The name of the fraudster is Petro. I could write it Peter, but then what about the historical credit? Peter is his name, nobody calls him anything else, and if some ignorant person calls him Peter, he doesn't mean Peter. I know about myself because I've tried it.
I went inside their school and asked which of them was the famous Peter: not one of the fifty-two children would do it. Not the famous one, but the Peter one. I believe that because nobody stood up when I said:
- Because I want to roll this pear to the Peter I'm looking for.
Even the pears didn't make the Peters dizzy. It was a pear so big that four Peters could have taken a bite out of it at once. But if you're not called that, you can't stick your finger out.
- Isn't that Peter the impostor here?", I asked the teacher.
- "Of course", smiles the teacher, "I just didn't like the way you asked the question. You bastard, get up!
Six children jumped up, all named Petör.
- Which one of these is now my Petrolem?
- "This one," the teacher pointed to the smallest one. - 'Say your name, my son Petör, in a nice, sensible way.
- Deák Pétör.
It was like the sound of my own childish voice echoing back from forty-some years ago. Anyway, Petör is the form of my own schooldays. He's just as tartar-faced, just as unkempt, and just as ragged. If we get together, I might even have him photographed, and satisfy the good souls who inquire about my youthful appearance.
- Can you read something nice, Petör?
- I can.
- Well, read on!
- But what to read?
- Well, your reading book.
- It would be if it were!
- Well, ask your neighbour and open it anywhere - the teacher helps you out.
Pétör obeys, and opens to the reading about the world war. A terrifically beautiful read, edited for the enjoyment of eight- and nine-year-olds, it begins:
"A thousand years have scarcely rolled by on the rock of time, when calamity has brought our beloved country to a great trial. During the reign of Franz Joseph I, the world war broke out, a world war full of disaster and doom."
Petör undeniably suffered some anguish from the rambling and doom-laden sentence, of which he apparently liked only the rock of time, because he started it three times from the beginning. But he struggled through it all humanly, just a little sweaty.
- "Now, close the book," the teacher instructed. - Can you tell me what you have read, my Petrous son?
My son Petör was not scared, I was. I got the teacher's arm.
- My dear friend, sir, I could not tell you, nor could the person who wrote it. And yet he deserves to be taught by heart his own reading. But I will ask this famous Peter another question. Tell me, my friend, do you know who the first Franz Joseph was?
- Yes, I know.
- Say, no!
- The Franz Joschka.
- All right, Petör. You have his picture at home, don't you?
- Mög. My grandfather's father, who was, on his obsit letter.
- Stop, Petör, I can see you're a good boy. Now I'm just asking you why you call Franz Joska the first Franz Joseph.
Petör takes a sniff and swallows. Then he sniffs again, but now he doesn't swallow. He is eager to say what he has decided. And in full sentence, as pedagogical honour demands:
- I call Franz Joska the first Franz Joseph because the first Hungarian is the king.
Petör says this with his head held high, the tip of his nose showing that he is quite pleased with himself, but the teacher smiles a little embarrassed.
- Yes, I'm glad to know, it's printed in bold letters in the reader's guide as a slogan.
But the teacher won't let you, nor Peter. He is determined to spark the talent out of him. Which is the most mind-blowing grindstone? Grammar, of course. So Petro must produce something dazzling in the field of languages.
- Say a time-sensitive sentence soon!
Pétör looks up, finds nothing there. Then he casts his clever little eyes to the window and finds what he's looking for. The window is fogged up, so there's no view through it, and that's how Pét'aer tells the time:
- It's dog cold outside.
It is as regular a time as if the rainmaking institute had given it, but the teacher is not satisfied, and he may be right in his own point of view. But I am also right in my own respect, when I press the big pear into the grasp of the Petit. For I only wanted to make sure that there really is a Petyr, about whom I have heard a story which sounds as if I had invented it. What I do not mind is that, for the time being, Petör defines time differently from the Academy's linguistics department. I'll settle for the fact that there is a Petör, and Petör is a very intelligent child, even though he has been drilling, carving, polishing and honing his brain for three years now, in a science that is arranged and tailored for five-faced people.
Yes, and Petör is still not bored of school, and he shows up every morning without delay. Pétér loves it here, perhaps even more than at home, and has every reason to like the Hall of Science so much every winter. For one thing, it is warmer here than at home. Secondly, there are an awful lot of children here, and Pétör is like a lamb: he loves to be alone. Thirdly, they treat you so badly that your parents don't even like it, and nowadays they even give you milk, like a new-born baby. They give the milk in pretty little cups, with a forget-me-not on it, and it is very good to hold it in the hand, for it is so good and roasty that the little red fingers, when they are frozen, warm up at the same time.
Well, it was the milk that made Peter suspicious and gave him a badge of honour that is unusual in world history, although obviously many of his figures have earned it. Peter the milk made Peter the deceiver.
Suspicion arose in the teacher, who, though perhaps more enamoured than he should be of time-keepers and other educational grindstones, has a heart of gold. The teacher, whose eyes are everywhere, has noticed that there is a confusion between Pétér and milk. The other children, as soon as they get their share of the milk, deal with him on the spot. But Petör has adopted a peculiar strategy for some time now. As you know, when he gets a full cup, he blushes with delight and his nostrils quiver with pleasure as he inhales the warm vapour. He sucks and sucks, but in the meantime he is retreating towards the door, and by the time he gets there his cheeks are whiter than the walls.
All at once, Petör disappears, and sometimes it takes five minutes before his bushy bush reappears on the horizon.
His expression grows redder as he gets closer to the table, which may be because he is sucking the last drops from the cup with great determination.
The teacher, of course, cannot be fooled by such a cunning trick. The teacher has guessed that the Petör embör doesn't like milk, but since he knows that such things cannot be made public, he secretly drains the milk into the gutter in the yard. Because it is certain that Pétör will sneak downstairs to the yard with his milk-drinking beast, his cold face betrays him.
Finally, the day came when the full extent of Petraeus's ambitions were revealed. The teacher watched his every move. Slowly the child made his way to the door, but he was already hurrying down the stairs, his palm on the cup's mouth.
By the time the teacher caught up with him, Pétör was already kneeling in the doorway, pouring milk into a large handkerchief. A closer inspection revealed that the handkerchief ended in two little legs at the bottom and a little face with a little face like a spider's web on top.
- Who is this, Petro? - asked the teacher.
Petör - shame, no shame - was very scared. The corner of his mouth trembled.
- Marika.
- Sister?
- "Yes," said Petör, and burst into manly tears. - He always haunts me, and waits here for me to bring the milk.
Even then Marika was crying, and the teacher forbade the two of them to cry until she too had shed a tear.
- How many days have you cheated on me, Petro? - she asked the boy.
- "Five," Petör pointed at his fingers, because he couldn't yet speak from crying.
Petör has won five big battles against his hungry little stomach. If I were a god, I would take more pleasure in this creation than in all the great generals of the world's wars of desperation and doom.
Forgive me, folks, that when the world is so full of perfect big cheaters, I wrote about this imperfect little cheater. But you see, I thought you'd be happy to know that there are even cheaters who don't cheat for themselves, but cheat for their brothers and sisters.
