2

    My father took his coat off, hung it up in the hall and entered the room. He had a sombre look on his face.
    "Where are you going?" he asked.
    "I was just going out to meet a friend!"
    "Sit down for a moment," he said, motioning to a chair.
    I sat down. He took a packet of cigarettes and a lighter out of his waistcoat pocket. I could smell the tobacco and the lighter fluid.
    "Every stage of life," he said, "is subject to many factors."
    I could feel the word ‘but’ on its way and decided to counter-attack: "Factors can change and improve."
    He raised his eyes under their thick eyebrows and gave a big laugh which I was not expecting. He took out his striped handkerchief and wiped his eyes. Lowering his head, he placed it back into his pocket.
    "Very clever," he murmured, taking his hand out of his pocket.
    I rose to my feet.
    "Sorry, father, but my friends are waiting for me."
    He made an impatient gesture which betrayed his anger.
    "Sit down!" he ordered.
    I hesitated for a moment on my long legs and sat down.
    "You have been hiding things from me," he said gravely.
    "I told you frankly enough that I am quitting the conservatory."
    "You are hiding things from me, son," he repeated with a note of displeasure in his voice. "I succeeded in getting you into the National Institute of the Arts without you going through the entrance exams. You entered on the recommendation of influential people. A whole ministry acted on your behalf. And now, after a mere five months, you intend to trample on everything we have done, all the favours and assistance. If my colleagues find out what you have decided to do, they will be put in a very awkward position. And it will be extremely embarrassing for me, your father. I inquired at the dean’s office and they assured me you had talent but that you were wasting your time on matters incompatible with your studies, a fact which I find revolting."
    I gave my father a pitying look. His forehead was perspiring. Drops of sweat had formed around his mouth and under his nose at the edge of his moustache. What he said was true.
    "Revolting!" he shouted.
    "I’m surprised," I said.
    "You have no reason to be surprised! Revolting! Now they tell me that your thoughts are not concentrated on your studies, your sonatas or solfeggios or whatever you call them, but on the fair sex."
    It was obvious that my father was furious. He stammered and repeated himself, but I was still not too sure where he was leading.
    "The fair sex?" I asked.
    "The sair fex! Girls!" he shouted, bathed in sweat and foaming at the mouth.
    I couldn’t keep a straight face. I got up and laughed out loud. In his hysteria, my father had committed one of his spoonerisms.
    "Shut up and sit down!" he ordered. "Revolting, I tell you! It’s all this television! This hippy generation! Aping everything from the West! East and West together!"
    I bit the back of my hand to keep from laughing again.
    "Get that hand away from your mouth!" my father shouted and jumped up.
    I had to keep my hand in front of my mouth to prevent myself from giggling. My father grabbed my arm. My giggling stopped at once.
    "You hippy!" he cried, and turned his back on me.
    He stopped at the door, turned towards me and added in a calmer voice, "This girl you’ve been seeing at the conservatory - Mira is her name, isn’t it? All right. Do whatever you want! Go ahead and concentrate on the girls and forget your solfeggios and studies. You’ll see what a mire this Mira is going to leave you in." With this, he left the room and stomped down the hallway.
    All alone, I was indignant that Mira’s name had been drawn into the matter. Why should she be involved?