons, so that they would admit him for sure. Get mad if you like! A month’s worth of my salary went into this, but we got in.”

“We shouldn’t be ashamed of such things! While others are robbing our country in broad daylight. Do I have to bow my head in shame if I buy a ticket under the table from Jani the bus driver now and then? He gets something out of it, and it’s worth it for me too. I’m Laci, by the way,” and he extended his hand to the taxi driver at his side.

“Yes, and that same bus runs on diesel paid from my taxes, while I pay through the nose to refuel my own car,” retorted the taxi driver, raising his voice and crunching the extended hand.

“Do you report all your earnings? Oops! I am Laci. National Tax and Customs Inspector.”

“Go ahead and mess with me,” the taxi driver boomed, leaning over his neighbor.

“Excuse me, is there some sort of corrupt people’s study group here?”

There was sudden silence. Four pairs of eyes followed the backpacked high school student who had just entered the room.

“I just need the signature for my school community service hours.”

Magdi was the first to come to her senses.

“Oh, yes, of course. We announced our classes to high school students. If they come, we will credit them three hours of school community service. It is so hard for those poor kids to collect the required fifty hours.”

“And what are they doing for this?” Judit asked, shocked.

“Nothing,” answered Magdi with a forced smile. “That is … they sign the attendance sheets, which we use to prove to the municipality that the House of Culture is utilized.”

“Young lady, I think you have come to the right place,” said Laci, jumping up from the taxi driver’s side and offering his seat to the frightened high school student.

“Do I have to stay here?” the girl asked. “Can’t I just sign the sheet? My friend has her hours signed off at a charity organization; they’ve never even seen her. Her dad arranged it.” She looked around anxiously, not sitting down. “My bus is coming, I’ll stay next time, goodbye”—and she rushed out of the room.

The painful silence was broken by Judit.

“For my corruption training,” she began quietly, “the House of Culture gives out phony credits to high school students?” Her voice shot up at the end.

“We’re just helping out, with good intentions—”

“While you get a double benefit!” the young woman yelled, standing. “You use fake signatures to prove that the House of Culture is being utilized. And me?” she shouted. “I paid a rental fee for the room. What is this, if not corruption?”

“Reality!” the older woman snapped, red in the face, springing up from her chair.

“Finally! I thought I had come to the wrong place. So now are we going to talk this conflict out and deal with it?” the taxi driver asked obtusely.

“This can’t be talked out!” the young woman yelled. “They’re even corrupting high school students!”

“It’s the system’s fault. It forces us into corruption. We have to do away with it!” said Laci, jumping up again from his seat triumphantly.

The two women glared at each other as if about to tear each other to bits.

“Excuse me, I am Pisti, a taxi driver. It was just said that we shouldn’t assess each other’s cases and that we should hear each other out to the end.”

“I don’t need any instructions from a snotty idealist! For thirty years I have been trying to stay afloat in this filth,” Magdi hissed in the young woman’s face, knocking over her chair as she stormed toward the door. “Get lost! I’d rather rent the room to a used clothing drive. At least they know the difference between gratitude and corruption.”

Judit sank into her seat.

“In that case, just sign this form stating that I participated in conflict management training,” the taxi driver said, pushing a sheet of paper under Judit’s nose. “I have enough money to keep them from taking my permit away; they just said I had to go for conflict management. Don’t deprive me of my bread! Sign it!” He laid a twenty-thousand-forint bill on the glassy-eyed woman’s lap. “Isn’t it all the same to you? Come on!”

“Really, what does this matter to you?” Laci piped in. “This isn’t corruption, it’s assistance.”

The young woman did not move but instead looked fixedly in front of her. Laci walked up to her and picked up the twenty grand.

“You know what? Although my degree is in mechanical engineering, who will notice if the signature is mine?” He signed the form with a flourish. “That’s the problem with young people today, that they haven’t got a clue about the real world. They’re all awash in sincerity; they just want to talk about their problems instead of solving them.”

And the two men took off, leaving the young woman alone in the shabby little room of the House of Culture.

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Zsolt Bajnai

Ever since childhood, I have been writing. However, it took me about a quarter-century to dare to show others what was born first on a typewriter, now on a keyboard. Meanwhile I earned degrees in history/geography teaching and journalism; since my early twenties I have been working in communications. Yet I’d rather call myself a dubious freelance welder of letters. Who has been publishing literature on his blog since 2010. Now and then, he enters competitions, with varying degrees of success. So far, two volumes of his stories have been published. And the thing he dreads most is hitting the last character before he can tell all his ideas.

Diana Senechal

Diana Senechal is the 2011 winner of the Hiett Prize in the Humanities and the author of Republic of Noise: The Loss of Solitude in Schools and Culture (2012) and Mind over Memes: Passive Listening, Toxic Talk, and Other Modern Language Follies (2018). Her translations of the Lithuanian poetry of Tomas Venclova have been published in two books; her translations of the contemporary Hungarian poet Gyula Jenei appear in issues 11:3 and 12:1 of Literary Matters. She lives and teaches in Szolnok, Hungary.