The Wearing of Time
In the 1980s of my youth, the portas of our school was an elderly man named Mr. Kerekes Jozsef, but all the students called him Jozsi Bacsi (Uncle Joe). He sat behind the glass window of the entryway office and eyed anyone who entered the building. He nodded silently at students as they passed and respectively greeted the teachers. Occasionally he signed out a key if someone needed to go to the basement storage.
During the communist era in Hungary all schools and administrative buildings had a portas. They were the first line of inquiry for outside visitors to the building. They were also a guardian of sorts for the integrity and safety of the school. Portas had mostly thankless jobs, arriving early and leaving late, with pay that could not be considered fair wage. Indeed, one of the reasons why so many portas were elderly was because they took the job as a supplement to their government pension order to make ends meet.
Every Hungarian has memories of their school portas. Teenage boys often jeered at them (although always under their breaths…the mystical reputation of the portas’ authority would never allow for any public displays of disobedience). While most portas were men, there were some women and they usually had an assortment of leftover hair accessories for any female students in need.
Jozsi Bacsi was probably in his seventies, but to my young eyes he looked much older. He was always behind the glass of his office in the mornings, but once class had started, he sometimes tended to other odd jobs around the entryway, picking up discarded cigarette butts around the outside steps or helping the custodial workers carry buckets of water to upstairs landings for cleaning.
One day when I entered the building he was sweeping the stone stairs in the inner stairwell. I was late for class, and after muttering a quick greeting (“I kiss your hand”) I made to step past him, but something caused me to stop. I noticed he was standing still, looking up the stairs. The window on the first landing was washed out by the sunshine coming in from the outside and colored patterns of light played across the stone steps from the sunshine through the glass. He noticed me staring at him. It seemed there was something mysterious happening behind his eyes.
He fixed a stiff smile onto his face and beckoned me closer. Nervous, I took a half step nearer, worrying about my tardiness but not willing to disobey the unspoken command to stay. He pointed at the stone stairs.
“Do you see them?” he said.
I shook my head, for I saw nothing strange. He grasped the collar of my school uniform and gently pulled me toward the stone stairs where he crouched down. The air felt cooler near the stairs, as though the winter chill was sealed up within each stone step. I felt the two odd sensations: the cool from the stairs mingling with the warmth from the streaming sunlight coming from the landing above.
“Look closely,” he said. I followed his pointing finger and then I saw it: each stone step climbing like a ladder before the flight reached the final stair at the top of the landing. He pointed at the center of the first stair and he traced each subsequent stair upward. The stairs, each of them, were worn by the passage of time so that each stone slab seemed to bow at the center.
He thumped his finger against the stone. “Seems solid, doesn’t it?” he said. “But look what time will do.”
His eye was still upon me, and I felt embarrassed from his sudden burst of poetic awareness and was unsure how to conduct myself. Instead I looked up and fixed my eyes on the top stair, hoping he would release me soon. After another moment he stood and straightened my collar.
“Off you go then,” he said. I trotted up to the landing, and, by the time I had turned, he was back to his sweeping.
Later that afternoon during recess I told my friend Pista what happened.
“Yes,” Pista said. “He also told me. My older brother says he tells everyone.”
That summer Jozsi Bacsi died. The school administrator said he had cancer. Our teacher encouraged any caring families to bring flowers. For the next three days the empty portas office was filled with colorful blooms.
Jozsi Bacsi’s observation has followed me into adulthood. I enjoy lingering at the foot of stone steps, especially if the building is beyond a certain age, glancing up at the climbing steps and seeing the worn imprint of time. I delighted in the astonished reaction in my young sons when I first pointed this feature out to them during a visit to a museum a few years ago.
Last summer, June 2023, I was back in Hungary on business. I had a free afternoon, so I decided to walk back through the streets of my childhood. After a few twists and turns I was standing outside my old school building. The door was open, so I peaked in. The portas office was still there, but it had been converted into a storage room. I walked through the foyer and was soon standing at the foot of the staircase. I glanced around and, seeing no one, I crouched down until I could see the stairs rising toward the window above. The same mingled feeling of cold and warmth played across my skin. The stone steps seemed unchanged to my eyes, though I knew the last four decades had worn each one down a bit more.
Zary Fekete…grew up in Hungary…has a novelette (In the Beginning) out from ELJ Publications and a debut novella coming out in early 2024 with DarkWinter Lit Press in addition to two short story collections later in 2024.…enjoys books, podcasts, and many many many films. Twitter and Instagram: @ZaryFekete