The Orphan Sky (26 page)

Oh, how tired I was of dilapidated planes, filthy trains, broken-down buses, cockroach-populated hotels. But more than anything else, I couldn't take any more of eating pig fat, the only available staple of the
great
Soviet Union. Pig fat with an egg for breakfast. Pig fat with potato for lunch. Pig fat with pig meat for dinner.

A bout of nausea hit my stomach. I squeezed my fists into my abdomen, trying to force the bout to die out. It worked.

One night we performed in a small town in the Kazakh oblast of Semipalatinsk, where more than four hundred nuclear tests, equal to twenty thousand Hiroshima bombs, had been carried out in the previous forty years. During those nuclear experiments, the residents of the site had been moved to safe homes. A few days later, they were delivered back to their farms with contaminated soil and irradiated livestock. A “heroic Communist act”—that's how the director of our hotel, Bright Future, proudly described their return.

All of a sudden, a scent of saffron touched my nostrils. I sniffed intently. No mistake—the smell of home. But why here, in the heart of the Siberian taiga?

I would do anything to taste a
plov
. With walnuts and cherries and the hint of lemon. And
kutabs
. Greasy and spicy. With yogurt and mint and lamb.

The audience applauded the poorly tuned Tatarstan State Orchestra, and the conductor, a petite butterball with greased-up hair in a golden brocade tuxedo, rushed back onstage, signaling his musicians to return for an encore before the clapping could expire. The trombonist, while marching to his place behind the orchestra, dumped the excessive spit from inside his instrument onto the floor directly next to me.

Another bout of nausea.

Finally, the orchestra cleared, and the local presenter wobbled to the microphone. I could smell his alcohol breath from behind the curtain.

“And now let's put our hands together and welcome a special talent. Leila Ba-d…Leila B-a-a-da-…”

Without waiting for him to announce me properly, I sprang toward the piano with a single wish—to get it over with as quickly and as painlessly as possible on this corroded, out-of-tune Rostov-on-Don upright piano missing the first octave F-sharp key. I thrust my right hand onto the keyboard with the opening chord of Chopin's
Revolutionary
Étude
—the explosion of the artillery—enjoying its disturbing, obnoxious timbre and letting it ring out before throwing my left hand into the battle. The polyrhythm of the melody clashed with relentless arpeggios like a wounded soul trapped inside a dark maze of passion, loneliness, and fear. Running and running.

But no matter how far and deep into the Siberian taiga or the Kazakh Desert I tried to bury myself, no matter how many logical explanations for the spells of nausea I had mastered in my head, there was one devastating reality to face, accept, and deal with. As soon as possible.

I was almost three months pregnant.

The Fable of Crane and Frog

Once Frog jumped out of the swamp and saw Crane flying in the azure sky.

“Let's be friends,” said Frog.

“I'm afraid our friendship is not possible,” replied Crane.

“But why?”

“Because you live in the marsh, and I fly in the clouds. I can't breathe under the water, and you don't have wings to fly.”

“If you take me with you into the sky, I'll grow wings. I promise.”

So, on a nice, clear day, Frog climbed on Crane's back, and together they took off, both enjoying the journey until Crane soared too high into the sky, and Frog fell back into the marsh, hurt and crippled.

The blast of a gale-force Khazri threw a cascade of rain in my face, but I didn't even bother putting on my hood. Why worry about getting wet when you're already drowning?

Old Town felt creepier than ever: on one side, the clusters of crumbling houses, their inhabitants asleep; on the other side, the ancient catacombs with dead from the thirteenth century. All was obscured in the shadows of the night, under skies vomiting rain and hailstones.

“The night hides a world, but reveals a universe,” said an old adage. True. Alone on the nocturnal streets of Baku, I couldn't have seen my universe more clearly—shrunken to minuscule, an out-of-control elevator dropping with mind-blowing speed down a deserted shaft.

The music of
mugam
wove through the rustle of the vines disturbed by the wind. Faint light streamed through the window of a small teahouse. I peeked inside. An old man in a white robe and turban sat cross-legged on a rug next to a steaming teapot. His eyes closed, his hand held prayer beads, and his thin, agile upper body swayed in rhythm with music.

A whirling dervish performing his ritual
dhir
k
? Oh, how I'd love to spin into his all-forgetting, all-forgiving trance and vanish into oblivion.

A bolt of lightning split the sky, illuminating the jagged edges of a stone crown. Then the rest of Maiden Tower, solemn and daunting, stared at me through the eyes of its hollow embrasures.

I entered the gate, ran along the walkway. Four steps down, the door opened into the courtyard. I tiptoed past Miriam's quarters. Not a sign of life; she was obviously asleep. Reaching between the bars, I examined the wall until my fingers came upon the bulky key. Carefully removing it, I crept to the iron gate of the tower.

It opened slowly, reluctantly, with a creaky yawn, freeing my way to the top.

Hesitantly, as if crawling into my own tomb, I mounted the spiral staircase, the steps becoming steeper and slipperier with each flight, making my head spin. Not into the peaceful trance of the twirling dervishes. No. Into the agonizing carousel of the same unanswered questions, jarred emotions, and disjointed solutions.

As I reached the top, I pushed the door open and stepped outside onto the crown of Maiden Tower. And into the starless sky. A powerful wind whipped through the darkness, threatening to knock me off my feet. Resisting, holding on to the railing, I stepped toward the edge. Then another step, slowly removing my hand from the safety of the railing. Giving myself to the calamitous, stormy, pitch-black night.

“When the orphan sky hid behind the black dome of
sorrow,

When
the
rain
shed
its
tears
upon
the
barren
earth,

Princess
ran
to
the
top
of
the
tower, waved her arms like
wings…”

Tahir had translated the legend into his painting so brilliantly that I could see it clearly now in the reflection on the black canvas of the sky. In the reflection of me standing on the lip of the tower, my arms like wings fluttered by the gusty wind. How easy to be free. How strong we are when we have nothing to lose.
Half
girl
and
half
bird
. The ultimate decision belonged to me. Tahir had just pushed me closer to the edge, toward black infinity.

All of a sudden I noticed a tiny gleaming firefly. Then another. No, not fireflies. Silver stars had broken through the bulging clouds, spilling one after another into the sky, moving toward me, lighting up my night.

And with them came an overwhelming desire to live. To be awakened in the morning by Muezzin Rashid's soulful
Adhan
. To play piano, to share the spotlight on the stage with Chopin, Rachmaninoff, Schumann in front of an adoring, spellbound audience. To stroll the streets of Baku, breathing thick and creamy Caspian Sea air rinsed in the autumn rain. To watch with Mama the peach sunrise over the snow summit of the Caucasus Mountains.

But I couldn't move. Fear had taken me hostage, numbing my body, twisting my equilibrium, leaving me at the mercy of the Khazri that wouldn't give up until it had pushed me into the abyss.

Suddenly, a powerful force hauled me back, away from the rim of the tower.

Miriam. She breathed like an overheated engine, her creased face with its ashy eye sockets in shocking proximity to mine. Without saying a word, she took me in her arms, as strong as if she had borrowed them from someone three times her size. I buried my face into her bony shoulder. She smelled the way I always thought a grandmother should smell.

“I'm with child,” I whispered into her neck.

No reaction. Maybe she didn't hear me.

“I'm with child. Pregnant,” I repeated louder, unable to keep the anger out of my voice.

“Then how could you even think about harming yourself when you're carrying a new life? A child is a gift. No matter what the circumstances are.”

What right did she have to judge me? Who was she to preach the wisdoms? She, who herself had ended up in a dungeon. Hadn't she done enough damage to me already?

“I did what you asked me to do. I went to Afghanistan to find your grandson. And I did, despite all the danger and humiliation. Only to be taken advantage of and left.” The tears blocked my throat. “He left me alone…all alone…with his baby. What am I going to do with it?”

“He loves you,” Miriam said, wiping tears off my cheeks with her calloused hand. “He loves you with all his heart. And if a Mukhtarov loves someone, it stays with them to their grave.”

“Mukhtarov, Mukhtarov. That's all you've ever cared about.” I pushed her hand away from my face. “An obsession with your noble blood. That's what it is.”

“You are the love of his life, Leila. That's what he said in his letter.”

“Letter? In his letter? So he writes to you. Then why hasn't he written to me? Not even so much as a postcard. Not a word. Not a stroke of his brush. Nothing.”

“He's at war, Leila.”

“And so am I.” I stepped back from Miriam. “It is my problem now, and I will deal with it. I don't need your lecturing anymore.”

“Leila, it's normal for a pregnant woman to be emotionally distressed.” She clasped my forearm. “Please let me help you. Please. I'll do anything to relieve your burden. I'll raise the baby.”

“No.” I pushed her away.

“I beg you.” She slid to her knees, an apparition in the silver light of the stars, her white hair and her nightgown tormented by the storm, her hands folded in plea. “Keep the baby. He is our only hope for the future. The last of the Mukhtarovs…”

I shook my head vehemently and rushed down the stairs.

Miriam's voice followed me, echoing between the walls of Maiden Tower, tearing to pieces what had been left of my heart.

• • •

I had no one to go to except Almaz.

I found her easily. She lived in a large apartment building on Erevansky Street, half of its facade hidden behind a huge banner hung in preparation for the fifty-fourth Anniversary of the Great October Socialist Revolution. The wind kept thrashing the red silk with its stern faces of Lenin and Andropov against the concrete of the building, together with the assortment of underwear, socks, and sheets drying on the balconies.

What if she wasn't home? Or if she
was
home but not alone?

Almaz opened the door. Barefoot, wearing flannel pajamas with yellow flowers, her hair pulled high into a ponytail, the ends reaching all the way to her buttocks.

“You came!” she exclaimed, hugging me. “I'm so glad! Come in, but leave your shoes outside. I have new floors.”

I left my shoes and coat outside and entered Almaz's abode of pure extravagance. A large crystal chandelier in the shape of a tulip hung from a tiled ceiling; off-white silk wallpaper complemented the Oriental redwood furniture inlaid with mosaic marquetry; plush Turkish rugs covered a sparkling-white marble floor.

“I'm so happy you came,” she said, placing a pair of fuzzy, comfy slippers at my feet. “I'll make some hot tea, so you don't get sick. Or”—she winked—“I can give you something really incredible. Veuve Clicquot.”

“What is it?”

“French champagne. All French aristocrats drink it. Want to try some?”

I had never tasted alcohol before. Maybe now was the time to try. To get drunk and hush all my troubles, even if just for tonight.

“All right. Sure. Why not?”

Almaz retrieved a large curved bottle from the refrigerator and filled a silver bucket with ice. “Go check my bedroom and my new bathroom,” she said, decorating a tray with nuts and dried fruit, lining them up in perfect oval rows just the way Aunty Zeinab used to do.

Almaz's bedroom looked like a nineteenth-century boudoir—a white bed with lilac satin sheets and two matching chairs with gilded arms and legs; embroidered purple-and-gold velvet curtains; antique alabaster wall sconces. I opened the door to the bathroom. All in sky-blue—the sink, the bathtub, and the tile, from floor to ceiling. Even the handles of the glass cabinet over the sink had been painted blue.

“Don't you love it?” she called from the living room.

“Yes, it's really beautiful.” I slightly opened the door of the cabinet. Sets and sets of makeup, Arabic perfumes, jewelry boxes. And behind everything, Papa's photo, framed and wrapped in plastic. A Papa I never stopped loving—tall, strong, and dependable, with a wild mane of black hair, his left eye slightly squinted, as he exhales the smoke from his cigarette through the corner of his mouth. I remembered the exact moment the picture was taken. On a hot summer afternoon, after the three of us visited Leo Tolstoy's house in Yasnaya Polyana where he wrote
Anna
Karenina
. We hiked through the forest and came upon Tolstoy's grave in a small clearing next to a long ravine.

“This part of the forest is called ‘Place of the Green Wand,'” Papa said, leaning against the sturdy trunk of an old tree and lighting his cigarette. “Do you know why, girls?”

We shook our heads.

“There is a belief that the person who finds the magic wand here will never die.” Papa smiled, challenging mortality.

Click.

Why was she keeping Papa's picture? Wouldn't she want to erase any memory of him? As if he had never existed? But then she would wipe out her entire childhood, along with me.

Or maybe, despite everything, she still loved him? As I did? How twisted…

“Leila, come here. I'm ready,” called Almaz.

I quietly closed the door of the cabinet.

She waited for me, veiled in yellow-gold candlelight, ceremoniously holding the champagne bottle wrapped in a towel. With no effort at all, she popped the cork, whisked away the towel, and poured fizzy liquid into a pair of tall crystal flutes. “For our eternal sisterhood!”

We drank—glass after glass, toast after toast—slouched on the red velvet sofa, listening to soft music flowing from Almaz's latest acquisition—a Pioneer music system made in America.

“What is it?”

Almaz shrugged. “Some French music, I don't really know. But it touches you, huh?”

Touches?
It scraped me from inside, evoking, rather than burying, the memories of my night with Tahir. How he lifted me in his strong, masculine arms and twirled me around the room. How the dark shadows of the Kabul hotel room spun into fireworks of greens, blues, and violets, and our closeness became the only reason for living. How the flames of our hearts spread through our skin, reaching the tips of our fingers and the scarlet threads of our lips. “Forgive me.” I whispered through tears what I meant to be
I
love
you
.

Tahir responded by stroking my eyes with his tongue. Laying me gently on the bed. Taking me in slowly, one brushstroke at a time.

Every passing breeze carries the rose fragrance of your breath to me.

Every splendid sunrise reflects the golden glow in your eyes for me.

Every rustling leaf and every fleeting rain whisper your name to me.

My heaven is yours; your sorrow is mine,

I am forever drunk with your love's wine…

Enough!

“Let's dance.” I jumped off the couch and pulled a resistant Almaz to the center of the room, placing her hands on the back of my neck and wrapping mine around her waist. We shifted in a slow motion from side to side.

“I need to move out of here. To change my address. To disappear for a while,” she said.

“Why?”

“In July, Chingiz is getting out of jail. He's gonna come after me, I know it. I asked Bulut to find me another apartment.”

“After he spent a fortune on this one?”

“It's a drop in the sea for him, trust me. Which reminds me. I have to show you something.”

Almaz darted to her bathroom and returned with something sparkling in her hands.

“The Queen of Sheba used to wear it. Made of pure platinum.” She placed a necklace on top of the coffee table—twelve quail-egg-sized white diamonds framing a pear-shaped blue boulder. “Don't you love it?”