5

    I did not return to the conservatory the next day. I lay on the couch with my hands behind my head staring at the ceiling, daydreaming. The other students were now in their second class. Mira was sitting on a bench and writing. Burhan, with his pronounced jaw, was sitting behind her, taking copious notes. My father was at the office perusing important documents about important meetings of concern to the division he headed. They all say that he works hard and expects everyone else to do the same. I have no doubt about that. My father is a hard and conscientious worker all right. I have seen him work both at home and at the office. Whenever he has a report to write he is all keyed up like a child. He writes, gnaws nervously at his pencil, gets up, sits down. He is daring in his criticism. He once criticized his superior, Shemsedin, for wasting money on building a public library for a small town, a building which, as my father predicted, became outdated within ten years and had to be rebuilt. My father was right, I know, but what would Mira be thinking now? She would perhaps be thinking that I would never return to the conservatory. Maybe the time had come for us to go our separate ways. I would become an engineer and she would be a musician. We would have nothing in common. Unless of course I married her. My wife the musician. I gave a loud laugh, and my mother came into the room.
    "What’s wrong, Arthur? Why are you crying?" she asked anxiously.
    She stood beside me and stroked my forehead, saying calmly:
    "Leave the conservatory, son. You’re just torturing yourself," and took out a handkerchief to wipe a tear off my cheek.
    She smiled.
    "How you frightened me! I haven’t heard you cry since you were a child."
    "I was laughing, mother."
    "That was no laugh," she said and left the room.
    I trembled in confusion. I am not superstitious but was taken by an ominous foreboding. It was true, I said to myself, I had been crying.
    At that moment the telephone rang. My mother went to answer.
    "Yes? Mr Reufi? No, Mr Reufi has no meeting today. He will be back at two-thirty this afternoon. Where are you calling from? The conservatory. I’ll give him your message. All right," she said and hung up.
    I studied the expression on her face.
    "You see, mother? Mr Reufi! Why do you call him Mr Reufi on the phone? At home you just call him Demo."
    She looked at me tenderly.
    "Everyone calls him Mr Reufi on the phone. It’s just become a habit."
    "Well, it’s a bad habit."
    "But tell me, Arthur, why do you want to quit the conservatory?"
    "I simply have no talent for music, mother." I said seriously.
    "You have no talent? And what about Burhan, that simpleton? You are surely more talented than he is. Isn’t there some other reason? Your father said you have been chasing girls and neglecting your studies and that was why you wanted to quit."
    "That isn’t true. I simply have no ear for music."
    "Don’t be silly! Burhan has sandals for ears. Why should he be any better?" she asked.
    I smiled.
    "What are you smiling at?" she asked. "You’re an intelligent boy. Why shouldn’t you finish your studies at the conservatory?"
    "What would you prefer, mother? For me to have a prestigious job and be worse than everyone else or to have a less impressive job and be just as good as everyone else?"
    My mother shook her head.
    "For you to be just as good as the others," she admitted quietly.
    Just then, the front door opened and I caught sight of my father’s hat and black coat. He shut the door quietly behind him and entered the room, looking out towards the balcony. He took off his coat and hat and sat down on a chair without saying a word. Giving me a quick glance, he turned to my mother.
    "Did anyone phone for me?"
    "The conservatory," she replied.
    "About him," he muttered, pointing to me.
    "I don’t know," said my mother.
    "But I do," he said, turning towards me. "So, you were not at the conservatory today, young man. You prefer to spend the day in bed or whatever it is you’ve been doing."
    God, I thought to myself, he is going to start up with that ‘whatever’ business again.
    "All right, all right," he said, turning to my mother. "Let’s have lunch."
    A heavy silence fell on the room, broken only by the clatter of plates and cutlery. Our arguments always seem to be preceded by an overture of clattering plates and cutlery.
    "So," said my father, sitting down to the table, "we have to waste our time dealing with our son’s escapades, as if we didn’t have enough work on our hands. We get to follow his adventures at the dean’s office and the rectorate. A fine repayment for all we’ve done for him!"
    I thought it was best not to say anything.
    "Eat your meal, Demo," said my mother.
    "It’s like poison. I feel like I’m eating some well-prepared poison."
    My mother gave me a frightened look.
    "I have been told a lot of things about this young man. They say he is supposed to be capable, talented. But unused talent is the same as no talent at all. Has he been given an opportunity to use his talent? Yes. It is not the government’s fault. I have been told that he is not attending classes. He has been chasing after one of those miniskirts, one of those wiggling, giggling bits of skirt," he shouted, rising to imitate a young girl.
    This was one of the funniest scenes ever to have taken place in our house, but I was careful not to laugh. My mother gave a laugh though and was repaid with an angry glance as he sat down again. He had not yet touched his food.
    "He has come up with one of those girls I was talking about, has abandoned his studies, and now he wants to quit the conservatory altogether. The dean’s office and the rectorate should never have allowed girls like that into the conservatory. It’s unbelievable!"
    "Don’t insult a nice girl," I interrupted dryly. My father turned to me, his heavy eyebrows frowning over eyes sparkling with fury.
    "We often defend those who are unworthy of defence in order to defend ourselves. That is what you are doing," he said.
    "We often give others the blame to save our own skin. You’re blaming her to defend me because things have to be the way you want them to be. There is a fundamental error in your thinking. I already told you. I have recognized the fact that I have no talent for music. It was clear to me from the very start that this road is not taking me where I want to go. If I continue down it right to the end I will have to go all the way back eventually, and that will make it all the more difficult for me. So I’d rather choose another road now. You think it’s because of her? Well, let me tell you," I began to tremble, "I don’t need you to tell me what to do at every step I take in life. It was you who pointed me down that road and I obeyed. But it was a mistake. Now I’m taking my own road. And I don’t need you anymore."
    My father stared at me, rose to his feet and began pacing back and forth. Steam was still rising from the dishes full of food. Then he stopped and looked at me as if I were a complete stranger.
    "Me telling you what to do?" he murmured. "You have learned some strange ideas. Is that the way all young people think nowadays? The right road, self-knowledge, awareness of your talents, of your limitations. Do you think you have justified yourself and convinced me?"
    He sat down and took up his spoon, saying no more. I could hear it clattering in the soup dish.