The Orphan Sky by Ella Leya

smile.
    â€œGood morning, Professor,” I said, impatient to hear the verdict.
    Papa entered from the kitchen, Mama’s red-and-white polka-dot apron on top of his trousers. He carried a steaming potbellied samovar.
    â€œThere is nothing better than a good stroll in the morning,” he said, pecking me on the top of my head. “That’s what we all should be doing.”
    â€œWhat’s the occasion?” I asked.
    â€œSunday family breakfast. What can be a better occasion to celebrate?”
    â€œStop teasing her.” Mama got up, fresh and elegant in a pleated skirt and a blouse with gem buttons, her golden locks falling on her shoulders, framing her freckle-peppered face. “Professor Sultan-zade stopped by to make an informal announcement prior to the official one.”
    â€œYes, indeed.” Professor Sultan-zade stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray. “What can I say other than that you were absolutely outstanding? And fully deserving of the win.” She rose to her feet, her face radiating pride, the crow’s-feet at the sides of her eyes cracking the foundation layer of her makeup. “You won, Leila. You won a big A-plus. Both jurors loved you. Especially Professor Levina. She just couldn’t stop praising you, and this is not something that comes easily to her. Starting right now, you are an official ambassador of Azerbaijan at the International Piano Competition in Budapest. Congratulations. I am extremely pleased.”
    â€œI won! I won!” I shouted, jumping up and down, laughing and crying at the same time, releasing the nervousness that had been mounting inside me since the recital. I was thrilled. Yes. But deep inside I wasn’t surprised. I expected to win. I knew that my performance in the competition, despite its shaky start, deserved the win. I played my Beethoven; I pushed the keys. I always did, but in the past, only as a messenger of Professor Sultan-zade’s emotions and visions, never having experienced my own so intensely before.
    I stopped, trying to catch my breath. “Professor, do you believe in the divine presence in music?” I asked.
    â€œDivine presence?” Professor Sultan-zade’s green eyes examined me closely for a few moments before looking away thoughtfully. “No, Leila. Music is about the notes, the technique, and the precise execution of the dynamics. Done well, that combination creates a performance that can become a strong emotional weapon. But to attribute it to anything mystical? No.”
    â€œBut where does music come from? How does it inspire us? Or make us lose ourselves in those irresistible musical phrases composed by, for example, Chopin more than a hundred years ago?”
    â€œI would say that’s the humanity of music,” Professor Sultan-zade said. “But definitely not its divinity.”
    We celebrated by having breakfast, sitting around our large table, a set of fine china with pink roses in full display on the snow-white tablecloth. The conversation ran as fluidly as the tea out of the samovar’s crooked nose.
    â€œThere will be big changes at the Conservatory,” Professor Sultan-zade said. “Our rector is being moved to the Azerbaijani State Institute of Arts—our longtime rival. The years under his leadership had been the most victorious in the history of our institution. Of course it didn’t hurt that the Minister of Culture was married to his sister and provided the Conservatory with unlimited funding.
    â€œNow the situation is on the verge of changing. The choice for whoever will be appointed in the rector’s place is a big secret. Everybody’s been on tiptoes. Especially a recently hired Professor Kulik. She says that she graduated from the Leningrad Conservatory of Music, but I don’t believe it. I heard her playing a recital with her students—amateur level.”
    Professor Sultan-zade shook her head, her heavy, Egyptian,