4

    Burhan and Mira accompanied me almost all the way back home and were just as uneasy as I. These were my last days at the conservatory. Although it was my own wish to leave, my heart ached at the thought of no longer seeing my friends, the auditorium, the staircase. If I had had but one ounce of inclination, if not to say talent for music, I would not have left. But I knew that I had been in that temple of the muses too long already. There were others who knew they had neither the inclination nor the talent and yet continued to follow the herd. They gravitated inertly towards the more talented students, spent all their time with them and considered themselves talented. They would adopt the attitudes and views of the gifted students and turn up their noses sceptically at what others were doing in art. They were snobs. Snobs for me are people who play the part of apes, or apes who play the part of people. That is something I simply cannot do. I could turn up my nose at others, but I refuse to do so.
    "If you leave now you are going to be bored stiff at home until the new school year begins. You can’t start university in mid-semester," said Burhan.
    Mira was listening to him. She turned to me and waited to hear what answer I would give. I was slightly offended at the idea that Burhan thought I would sit at home or loiter around in the streets doing nothing. He thought that since my father had an important position I would be choosy and would refuse to accept just any job. I turned towards him, sensing from his expression that I must look worn out.
    "I don’t intend to wait for the new school year to begin," I said.
    "Well, what are you going to do then?" he asked.
    "I am going to get a job in a factory. I like machine and tractor plants, for instance."
    Burhan stopped. He gave no sign of surprise, but I knew that he did not believe a word I was saying.
    "Mr Reufi won’t let you," he said.
    I was not too pleased by Burhan’s view of my father. I do argue with my father but I don’t accuse him of faults he doesn’t have. What made Burhan think that my father wouldn’t let me work in a factory?
    "Look, Burhan, my father wasn’t born with a silver spoon in his mouth," I said.
    "Sorry," replied Burhan, "What I meant was that your father wants you to continue your studies, and he won’t be too pleased at the idea of your getting a job instead of going to university."
    "Yes, that’s what he meant," Mira broke in, placatingly.
    I looked at her, thinking, "Why does she always have to take Burhan’s side?"
    I was hoping that he would leave so that I could be alone with Mira. "Burhan is so thick! Why doesn’t he leave the two of us alone? What if I wanted to hold her hand or even kiss her? What is he waiting for? He’s a good friend, but still..."
    Burhan seemed to understand that his presence bothered me, and as we were near my home, said he had to be off because he had a friend to meet to meet a friend.
    I remained alone with Mira. Slender and wrapped in her blue coat, she walked beside me in silence. The wet street and the dampness in the air seemed to have penetrated the marrow of her bones. From time to time she shivered and huddled close to me as if in search of warmth.
    "Are you cold, Mira?" I asked.
    "A bit," she replied.
    "Mira, I am going to quit the conservatory, but that doesn’t mean that we won’t see one another," I said taking her hand. Her little fingers were lost in my palm. They were cold and I squeezed them. I could feel a current of warmth and sweetness pass through my body. Mira lowered her head. Her black hair covered one eye and half of her lovely face. She was the only girl I had ever loved. She had come to the conservatory from Korça and we had met in the very first days of the school year. Of course she could not know at the time that I had no talent for music. I may have looked talented and sensitive but something was lacking in me. I didn’t have the soul of a musician. And yet I was sure she would love me even if she discovered my lack of talent.
    It pained her to hear the others making fun of my weakness in music. Sometimes she would go red in the face and become furious. But she loved me anyway.
    We heard footsteps behind us. It was my father in his heavy coat and black hat. He caught up to us and stopped. Mira cowered behind me. I could sense her quivering.
    "So you are out for a walk instead of at your studies I see," he said in a huff.
    "Our classes have just finished," I replied coldly.
    My father was silent for a moment. He gave us a look and then, backing off slowly, departed with a solemn stride.
    "I didn’t know what to do!" said Mira slowly.
    "There’s no reason to be afraid," I said.
    "Your father is an imposing figure."
    "He plays the part professionally. He considers us and everyone else his subordinates," I said.
    "How can you say that about your father, Arthur?" Mira chided.
    "I was just joking," I said, giving a laugh.
    I walked Mira to the bus station and then returned home.
    My parents were having lunch. I sat down and watched the movements of their spoons. My father was chewing and his lips were making a noise like someone treading on muddy ground.
    "You’re back?" he said without raising his head.
    "I’m back," I replied.
    "So you’re back!" he repeated.
    "Yes, I’m back," I said again.
    My mother interjected:
    "Do you want something to eat, Arthur?"
    "All right," I replied.
    From their attitude I saw that they had been talking about me. My father had no doubt been playing the prosecution and my mother had been taking the defence.
    She loaded my plate with food and I went to sit down at my father’s side, the two of us munching away, he loudly and I quietly.
    "Are you tired?" my father asked.
    "Yes, I am," I responded, my eyes fixed on my plate and the spoon in my hand.
    "Tired of walking the streets," he said, wiping his mouth with a serviette.
    "You’re right, and I’m also tired of hearing your accusations," I answered calmly.
    My father rose from the table, his cheeks scarlet. He did not like my answer although I had not contradicted him.
    "You’re wasting your valuable time with that little tramp. You may have talent for women but no talent for music," he uttered, gradually bringing the tone of his deep voice to a crescendo.
    "Enough now. Let him eat his meal in peace!" my mother broke in.
    "All right, I should leave him alone, should I?" said my father sarcastically.
    I ignored him and continued to eat. It infuriated him to see me eating calmly while he was so upset.
    Approaching the table, he seized my spoon and hurled it to the floor.
    "I am talking to you and you sit there eating your lunch as if nothing had happened!"
    I could feel his heavy breathing on the back of my neck. I rose and said:
    "I’m sorry."
    My father gave no reply, nor did my mother. I stood in front of him defiantly. I could feel that I was paling.
    He stood in front of me for a moment, then turned and went off into his bedroom. My mother and I remained in the kitchen. I could not bring myself to sit down again. I stood staring at the blank wall for several moments. It was like the sensation I had at the conservatory after an exam. I was the last student to be examined. All the others had gone. The students had left and the professor was gone, too. I stood there clutching my notebook and staring. There, face to face with the auditorium wall, I felt my total defeat, the futility of all my efforts. I became aware that my presence in that auditorium was a huge mistake. The longer I stayed, the more I would suffer. I would suffer all my life from an inferiority complex, from a feeling of being a mediocrity, a boor. On graduation I would join the ranks of those with diplomas of higher education who are neither specialists nor intellectuals. I would become a statistic in a yearbook and nothing more. I did not want to be a simple statistic. I stared at the wall with the notebook in my hand and began to shiver. Suddenly I felt relieved, relieved to have found myself. "This is not my road in life," I said. "There are other roads." I put the notebook in my pocket and departed. It was that moment I recalled as I stood in the kitchen, as my mother sat silently at the table, as my food remained uneaten on the plate, and as Mira sat at home at the women’s residence.
    "Listen to your father," said my mother. "He knows what he’s talking about."
    I sat down on a chair. It was only then that I became aware of what my mother was saying.
    "I don’t want to become a statistic!" I said.
    My mother stared at me:
    "A statistic?"
    "A statistic!" I repeated.
    She had no idea what I meant.