The Orphan Sky (10 page)

Comrade Farhad with the yellow snakes in his eyes? Touching me, intimidating me, diminishing me to just a garnished piece of meat sitting on his plate, waiting to be devoured?

No. There had to be a reason why I landed on Tahir's magic carpet, on the other side—the
wrong
side—of the green door. Why I enjoyed sitting cross-legged next to him, listening to the crackling fire dragon, sipping pungent
mekhmeri
tea as strong and smooth as an Armenian cognac. There had to be a reason why I was so persuaded by his confusing, esoteric perspectives, perspectives that had taken me far beyond my own horizon. Drifting away in clouds of hashish, surrendering to his forbidden LPs with their bewitching musical potions, there had to be a reason why I was beginning to take it all in, making it part of me.

Cleansing my soul?

That evening, Almaz and I went to see the Russian movie
Moscow
Does
Not
Believe
in
Tears
at our favorite open-air cinema in Seaside Park. Surrounded by walls of vines, caressed by the warm, jasmine-scented sea breeze, we sat, tearful, holding hands, rooting for the young heroine on the screen to win her lover.

“She did nothing wrong,” Almaz said, wiping her eyes, as we were leaving the cinema. “She was young and vulnerable, and the man took advantage of her fantasies. They always do. It's a man's world.”

“All I know is that Papa would kill me if he knew I went to see this movie.”

“Don't tell him.”

“Of course, I won't. It's just strange that a movie like this was allowed in Baku, with our norms of modesty, don't you think?”

“Norms of modesty?” Almaz grunted sarcastically. “Where are they, other than in your Communist manual?”

I didn't respond.

We turned into an arcade of acacia trees, dimly lit and empty. I instinctively looked over my shoulder. A dark figure behind seemed to flit to the side, blending with the trees. Did someone follow us? Or was it my imagination? I sped up, dragging Almaz, until we exited Seaside Park onto crowded Neftchilar Avenue.

When Almaz and I were kids, we had a Saturday evening ritual. First, Papa took us to his office to play Ping-Pong, then to the open-air cinema for a movie, and to conclude the evening, on the way home, we usually stopped for supper at restaurant Baran. The owner always gave us the best table, separated from the rest of the room, and treated us as family, cooking lamb shashlik to Papa's taste.

Since then, the restaurant had been closed, and the owner, we heard, was in jail for stealing. But every time I passed by the sign, I salivated, recalling those skewers with the succulent chunks of lamb, marinated in fig vinegar, onions, and tomatoes.

What a surprise it was when we turned into Djaparidze Street, and instead of the aged facade of Baran, a new neon sign read “Little Star.”

“What is this?” I asked Almaz.

“A new café. It's only been open for a few weeks. Let's have a quick supper.”

In Baku, decent women were not supposed to be in a restaurant by themselves. Especially at nine in the evening.

“Leila, please. Just for a few minutes,” Almaz pleaded. “No one will know.”

I hesitated. Never before would I have agreed. But now, following the afternoon spent with Tahir and his music and the movie with its stirring emotional message, I felt like doing something different, daring. Shaking up the rules a bit.

We entered. The café was packed. Mostly young men and a handful of girls with heavy makeup, loudly dressed. Columns of blue smoke rose to the ceiling.

A fidgety young waiter approached us, sizing up Almaz and me openly.

“Two of you?” he asked with a cheeky smirk.

“Yes,” Almaz said before I had a chance to say no. “That table by the window.” She pointed toward the area we used to occupy with Papa. Still looking the same, separated by a hanging rug from the rest of the room.

The waiter led us through the café, past the sneers and muffled derisive
tztztz
of the male guests.

“Are you sure we're fine here?” I whispered to Almaz.

“Don't worry. The owner knows me.”

We ordered kebabs and, waiting for food, drank a sweet rose tea with honey. Everyone in the room smoked, a subtle trace of black currant scent making me think of Tahir. Putting me at ease. Relaxing me.

Almaz retrieved a small green package out of her purse. Foreign cigarettes.

“You smoke?” I asked in disbelief.

“Want to try?” She winked, pulling a long, thin cigarette out of the pack. “They are Dunhills. With menthol, very light, specially for women.”

“Where did you buy them?”

“I have my sources.”

Almaz lit her cigarette with a miniature golden lighter and leaned back against her chair, closing her eyes. Blue smoke swirled around her beautiful face. I had a sudden impulse to open up, tell her about Tahir. But something stopped me. No, it wasn't worry that she would tell anyone. I knew I could trust Almaz with my life. It was fear of her quick, negative judgment.

Indian music rippled through the room, the seductive sounds of sitar and tabla slipping in and out of the crowd's noise. I sipped my tea, feeling happy. Free.

“I thought you weren't feeling well.”

I jumped at the sound of the voice. Comrade Farhad stood over our table. His slightly misty black eyes held me captive.

“Not well enough to attend the Komsomol meeting,” he said sternly. “But well enough to have a good time in a restaurant at night.”

A dark figure behind us in the alley. Was it him following us?

“But, Comrade Farhad, how did you know—”

“You called in sick today, didn't you? So, after the meeting, I phoned your home to inquire about your health, and honorable Mekhti Rashidovich told me that you went to the cinema. You should be ashamed of yourself, Leila.”

He grasped my hand, forcing me to get up. “Let's go. This is not a proper place for a decent girl. Even less so for a young Komsomol leader.”

Almaz stared at me in shock. “You're not going to listen to him, are you?”

Comrade Farhad responded by aggressively sticking his finger in Almaz's face. “You stay out of it.” Then, to me, “I'm taking you home,” and he led me out of the café.

Almaz followed, muttering, “Why are you listening to him? Who is he to dictate how you should behave? He is not your master.”

We walked home in the custody of dark, heavy silence. Three of us. Almaz and I, and Farhad a few steps behind, escorting us as if we were captured fugitives.

When we reached our building, Farhad caught up with us. “You go.” He waved a dismissive hand at Almaz.

“I'm not going anyway without Leila,” she replied, grasping my forearm.

I faltered, torn by a gush of emotions. After all, I had lied and missed the Komsomol meeting for no reason other than that I wanted to stay with Tahir and listen to his jazz. And the café with hashish smoking and women of low virtue wasn't the place for me. What if Farhad would tell Papa about it? I could only imagine Papa's fury.

Farhad waited for my decision, anxious, a drop of sweat sliding down his forehead. The same Comrade Farhad I had always trusted. Feelings of guilt and confusion overwhelmed me. What if I was wrong? What if I had somehow elicited his male instincts and caused that shameful episode to happen? Maybe he felt terrible about it and had come to apologize.

I freed my arm from Almaz's grip. “Don't worry. I need to speak to Comrade Farhad.”

She looked at me, uncertain. “You sure?”

“I am.”

I waited for Almaz's steps to fade into the night.

“Comrade Farhad, I need to explain—”

But before I could finish, his lips sealed mine, and pushing me into the dark corner, he squeezed me with his whole body against the wall, harder and harder, his tongue fighting its way inside my mouth through my tightly locked lips, his hands burning my flesh like hot coals.

How long did it last?

Long enough to break the spell of his magnetism. Long enough to know that I could never trust him again. Long enough to see him for whom he really was—
Aži Dahaka
—a mighty fire dragon with a serpent's bite. How blind my eyes had to be to miss something that Almaz saw right away. Yes, he bit me hard. Reduced me to nothing more than a powerless thing, his possession.

“Someday, you'll be my wife, Leila,” Farhad whispered into my ear. “I've chosen you. Remember this.”

The sound of the steps. Farhad quickly looked behind and stepped back, taking on his usual aura of formality. A couple of passersby came near.

“How's the Ashuglar Street assignment going?” he asked out of the blue.

I panicked, almost choked on air. What if he knew that I'd been spending time with Tahir?

“I've been working on it—”

“I expect your report the following Tuesday. At four in the afternoon in my office,” Farhad said. “Now go home. And please send my regards to your papa. Tell him that I safely delivered you home, as promised.”

The following Monday, I had my final history exam.

“Long live the Party of Lenin, the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, the shining star that guides us toward peace on our planet and a fruitful cooperation between people.” I wrote a mandatory conclusion, placed my essay on the teacher's desk, and left the classroom.

Craving a well-deserved pastry, I headed toward the bakery located across the street from Karl Marx Park.

“Hey, Tchaikovsky. Wait.”

Malik the Weasel. My former classmate and the architect of both my outsider reputation and standoffish nickname “Tchaikovsky.” He first threw them at me when we were in third grade, and they had stuck as irrevocably as a hump on a hunchback.

“Where are you going?” he called, catching up with me while licking the leftovers of lula kebab from his greasy fingers.

“Why would you care?”

“I need to talk to you. Listen, my father is the director of the Shusha Museum of Rugs. He asked me to ask you to give a message to your father. It's like from my home to your home. You see, my father has been trying to get permission to build a vacation home on the beach in
Zagulba
.”

“What does your father's vacation home have to do with my papa?”

“He needs a signature, that's all, from City Hall. We all know your father can help to get it because he already got one for our cousin who designs the fancy
Samaxi
sapphire jewelry. And our cousin paid him back well. Tell your father my father will give the most expensive rug for your dowry. It's antique, costs a fortune…from the fourteenth century.”

“What? You're implying that my papa has taken a bribe? You're disgusting, and I'm going to tell Papa what you said.”

“
Yaxsi
!
Good! That's exactly what I asked for.” A sneer prowled beneath his obsequious smile. “See you around.”

He hopped aboard a passing bus.

That evening, I told Papa about Malik's outlandish request. He just laughed and brushed it off. “He's a real weasel, your friend Malik.”

A week later on Sunday evening the doorbell rang. I rushed to look through the peephole to see who was at the door. Two deliverymen. The tall one had a cleft lip appallingly turned inside out.

“Delivery for Badalbeili,” said the shorter of the two in a grating voice.

“Open the door, Leila,” Papa shouted. “And bring them here.”

I led the way to the smoking room. Two men and their burden—a large rolled-up rug.

Papa lounged on his throne, his bare feet comfortably poised atop its carved lions' feet. His boyhood friend Uncle Anatoly—a gentle giant with blue eyes, silver hair, and muscles on his arms the size of pomegranates—sank into the plush pillows of an overstuffed red armchair. They had first met more than thirty years ago when they were both just short of twelve years of age.

On his way home from a training session in a boxing gym, Papa passed a group of hooligans harassing a small, pale, fair-haired boy who, as it turned out, had just recently moved to Baku from a small Belarusian village. Without a second thought, Papa put his boxing skills to work defending the boy, earning a broken nose, a scar behind his left ear, and a friend for life.

Papa and Uncle Anatoly had obviously been drinking. And the empty cognac bottle, the half-full
f
lakon
of vodka, and the close air redolent with alcohol fumes meant they had drunk more than usual. Both had their shirts unbuttoned, exposing Papa's black, hairy chest and Uncle Anatoly's pinkish, shiny upper body.

“Where should we hang it?” the short, chubby deliveryman asked as he retrieved carpet hooks from his small toolbox.

“Right here,” Papa slurred, waving his hand toward the wall behind him. Then, turning to Uncle Anatoly, he said with a sly grin, “My girl will have a big enough dowry to marry a sheik.”

Uncle Anatoly smiled. “But if you continue piling it up, you might have a hard time finding a sheik worthy of her dowry.”

The comment was whimsical enough to trigger a gale of laughter from both Papa and Uncle Anatoly.

“Here's the certificate.” The cleft-lipped deliveryman looked around for a vacant surface to leave the document.

“Give it to me.” I took the certificate and read the serial number and the authentication of the priceless value of the ancient fourteenth-century Ardabil carpet confirmed with the stamp of the Shusha Museum of Rugs.

Shusha Museum of Rugs?

I read the words again and again as if hoping my eyes would erase them. The words became blurry, yes, but only because of the tears breaking loose from my eyes. The shame remained crystal clear in black calligraphic lettering, framed by a pattern of lotuses and the sweeping signature of the museum's director—Algazarov. Malik the Weasel's father.

Papa, how could you do this? How could you shatter my faith in you?
I wanted to shout, but shame seized me so tightly that my shouts had no sound. Sobs stuck in my throat.
Or
did
you
wish
to
add
this
ugly
Ardabil
carpet
to
your
collection
so
badly
that
you
didn't even care? What about all the ancient swords hanging on the walls of your study, the lion-legged, ivory-inlaid furniture pieces, the silver jars you claimed had come from some Egyptian pharaoh's tomb? Are they all bribes you've taken in exchange for your
favors?

“Leila, bring us some fresh tea.” Papa leaned over and kissed me on the top of my head, oblivious to my misery.

I turned away and wiped my tears with the cuff of my blouse. A shaft of light from a sconce got caught in the ring on my finger, and shimmering serpents crawled out of its one-of-a-kind
Samaxi
sapphire. My gift for winning the piano competition.

Another bribe.

I swallowed and cleared my throat. “I'll be right back with tea.”

I stumbled out of Papa's smoking room, went to my room, removed the platinum ring with the sapphire from my finger, and stuffed it away under a pile of old dresses in the bottom drawer of my wardrobe.

• • •

On Tuesday at exactly four in the afternoon, I marched into Farhad's office. He was seated in his brown chair under a large portrait of Leonid Brezhnev. I saluted him and took my place a safe distance away, next to a glass partition where people could see me.

“Comrade Farhad,” I said loudly, quite a few decibels higher than my usual voice. “I came to report my findings on the assignment you gave me.”

Farhad examined me closely. If I was hoping to find any sign of remorse or discomfort on his face, I was fooling myself. There was none.

“Go ahead.” He waved his hand.

“I was able to enter the shop located at the address 33 Ashuglar Street and meet the suspicious element. As I engaged him in a conversation trying to detect any wrong thinking or wrongdoing, a customer arrived. A very important member of the Party. I've had the pleasure of meeting him at a few events hosted by my parents. I believe he is the Second or Third Minister of Education of Azerbaijan. The said customer paid the suspicious element a sum of money for a work of art—”

“Good work, Leila. I'll write the report.” Farhad jumped up from his chair and stepped toward me. Every muscle in my body tensed. “Not a word to anyone,” he commanded in a whisper. “The assignment is closed.”

“But I thought you wanted me to collect more information. I'm fully aware that I have just implicated an important Party member in illegal activity.”

“Shhh.” Farhad shot an icy stare at me as if trying to detect whether I was
that
stupid. For the first time ever, I had actually dared to mock him. To scare him with his own weapon. It felt good.

I left to the victorious tarantella drumbeat of my heart.