The Orphan Sky Read Online Free PDF Page B

Mama’s gifts, except for her petite frame. I was all Papa’s daughter. Our hair was as black and stubborn as mattress springs. We usually wore out at least one ivory comb a month. Mama bought the combs a dozen at a time at a small shop on Torgovaya Street. The owner, an Armenian craftsman with a bald, pear-shaped head, always swore the next batch of his combs would last a lifetime. But I didn’t believe it. I doubted there was an elephant romping through the jungle anywhere with tusks strong enough to tame our hair.
    â€œWhat happened today?” Mama dropped the lipstick into her snakeskin clutch, snapped it shut, and raised her eyes at me. She spoke with a flat voice, usually reserved for a negligent nurse or the reckless parent of a little patient. “So, Leila, what have you gotten yourself into?”
    â€œNothing to worry about, Mamochka . It’s about a Komsomol assignment.”
    â€œAn assignment that involves carrying anti-Soviet material?”
    â€œOf course not. I mean yes. The anti-Soviet material is the evidence. You see, Comrade Farhad has chosen me for this very, very important task.”
    â€œWhat kind of important task?” Papa came in, freshly shaved, wearing a linen suit and his signature canary tie. He was as dark as if he bathed daily in a Baku oil well. His mane still shone inky black, but a gray mouse had run through his square-shaped little mustache. Tall and trim, he resembled the cypress tree outside my window, swaying in rhythm with the wind, grasping the essence of the earth with its powerful roots.
    â€œIt’s a secret, Papa.”
    â€œSecret? Secret between you and Comrade Farhad?” Papa poured himself a cognac from the bar and took a sip from his glass. “I like the fellow,” he said, enjoying his drink. “He’s ambitious, knows what he wants and how to get it. Who knows, maybe someday you’ll make a nice couple. I wouldn’t mind having a son like Farhad.”
    Papa winked, wrapped his free arm around me, and plopped a kiss on the top of my head. I drew in the aroma of Papa’s tobacco mixed with cologne, the same cologne I’d detected on Comrade Farhad earlier. My head spun a little.
    â€œDon’t plant those seeds in her head,” Mama said with an air of casualness, but I could tell by the presence of a low overtone in her voice that Papa’s words had struck a wrong chord.
    She slipped into her new pumps, exactly the same shade as her suit—always a perfectionist—and turned to me. “Your Komsomol commitments are vital and beneficial, but your music comes first. Don’t get distracted from your piano practice, no matter how wonderful Comrade Farhad is and how important his assignment is. You hear me?”
    â€œI can handle it all. Don’t worry. Where are you going?”
    â€œComrade Bagirov’s nephew’s engagement.” Papa rolled his eyes and twitched his head in Mama’s direction. “It’s all part of being married to a celebrity.”
    Half joke. No one doubted who wore the tiara of celebrity in the family, but Papa did feel proud of Mama’s accomplishments. She was one of just a handful of women to rise in a society in which women, even though they had taken off their chadors—black Islamic veils of modesty—fifty years ago, still very much lived in the shadows of their husbands, with their triumphs limited to the kitchen. As a hekim —a surgeon-healer—with a heart of gold and hands of silk, Mama was a well-known person. On the streets of Baku, total strangers rushed over to her, breaking into tears, kissing her hands, blessing her over and over for bringing their little loved ones back to life.
    Mama grew up in an orphanage in a small village and came to Baku to study medicine at the Academy. She supported herself by working as a cleaning nurse at the hospital—the same hospital where she would later become the head of the