The Orphan Sky (4 page)

The glorious maestoso of ascending chords in the main theme of Pyotr Tchaikovsky's
Piano
Concerto
no. 1
resonated inside my soul, igniting the cascade of fireworks across the sky of my future. The sky within my reach.

“Thanks for keeping me company.” I gave a slight bow to my gargoyle, went inside, and closed the balcony door.

By now my music room was completely dark, its stillness assaulted only by a ticking clock.
Ticktock
…
ticktock
… Tiny arrows were flying out of the old gilded timepiece that hung over my baby grand Bösendorfer.

I had to focus on the “Rondo,” the third movement of Beethoven's
Sonata
Pathétique
, the piece I was going to play at Saturday's recital.

But first, I needed to try something. I lifted the lid of my piano, settled on the bench, and closed my eyes, evoking the nostalgic mood of Chopin's “Ballade no. 1” in Vladimir Horowitz's rendition.

The opening Neapolitan A-flat major chord set the majestic aura for the first theme, a song of the wind sweeping over the nocturnal sea. A shy moon peered through smoked glass, the pearl of her face in a blur. Agate clouds sailed solemnly across the sky, chasing a lone seagull. The wind picked up the tempo, blowing at the sea, raising the waves all the way to the sky, building up to a thundering
presto
con
fuoco
. A breath of silence—until the storm erupted into a fiery double-octave scale plummeting all the way down my keyboard.

Immersed in Chopin's melancholy, I played the “Ballade” along with the traitor Vladimir Horowitz, again and again, pouring my loneliness into the music. Knowing even then, in my very young, fifteen-year-old heart, that it wasn't Comrade Farhad's assignment that had brought me to the green room.

It was destiny.

The next day I returned to Ashuglar Street. Nothing had changed. The same cast of grungy characters. A few
tztztz
followed me as I passed the
chaikhana
, and the fat grocer saluted me with his lewd three-fingered proposition. I went straight to the green door, pressed forward, and stepped inside.

Before my eyes could adjust to the darkness, I heard, “
Salam
eleykum
, peace be upon you, sunshine. Which of the winds should I praise for bringing you to my temple of music?”

I peered through the dim light, trying to locate the source of the high, melodious voice. And there he was.

Aladdin, wearing a dervish turban and a white tunic, seated cross-legged on a dark burgundy Afghani rug that seemed to float between clouds of smoke. The same boy I had seen the day before. But he didn't look like a carefree Aladdin today. More like an Aladdin who had lost his magic lamp and didn't even care. His face looked ghostly in the amber glow of an oil lamp. A cigarette dangled from the lower lip of his mouth. And his almond-shaped eyes could hardly accommodate two terribly dilated pupils.

So that's what it was—that sweet scent of black currant. Hashish.

The boy-man in front of me was a hash head. A junkie. I turned to leave.

“Oh no. Don't go.” Rising from the rug, he leaped across his grotto like a gazelle, planting himself next to me, blocking my escape with his arm across the threshold. “Don't leave. I'm not going to bite you.”

He chewed on a cigarette, his eyes wide open, struggling to keep me in their focus. The task seemed to exhaust him. He removed his arm from the threshold and sagged back against the wall, tapping his fingers on his thighs. Rhythmically.

“Camille Saint-Saëns—
Danse
Macabre
,” he said. “The xylophone plays the dance of rattling bones. And here's the devil's interval.” He made a loop with his hand in the air as if conducting the orchestra. “Fun, ha? I dig music, not little girls. You're totally safe with me here. The real monsters”—he squinted and jerked his head toward the door—“the real monsters are out there. So what's your name, sunshine?”

I hesitated. “Leila.”

“‘A dark-haired beauty bathing in moonlight, her olive skin as smooth as the touch of the sea, a thousand silver stars reflecting in her smile.'”

An ancient verse depicting the meaning of my name.

“How do you know this?”

“I know everything. I've got four eyes in the back of my head, and I know that you were spying on me the other day.”

“No, I wasn't. I was just walking by. And then I heard music.”

“I didn't know my music was blasting all over the street.”

“No, it wasn't really. It's just that piece.”

“Chopin?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm. I guess you loved it so much you needed to take the sleeve with you as a memento.” He paused. “Or as evidence?”

“Evidence of what?”

“Of my anti-Soviet activities.”

His face reverted to its ghostly appearance. His eyes—now iron gray—scrutinized me openly. The air grew heavy, thick as molasses. Every breath sounded like a cello sawing away against the bouncing-bow contrabasses of my heartbeat.

Aladdin took the cigarette out of his mouth, rubbed it against the sole of his sandal, and aimed for the sink. Missed. His hands flew up in resignation. “Oh well. At least today it's pretty close. Don't they say a good guest brings good luck with him? With
her
.” His mouth curled into what could pass for a smirk. “Would you like some tea, Leila? Then we can sit and talk in detail about my anti-Soviet scheme.”

His offer made my throat dry. The room spun around me, the slow
ceyrani
dance picking up speed. Why did he reveal himself? Why?

Unless he was planning to recruit me for his spy operation. Should I play along, win his trust, and then expose the plot?

“I'd love some tea,” I said. “Just not too strong.”

“I'll make it to your liking.”

Aladdin bolted to a small, dilapidated stove plunked in the corner of the room. He struggled to light a fire, striking one match after another, failing to turn the gas on in time. His movements seemed awkward, his motor coordination disorderly. What kind of spy was this?

“Do you have many customers?” I asked.

“Not really. I might even say you are my first one. With Allah's help, others will follow.”

“With what you just said and with the rumors going around town, I don't think even Allah can help you.”

“This town brews gossip as much as it brews tea. Which rumor have you heard? The one that I am an American spy? Or the one that I'm a villain straight from Jafar's cave, selling venomous music?”

I giggled before I could fight it off.

“What's so funny?”

“Nothing really. It's just…‘venomous music' sounds like a flock of poisonous frogs singing in the swamp, all at the same time.”

“Poisonous frogs, you said.” He tilted his head, gaping sideways, as if visualizing the image, then grinned, displaying a mouthful of teeth. “Nice. I should write that down somewhere. Now let's make that tea happen.”

He struck another match, managing to turn the gas on in time. Next he placed an iron pot on the fire that danced happily on top of the stove. Then, retrieving two
armuds
, pear-shaped glasses, from the shelf, he set them on a small tray with sugar and mint. The air of hostility melted away. The magic lamp returned to Aladdin's hands.

A barely dressed woman in a bowler hat smiled devilishly at me from the wall, her black bodice and satin shorts, fishnet stockings and shiny boots obviously aimed at exposing rather than concealing her voluptuous body.

Pornography? Did I break a law by looking at this indignity?

“Do you know who this lady is?” Aladdin asked.

“No.”

“But you think she is fascinating, don't you?”

I shrugged.

“It's a poster for a movie titled
Cabaret
, in which she acts and sings. Her name is Liza Minnelli. I have a few of her songs. Would you like to hear?”

If
you
listen
to
his
recordings, your skin will turn into fish
scales.

“No, I really have to get going.”

Aladdin swept to the alcove, drew an album, and placed it on the turntable.

A lazy clarinet zigzagged a melody, its timbre trailing raspy echoes as if a performer had chosen a worn-out reed or accidentally dropped one inside the instrument's bore. Then a pause, followed by the sound of a strenuous breath. A brazen, haunting female voice poured out of the gramophone. A voice of dark velvet. A voice like no other, carrying nostalgia from some mysterious, fantastic world. A world I had known before. Somewhere. A long time ago. Maybe in a different life? Or a dream?

I couldn't understand the words. Instead, I contemplated them like the images in old black-and-white movies: ripples of rain sliding down a window; the lights of the city fading into the night; sea waves breaking across a deserted beach; two silhouettes against the moonlit path, their hands entwined, their first kiss.

I closed my eyes, embarrassed. Exposed. The passion of the music stripped me of my usual common sense and left my heart vulnerable to secret desires. Now I knew for sure that I was in a sorcerer's lair. That I should run from this place as fast and as far as possible.

But I couldn't leave. I yearned for more as if I had fallen under the spell of Aladdin's music. The music had awakened in me something thrilling, forbidden, and so powerful that I felt wings—not fish scales—growing out of my skin.

Azerbaijan had always played an important role in world affairs due to its unique geographical position at the crossroads of Iran, Turkey, and Russia. In the past, Islamic Azerbaijan served as the gate between the mysterious faraway East and prosperous Europe. By the 1970s, Soviet Azerbaijan had become a faithful, staunch outpost of European Communism as it made its way farther into Asia.

Our ally, Hafez al-Assad, became the president of Syria, and a Stalin disciple, Saddam Hussein, took the presidency of Iraq. The Iranian Revolution, with its Communist roots, sent the Shah and his family packing and out of the country. And the Marxist Party of Afghanistan appealed to the Kremlin for military support in its fight against the Islamic Mujahideen.

May 1979 was the month that would reshape the entire world. It was then, behind closed doors, that members of the Politburo of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union signed a top-secret document ordering the invasion of Afghanistan. That single decree was the irrevocable beginning of the end of the great Soviet Empire, which had been crumbling since its inception in 1922. Of course we, the people of the Empire, had no idea at the time. Communism—the only order of life we knew—kept its mighty grip on our hearts and minds.

On Friday afternoon, I left college early to attend the Assembly of the 26 Baku Commissars District Committee of Komsomol for the first time as its junior member. Afraid to be late, I ran all the way there—along busy Communist Street, past the white colonnade of the Azerbaijan State Philharmonic Concert Hall, past a beehive of people moving in and out of the Baksoviet Metro station, past the pointed arches and ornate facade of the Academy of Sciences, and all the way to Nizami Square with the magnificent bronze sculpture of the medieval poet Nizami Ganjavi.

The sun patted me on the back. The wind sprayed me with salty mist. A shortcut through the alley, down Uzeyir Hajibeyov Street with its row of blooming magnolia trees, and I arrived at the steps of the District Komsomol Committee Headquarters, joining the motley crowd of delegates.

At exactly twelve thirty, the heavy doors opened, and we poured into the auditorium. Red satin covered its walls. A crimson banner hung over the stage with the slogan: “Long live Azerbaijan, the younger brother of the Soviet Union.” At center stage, a placard depicted our founding fathers—Karl Marx, Friedrich Engels, and Vladimir Lenin—their names painted in gold on the red streamer of the Revolution.

I took my seat next to a young woman from some rural
aul
who wore a long, purple dress with multiple skirts, her head scarf tied in a knot so the ends stuck out like ears. On my other side sat a Russian sailor with the frame of a bear and the face of a Siberian husky, his watered-down blue eyes heavy with exhaustion.

The auditorium boiled in anticipation, but the sound of the drums silenced the crowd instantly. Comrade Farhad, poised and stately in a formal black suit, came onstage from the left side carrying the flag of Soviet Azerbaijan. Another man emerged from the right. Short but sturdy, with a pale face, thin blond hair, and a military bearing, he gripped the wooden pole of a notably larger flag of the Soviet Union, the Red Banner.

Meeting in the middle of the stage, they descended the stairs together and marched through the auditorium accompanied by the beat of the drums. Circling the rear, they returned to the stage, placed both flags next to the bronze bust of the leader of our country, Comrade Brezhnev, and gave him a military salute. The crowd rose and, on Comrade Farhad's signal, began singing the State Anthem of the Azerbaijan SSR.

“Azerbaijan, the splendorous
f
lower of the
Republic…

The
astute
leadership
of
the
Party
of
Lenin
set
us
on
course…”

The young woman next to me reached into her sack, dug up a handkerchief, and wiped away the tears sliding down her cheeks.

“Attention!” Comrade Farhad knocked on the microphone, ordering silence. Leaning with both hands against the red of the podium, he announced, “Comrades, the thirty-seventh Assembly of the 26 Baku Commissars District Committee of Komsomol is officially opened. Long live Soviet Komsomol!”

Springing to our feet, we applauded enthusiastically until Comrade Farhad gestured for us to stop. The ovation gradually subsided, and we settled in our seats.

“Long live the next generation of the Communist Party!” Comrade Farhad shouted.

In a flash we were back on our feet with another round of applause. This time the front row seemed to be leading the chaotic ovation into a steady beat. After a while, Comrade Farhad knocked on the microphone. We returned to our seats.

“Long live the Communist Party of the Soviet Union!”

Another standing ovation. Another signal to stop. Down…up…down.

“Long live the Soviet people, the builders of Communism!”

That ovation was the loudest by far. I thought the ceiling was going to come down. Finally, Comrade Farhad raised his right hand and ordered the people to take their seats. This time for good.

“Comrades,” he said, “today, as never before, we stand united against the vicious incursions of American imperialism. I have received an urgent memo from Moscow about the American military machine waving its muscle at our ally, the free people of Afghanistan. The people who have deposed their dictator and decided to choose the only right path of life”—Comrade Farhad struck his fist against the podium—“the path of Communism.”

The room broke into a hurricane again. The peasant woman next to me shouted her support in the highest trumpet decibels.

“I'll tell you this.” Comrade Farhad's powerful voice cut through the noise. “We will say to corrupt America—NO! We'll say to gluttonous America—NO!”

The crowd joined him: “We'll say NO! We'll say NO!”

“Let the enemy beware,” Comrade Farhad continued, “that we, the Komsomol of Soviet Azerbaijan, the fearless future generation of the Communist Party, stand shoulder to shoulder with the freedom-choosing people of Afghanistan. And we are ready to spill our blood under our red banners!”

Tall and commanding, his eyes shining with determination, successfully restraining his stutter by carefully articulating every word, Comrade Farhad was a drummer of the Communist faith. He delivered his message clearly, logically, and directly, his charisma and fervor echoing in the hearts of his audience. Leaders like Comrade Farhad stood on the front lines of our lives, capable—I believed—of changing history.

But something didn't feel right. Was it the pounding of his fist against the podium that kept distracting me? It seemed disconnected from his body or his words and reminded me of the orchestra at the Baku opera house accompanying the “Sabre Dance” by Aram Khachaturian. A poorly rehearsed orchestra, with the xylophone and strings struggling to find a common pace with timpani in the opening ostinato. Then the dancers poured onstage, whirling in their war dance, waving their papier-mâché swords, and clashing with the low brass.

Comrade Farhad concluded his speech and gestured toward the blond man who'd carried the flag of the Soviet Union. “I'm privileged to introduce Comrade Popov, our honored guest from Moscow, the First Secretary of the Novokuznetsky Committee of Komsomol.” He started clapping enthusiastically, conducting the crowd to follow.

Comrade Popov marched to the podium and cleared his throat. “I will focus on two issues: the People's Revolution in Iran, and the role of Marxism–Leninism in our successful annihilation of religion. As we all know, Free Iran abolished its American surveillance bases near the Azerbaijani border. Comrade Leonid Brezhnev sent his congratulations to Ayatollah Khomeini, promising to stand shoulder to shoulder with our new friend and neighbor, the People's Republic of Iran. And soon we will witness the final stage of the Iranian revolution—the victory of Iranian Communism…”

I listened to Comrade Popov in total confusion. Just a few days earlier, I'd overheard a conversation Papa had with his friend Parviz—a member of the Tudeh Party of Iran. Parviz said that the Communist revolution in Iran was lost to ayatollahs, and soon the entire country would be transformed into a single, giant mosque.

Was Comrade Popov misleading us? But why?

“Now I will focus on the role of Marxism–Leninism in our fight against a two-headed hydra, religious fervor coming from the East and toxic hedonism coming from the West,” he continued. “As Karl Marx stated: ‘Religion is the sigh of the oppressed creature, the heart of a heartless world, and the soul of soulless condition. It is the opium of the people.' The same applies to the so-called Western democracy, which is nothing more than a poisonous materialistic ideology used by the ruling classes to deceive and enslave their people.

“The only difference between those two ideologies lies in their methods—the venom of religious zeal is God, while the weapon of Western corruption is money. And Communism is the only alternative to these decaying, evil dogmas. We've been successful in annihilating the religious hydra on our soil, but we must continue to root it out, one head at a time…”

Comrade Popov spoke for a long time, slamming the podium in the same disconnected manner Comrade Farhad had done but with seemingly less conviction. I sank, melting into my chair, terrified by my state of mind. What was going on with me? Why was I doubtful about my leaders' sincerity? I had never had thoughts like this before. Seditious thoughts. Had I been contaminated? Had Aladdin slipped something into my tea?

Or could it have been his music?

Whatever it was, I had to clean myself up. To tell Comrade Farhad my findings about Aladdin. Something dangerous existed behind that green door. Something that had easily intercepted my rational thinking. And that's why Comrade Farhad had sent me there in the first place—to test my Communist perseverance.

I didn't like the idea of getting Aladdin in trouble. But I couldn't shirk my duty. The duty of a Komsomol member. I had to report him.

After the end of the assembly, I rushed to Comrade Farhad's office. The waiting room was empty so I peeked through the glass partition. Inside, Comrade Popov sprawled like a sultan in Comrade Farhad's big brown chair, smoking a cigarette, dropping ashes on the floor, and bossing Comrade Farhad around. To my surprise, Comrade Farhad, who I had never seen take a command from anyone, bustled about, swearing into a phone and trying to arrange a special tour for Comrade Popov at the major oil-refinery plant.

The moment he noticed me, his dark highlander's face turned carnation red, and he hastily waved me off. I reached into my bag, found the invitation to my recital on Saturday, placed it on his secretary's desk, and left.