The UCLA campus was as big as a whole city. School hadn’t started yet, but the campus was busy nonetheless. My father gave Melanie a couple of hundred dollars to shop at the student store. The engineering department was an entire building. The size of the dean of engineering was proportional. He was six feet six and round, with a ruffle of double chins draped over his starched white collar. He introduced himself as “Dean Johnson, but call me Fred.”
“I understand you’re quite the intelligent young man,” the dean said. He seemed jovial and pleasant, a nice person, with a cheerful, impish expression on his fleshy face.
“I test well.” I had the right instincts for multiple-choice questions.
“Have you taken the SATs yet?” He leaned back in his chair.
“Yes, I have. Everything is in the folder.”
He reached for the folder and perused the papers. “You scored sixteen hundred?” he asked — rhetorically, I presumed.
“We had to have him take the GCE with the British Council,” my father said. “We weren’t sure there would be any baccalaureates this year, because of the war.”
“This is very impressive,” Fred said, shaking his head. “I wish you had come to me a little earlier. Admissions have been closed for a while.” He kept looking at all my scores. “Are you considering any other university?” he asked, not removing his eyes from my papers. “Wait. Don’t answer that. Let me make a phone call.” He stood up and left his office.
Neither my father nor Uncle Jihad nor I spoke a single word while the dean was out, as if any syllable would bring down a jinni’s curse upon the proceedings. But then Uncle Jihad stood up, went over to my father, and bent his head. I heard the sound of my father’s lips meeting Uncle Jihad’s head. A good-luck kiss.
The dean re-entered the office, obviously excited. He leaned on his desk in front of me. “I may have been able to do something, but I have to ask you some questions. Are you sure UCLA is the right school for you? Have you thought about what we have to offer?”
“Yes. I like the school. I like Los Angeles.”
“And there’s a war back in your country, right?”
“Yes,” I replied, unsure where that was going.
“And UCLA is your only chance right now for an uninterrupted education, right? UCLA will provide you a peaceful setting where you can pursue a degree and continue your record of academic excellence. Isn’t that so?” I nodded. “Good. Then that’s settled.” He laughed heartily. “Here’s what I need you to do, young man. I’d like you to fill out an application for admission to the university. It has to be done right away, so I can take it to the admissions office before they close. That also includes an essay. Do you think you can do that now?” I nodded once more. “Good. Josephine outside will put you in an empty office, and you can get to work. I’ll talk to your father here about logistics.”
“Can I also take music classes?” I asked. I heard my father sigh.
The dean looked at me quizzically. “It’s not the norm for engineering students to take music classes.”
“Shouldn’t it be?” I asked. “In the Middle Ages, the music and mathematics departments were one and the same. You couldn’t study one without the other. They’re complements, really. It stayed that way until the last century. The separation of music from mathematics is recent.”
“You don’t need to study music,” my father said sternly. “You’ve already studied enough music. We won’t discuss this anymore.”
“Filling out the application may take some time,” the dean told my father. “You can wait, or I can send him to the hotel by taxi, whichever is more convenient.”
“Are you sure you can get him in?” my father asked.
“No, I’m not sure. The dean of admissions is willing to look at his records. That’s a very good sign. I’ll find out soon. In any case, here’s the application.” He handed me some forms. “Just take it outside to Josephine, and she’ll find you a quiet place to fill it out.”
I thanked him and got up to leave. “Remember,” he said, “put everything we talked about in the essay. And don’t mention the music-and-math theory, okay?”
As I closed the door, I heard my father say quietly, “He’s just a little immature sometimes. Not always.”
Before she led me to the office, I asked Josephine where the men’s room was. I went in, peed, masturbated, and sneaked a couple of puffs from a cigarette. The essay I wrote elaborated on my theory of combining math and music, and I included a timeline graph as well.
I had just stepped out of the shower when Uncle Jihad opened the bathroom door on his side. I covered myself with the towel. I was starting to hate the idea of a bathroom with doors connecting two rooms. “It’s not like I haven’t seen you naked before,” he said as I wrapped the towel around my waist. He tilted his bottle of cologne and dabbed a few drops on his scalp.
“I see you broke the perfume bottles as well,” I said. He laughed.
Uncle Jihad used to tell a story about a parrot, the pet of an oil-and-perfume merchant. For years, the parrot entertained customers with tales and anecdotes. One night, a cat chased a mouse into the shop, which frightened the parrot. She flew from shelf to shelf, breaking bottles in her wake. When the merchant returned, he hit the parrot with a blow that knocked off her head feathers. The bald parrot was upset for days, until, one morning, a man with no hair entered the shop, and the bird yelled in joy, “Did you break the perfume bottles as well?”
Uncle Jihad washed his hands, building layers of lather. “I think the dean really wants you.” He talked to my image in the mirror.
“Yes. I think I’m in.” I dried myself with a second towel. “My father wants me to take Melanie dancing.”
“He told me. I think it’s a good idea. He thinks you spend too much time studying and reading. Melanie will have fun, and it’ll be good for you.”
“He should take her dancing.”
“He’s not the dancing type.”
He stared at my chest, probably wondering why I hadn’t filled out yet. I went into my room and put on a UCLA T-shirt Melanie had bought for me.
“Where did they meet?” I asked.
“At the baccarat table.”
“Did he stop to think she’s almost as young as Lina?”
“Hey,” he said, shaking an admonishing finger, “I don’t want you to say anything like that. You can’t even think that.” He stood before me in my room, his face an angry red. He looked exhausted, for some reason.
Chain-smoking, Lina had finished three cigarettes on the balcony. She gestured for me to get rid of Hafez, running her forefinger across her throat. She may have left the room, but her specter hadn’t. “I hear you went to the old neighborhood,” Hafez said. “I go there quite a bit these days so I don’t forget. I can take you into your apartment if you want.”
“That might be interesting.”
“Why don’t you play the oud for him?”
I hesitated, surprised. “Hafez, I haven’t played the oud in about thirty years.”
It was his turn to look stunned. “Why? You were so good. What happened?”
“I switched to guitar a long time ago, and then I stopped playing that. I got bored.”
“I don’t understand.” His voice rose to more than just a whisper. He seemed more animated. “Everyone was so envious of you. The family used to talk about your playing. How can you get bored with music? I wouldn’t have.” He smiled at me, and his eyes regained a bit of luster. “I guess I should go now, look in on my mother. Call me if you want to go to the old neighborhood.” I walked with him to the door, four steps. “I would have kept on playing if I had your talent,” he said. “Yes, I would.”