Read Online The Orphan Sky by Ella Leya - Free Book Online Page A

family occupied the second-tier box reserved for the parents of the contestants: Mama, dressed in my favorite fawn suit, and Papa, his hair sticking out wildly. He whispered something in Mama’s ear, and she smiled radiantly.
    The auditorium was full except for the first three rows, always kept empty so as not to disturb the performers. In the middle of the fourth row sat the two-person jury: Comrade Sharipov, the First Minister of Culture, an imposing man with short gray hair and a thick black mustache resembling two Turkish swords crossed above his upper lip, and Professor Mira Levina from the Moscow Conservatory of Music, a petite, elderly woman wearing a wide-brimmed yellow hat that made her look like a chanterelle mushroom.
    Professor Sultan-zade waited with me at the side of the stage, gently rubbing my fingers and blowing at them to keep them warm and agile. Tough during schooling, she showered her students with maternal affection at recitals and competitions. “Stay confident throughout the performance,” she whispered to me, “and don’t forget that delicate right hand in the ‘Adagio cantabile.’”
    â€œLeila Badalbeili. Beethoven. Sonata Pathétique .” The announcer introduced me.
    Professor Sultan-zade slightly pushed me forward. “Let the world fall at your feet”—the words of her blessing followed me as I almost sprinted across the stage to the Fazioli, gulping the exhilarating air of anticipation. The notes of the sonata bounced around me, spinning like paper planes, calling me on a ride. I raised my eyes to the muses, asking for permission to join them in their sacred space, and swept my hands up high.
    Before I could bring them down—what was that noise? Loud and blatant. Who’s playing timpani?
    Comrade Popov trudged across the hall to the front, the plush carpet powerless against the heavy, percussive stamping of his feet. Comrade Farhad followed him. They settled in the center of the first row barely a breath away from me. So close that I could see Comrade Popov’s bright red socks as he took off his shoes, crossed his legs, and squeezed his toes.
    I took a deep breath, trying to shake off the distraction and mentally return to the serenity of my beginning. To the silence before the opening chords.
    Another noise. Comrade Popov was whispering in Comrade Farhad’s ear. His seat crackled, reverberating through my body, jabbing a thousand needles into my arms and legs.
    I raised my hands and brought them down with all my might onto the keyboard. What followed wasn’t an explosion, but more like a whimper. My wooden fingers struggled to feel the touch of the keys. I paused, lifted my hands away from the keyboard, and hid them in my lap.
    â€œCan I please start over?” I said without looking into the auditorium, rubbing my hands nervously against my skirt, warming them up, trying to bring them back to life.
    A long pause.
    â€œYou may.” I heard the thin and clearly annoyed voice of Professor Levina.
    I closed my eyes, desperately trying to disassociate myself from everything but the music. I visualized the notes of the introductory “Grave” theme on the opening page and the syncopated chords building up to a vigorous passage in the right hand. I was almost there, when another bout of whispering pierced my ear like the sting of an angry bee. The notes I had finally positioned in the right places on the staff were now jumping off the page, swirling around me, pushing me off the bench into the dark, hostile audience. Frantic, I raised my eyes to the muses, begging for help. They soared away, high and unreachable, leaving me alone in the blinding spotlight. Exposed and humiliated.
    I stopped playing and rose, ready to retreat from the spotlight into the merciful darkness. And then I saw him. No. First, I perceived the flow of his energy coming at me from the upper-left tier. Then I took him in. Aladdin, leaning forward