The Orphan Sky by Ella Leya Page A

gold-chandelier earrings jangling, pulling the earlobes down and threatening to tear them loose.
    She looked a bit like Nefertiti. The same long aquiline nose, high sunken cheeks, slanted eyes, extended neck. Even the yellowish color of her skin, the result of her intense smoking, was the same as the tinting on Nefertiti’s bronze bust. I asked Papa once why she never married. He laughed, said she had a stinger instead of a tongue, and that men didn’t like bees that couldn’t make honey. That’s what he called her behind her back—Old Stinger.
    I put three cubes of sugar in my cup with boiling hot tea, mixed it with the spoon, and let it stand for a while.
    â€œI don’t understand how you can drink it warm,” Papa said. “For me to enjoy the flavor of tea, it has to burn my lips.”
    â€œYou’re a man of extremes.” Mama smiled.
    â€œBeing with the two smartest girls, I have to find some excuse to stand out.”
    â€œAll you have to do to stand out, honorable Mekhti Rashidovich, is to stand up,” Professor Sultan-zade interjected, the corner of her mouth curling up.
    Oh yes, Papa’s height was quite striking, especially measured against the Lilliputian sizes of Mama and myself.
    Papa slowly blew air through his mustache. “I’m in bad shape if my height is my highest achievement. I definitely need to do something to improve my reputation, don’t I?”
    Retrieving a small, dark blue box from his pocket, he placed it ceremoniously on the table in front of me. “Let’s see if this helps.”
    â€œWhat is this, Papa?”
    â€œOpen it.”
    I did. Inside, a dazzling ring sat on a blue velvet pillow.
    â€œIt’s braided platinum with sapphire—a gift for you, Leila,” Papa said, his brow glistening with a sheen of sweat. “I ordered it from a very special jewelry maker in Samax i . Cost me a fortune. But for you, my precious brilyant , I’d give up my last breath. Try it on.”
    Carefully lifting the ring out of the box, I slid it down my second finger. The oblong sapphire immediately captured a sunbeam and swelled into a huge orange sphere of light.
    â€œPerfect fit! The same size as your finger, Sonia.” Papa smiled, took both Mama’s and my hands and kissed them, then turned to Professor Sultan-zade. “How am I doing?”
    She clapped her hands theatrically. “You’ve done very well, Mekhti Rashidovich. A very lavish gift, indeed, and in such exquisite taste. Beethoven’s Pathétique is definitely deserving of such splendor. As for Leila, she still has a long way to go, and a reward of such magnitude might spoil her sense of humility, which is vital for a student of piano.”
    â€œDon’t worry, Professor,” Papa said. “My Leila has Badalbeili ambitions, and a major interruption, even one the size of this sapphire, won’t slow her down.” He winked at me and burst into roaring laughter.
    â€œOh, well.” Professor Sultan-zade smiled courteously. “I have a different kind of gift for you, Leila.” She reached for her bag and retrieved a brand-new copy of the score for Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart’s Piano Concerto no. 20 . “This is the piece you’ll be playing in Budapest—your best friend for the next nine months.”
    I reverently touched the smooth, satined cover of the score—an entry into Mozart’s delicate, romantic, eloquent soul. And, hopefully, the passport to my first international success.
    The front doorbell rang.
    Probably Almaz. We had made a tentative plan to go to the movies. I jumped up to open the door.
    Comrade Farhad’s black eyes shone from behind a large bouquet of bloodred roses.
    â€œGood morning, L-l-leila, I’d like to speak to your father if I m-m-may.”
    â€œOh, Farhad, how nice to see you.” Mama came to the door. “Would you like to join us for breakfast? We’re having