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

against the railing. His smile, intended only for me, guided me away from the stage. Back to the magical world hidden behind his green door, spinning in slow reverie, drawing me into its wistful harmony.
    My hands reached for the keyboard. The daunting silence of the black-and-white ocean exploded into the opening chords of the “Grave”—haunting and somber—slowly dissolving into the air like the summits of mountains adrift in the clouds. The sun was rising, spilling its peach hue across the drowsy skies. I passed through a tunnel of century-old poplar trees swaying in the morning breeze, whispering their century-old secrets. The tunnel opened into a vast valley of sunflowers swelling all the way to the mountains. I ran across the valley, caressed by the warm breath of the “Adagio cantabile,” until I reached the edge of a cliff. A step forward—and I soared into the sun-streaked skies of Beethoven’s “Rondo: Allegro.”
    I sprang to my feet as the last note still hovered in the air. The audience was silent. Eerily silent. Did they hate it?
    Oh, I’d forgotten. The rules of the recital restricted the audience from applauding. I heard a single person clapping and strained to see where it was coming from. Through the blur and to my utter astonishment, I spotted a wide-brimmed yellow hat. Professor Levina had broken her own rule and rose to her feet, applauding me.
    Thank you, Aladdin . I bowed.

CHAPTER 8
    The next night, I lay in the dark, sleepless, replaying in my mind obsessively—over and over—my performance of Beethoven’s Pathétique at the recital. A major disaster in the beginning. A bold—too bold?—approach to the “Grave” theme. Did I slow down a bit in the middle of the “Adagio cantabile”? Did they notice that I missed an A-flat in the left-hand arpeggio of the “Rondo: Allegro”? It just slipped from under my finger…
    Professor Levina certainly liked my performance; otherwise she wouldn’t have given me a standing ovation. But would the jury overlook my almost-meltdown and vote me the winner? If not, then good-bye, Budapest. After all the months of practice. Oh, how I would have let my parents down… Professor Sultan-zade didn’t say a word about my performance, only that the decision would be announced sometime tomorrow afternoon. How could I last until then?
    At dawn, I left Gargoyle Castle. From the minaret of Gevharaga Mosque, Muezzin Rashid chanted the first Fajr Adhan : “ Allahu akbar … Hayya alal-falah as-Salaatu khairun minan-naum… as-Salaatu khairun minan-naum …” The yodeling of the prayer drifted through the air, bouncing between the walls of the buildings before disappearing into the pink dome of the sky.
    I turned into the labyrinth of Old Town—Icheri Sheher—with its narrow cobblestone alleys twisting between old, shabby, crammed-together houses. Icheri Sheher was awakening, slowly, lethargically, the air hot and creamy, moistened by the sea and sprinkled with the aroma of black gold. The one-of-a-kind concoction called Baku air.
    I passed by the ruins of the ancient baths and Caravanserai—the last frontier stop before Europe for the Silk Road caravans that carried sandalwood, saffron, and myrrh from China, India, Persia, and Egypt all the way to the Roman Empire. Here, a few centuries ago, merchants tied their fatigued camels to iron hooks still sticking out of the walls and rested for the night.
    Lore had it that the merchants of the Silk Road believed in the magical powers of Maiden Tower. They called her Shrine of Wishes. Before daybreak, they rushed to the tower, eager to reach her walls before the other merchants so they could place their hands on her cold stone and make a wish as the first ray of the sun struck her crown: “Turn everything my hands touch into gold. And turn everything my rival’s hands touch into stone.”
    Before I