1

    I did not even tell Mira of my decision. She knew that the music conservatory was not the right place for me and that I might fail the year. She knew that the dean’s office had met three times to discuss my work and had decided in the end to let me stay. Nonetheless, I wanted to leave at the beginning of the semester. In fact, I had never really wanted to attend at all, but my father insisted. He was impressed by the reputation of the National Institute of the Arts and considered it an excellent school. In his view, an artist in the family was proof of superior intelligence. Although he holds an important job, my father is still a child in many ways. Just as children tend to imitate their parents, my father enjoys imitating great intellectuals with their broad cultural horizons. He never misses a concert even though I know for sure that he knows nothing about music, especially symphonies, but he goes anyway. I find that irritating. Perhaps I’m wrong; perhaps my irritation is simply reverse snobbery. At times, when boredom gets to you, you can act like a snob and take a dislike to whatever your family does. I find many things my father does quite senseless, though they might well impress an outside observer. One time, he brought home a painter. He showed him through all the rooms of the apartment and, standing before one of the walls, he ordered four paintings: landscapes and a still life. If he had found a good painter I wouldn’t have minded, but he came up with a real amateur.
    So, there was a possibility that I might fail the year. In desperation, I told my father that I intended to quit the conservatory because I did not like it. He turned as frigid as winter. Stuffing his hands in the pockets of his trousers, he paced back and forth in front of me. I sat there staring at the short legs hidden under his trousers. With a frown, he stroked his beard and then put his hands back in his pockets. I knew that all this posturing was designed to put psychological pressure on me.
    "I am going to quit the conservatory," I declared, sitting back in the armchair.
    He altered his pose to look hurt, and then frowned again.
    "When did you come up with this insane idea?" he asked.
    I was irritated by his pompous tone.
    "What’s so insane about it? I’ve thought the whole thing through again and again," I countered, imitating his pomposity. He looked me in the eyes, as if to study my reaction, and said nothing for quite some time. It was a look designed to convey an impression of profound reasoning, but I knew it was nothing of the kind. An ironic smirk crossed my lips. My father stopped his pacing and halted in front of me.
    I thought he was going to sit down in his armchair, but instead he headed for the front door, opened it slowly, went out, and shut it behind him. I remained alone in the apartment. Neither my mother nor my sister were at home. I took a book from the shelf and tried to calm my nerves by reading. A mixture of rain and snow was falling outside. It was February. The first few pages of the book contained a description of a fine sunny day. It was the story of a farm manager and a milkmaid, which I did not find overly impressive.
    I closed the book and got up. Standing at the window watching the sleet fall, I recalled that my mother, who was from the countryside, had her own word for this mixture of rain and snow. She had only gone through primary school and had never had much education. She was a good-hearted soul, even now, although she had adopted some of my father’s shortcomings. She too had become a bit vain and liked to boast about my father’s work. She would confide in the neighbours some would-be secret about a staff member at one of the ministries, about goods for import and export, or about politics. It depressed me to see her influenced by my father’s vanity. She considered him the most competent and most important man in town.
    One evening I got angry with her. Someone had phoned to talk to my father. My mother answered:
    "Mr Reufi is not available at the moment. May I transmit a message?" I was not so upset about the ‘transmit a message’ as about the ‘Mr Reufi’.
    "Aren’t you pushing it a bit, mother?" I said with a gesture of impatience.
    "What do you mean?"
    "Mr Reufi," I jeered.
    "Your father is an important figure, Arthur," she replied.
    I disliked the pretentiousness of the name Arthur, too. It had been my father’s choice.
    I stood at the window, looking down at the wet boulevard. People were rushing in all directions, huddled under their umbrellas. I could hear the rain gushing from our balcony onto the pavement below.
    The radio was playing the Appassionata. I loved that piece. It never failed to move me, though I am certainly no composer myself.
    The next day I was intending to go to the dean’s office and tell him that I was quitting the conservatory. I have no talent for music. I was majoring in composition, and to be a composer means to be a creator, and I am not a creator of music. My father’s vanity had made me an object of ridicule among the students. Mira, too, knew that they made fun of me. She is studying piano and holds the promise of becoming a good pianist. But what promise do I hold? None. A composer? I am thoroughly convinced that all possible combinations of keys have already been discovered and used, and that there are no new ones to be found. Thousands and thousands of songs, symphonies, sonatas, études, operas, operettas and cantatas resound all over the continent. A universe of sounds had already been created and to enter this universe you needed the right uniform. I had simply not found the uniform. Mira had. So had Burhan. But I haven’t. I could build a bridge or mount a turbine. Why should I have to compose a symphony or even a song?
    I thought of going to the women’s residence and of telling Mira that I was quitting the conservatory. I was sure that she would approve of my decision, and be relieved and happy about it. She would no longer have to listen to the others making fun of me or asking me with a smirk, "How many keys are there between do and ti, Arthur?"
    But who knew what Mira was doing now at the residence? Perhaps she was wading through a history of operatic music from Verdi to Wagner to coach the others. Go ahead and coach them, Mira! I’ve read books about Verdi and Wagner, too, but not to be able to parrot the information. I just read them for interest. Like history books. It’s funny, isn’t it?
    With Mira on my mind, I was about to go out when I heard my father’s footsteps.