Dark Legends, page 115
My throat tightened. What a terrible way to die.
“Why are you telling me this?” I asked.
“So that you know how dangerous music can be. Orpheus and his followers found power, and with it, freedom. But too much freedom, in the wrong hands, can be deadly. There may come a time when you have to choose between your own freedom and the freedom of others. I hope these stories will help you make more informed choices. Your new homework,” he said, “is two-fold.”
He pulled out a tall white candle in a silver candlestick holder, and placed it next to the leather book. “First, read the sonnets of Orpheus by Rilke. Second, blow out this candle—using only music.”
Chapter Twelve
I spent the next few days in my room, trying to stir enough wind with my violin to blow out that damn candle. I practiced so much, I burnt all the way through the candle and had to ask Milka to find me a few spares. So far I hadn’t been able to make a dent in the flame.
“All you need to do is make the waves of your music resonant enough to attach to the air molecules and stir them,” Iskra said at lunch, as if we were talking about a science experiment rather than a magic trick. She picked the tomatoes out of her salad and added a dash of black pepper. The small kitchen in the lounge upstairs was well stocked, and I found out we could order from several nearby restaurants and they’d deliver to us. I’d been eating at school, or sometimes in my room. In the mornings, we practiced the improv games in Denzi’s class. In the afternoon, Professor Paleva worked with me on ever more difficult sheet music. I stayed up late practicing. My fingers were like steel, and I was improving—but it didn’t matter. Everyone seemed to be waiting for me to do the impossible.
My fifteen-minute breaks became the highlight of my day. I stretched them out to thirty minutes, then forty-five. Nobody said anything or asked where I was. Sometimes I sat in the park. Sometimes I went out by myself for a coffee, or a plate of French fries, or a slice of cheesecake. I left my violin at home, and tried to forget about how strange my life had become. I was deep within the rabbit hole.
The police hadn’t returned, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the three men that had disappeared. Maybe they just left on a sudden vacation. Without telling anyone. There seemed to be some connection I was missing. Denzi swore he didn’t have anything to do with it, but he was hiding something. In fact, I had the feeling everyone at Pipkov was keeping secrets, and that terrified me. I was struggling to comprehend or believe in all the things they’d already revealed. How much more could there be? If I passed this test with the candle, what would they have me try next? Raising the dead, like Orpheus did with Eurydice?
But what choice did I have? I’d swallowed the red pill. If my life in Meridian seemed unbearable before, I couldn’t fathom how miserable I would be if I tried to return home now. I had to see this through. But how? I’d accepted that, in theory, blowing out the candle should be possible. Obviously it was like what happened during that concert in America, when I was playing GP Telemann. The reason I was brought here. But it had been an accident. I tried to remember how I was feeling that day—angry and frustrated. That’s pretty much how I felt all the time now. So that part was easy. I played everything Telemann had ever written, and everything else I knew, and all the new music Professor Paleva had given me. As the hours passed, I watched the candle burn down until the wax pooled at the base. I just couldn’t do it.
On Thursday morning I got a text from Ryan about the coffee I owed him. I needed to get away from school for a while, so I told him I was free at 3pm. He was waiting for me outside school with two cups of coffee, wearing Crocs, dark jeans and a pink polo shirt.
“I thought the whole point of coffee was for me to treat,” I said, taking the cup from him. “Plus, you know, actually going for coffee. What are we supposed to do now?”
“Something better,” Ryan grinned. “There’s this awesome flea market on Thursday afternoons. It’s epic, you’ve got to see it.”
I shrugged. It sounded like a welcome distraction. We walked down the street, then hopped on a bus. Ryan talked about home, his three brothers, and the university he was from. I knew he was an exchange student here for a year but I hadn’t asked what he was studying. Economics, it turned out. I tried to think of something to ask him about that but couldn’t. He laughed at my blank expression.
“I know, it’s like the world’s most boring subject. Kind of a conversation killer.”
“But it’s like, what—the study of money? Math and stuff?”
“Only slightly more interesting. Accounting, economic statistics, public and corporate finance, money and banking, international economics, quantitative methods of economic analysis, informatics, economic history, law, labor economics.”
“You’re right. It’s the world’s most boring subject.” I said with a smirk. “Why would you study that? What do you want to do with it?”
“I like to think of it as the study of value. Why do people value certain things? How does their experience of the thing change their appreciation of it, and how does that change its perceived worth—what they’re willing to pay for it?”
“That sounds more like psychology,” I said.
“That’s my minor. The psychological indications and repercussions of micro-economic theory.”
I raised my eyebrows at him.
“Most people just study large patterns. Cultures, events. I like to think in terms of one specific person. What are they thinking and feeling? Why do they want to buy something? What can we do to make them want it more?”
“That would be useful in business,” I said. The bus seats were so close, our elbows kept bumping together. He smelled like citrus. I think it was laundry detergent.
“What about you—how’s school?”
“I practice all the time,” I said. “I was actually going a bit crazy in there, so thanks for springing me.”
“Anytime,” he said. “You don’t have to wait for me to text, you know. Just let me know when you’re bored and we can go do something.”
We got off the bus just outside the city. The area was flat, with big square buildings that looked like warehouses, and a sprawling parking lot that was currently occupied by dozens of booths, followed by hundreds of little makeshift stands. People were selling wares on folding tables and blankets. A sign said Bitaka Market. My pulse raced in anticipation. I loved vintage shopping. I hadn’t sent anything home yet, and I wanted to find something for my parents and Becky. Something besides the tacky tourist stuff that they sold downtown, that had scenes of Sofia but said made in China on the bottom.
I’d never been to a market this big before. There were belts, backpacks, food and snacks, a whole table of antique cameras, boxes of toys, furniture, piles of clothing, shoes laid out in pairs, electronics, coins and silverware, typewriters—just about everything you could imagine. I could smell the row of food vendors before we saw them; the market was flooded with the aroma of fried meat, garlic and spices.
My favorite stalls were just a collection of weird and random junk, including statues, paintings and antiques. There were reindeer skulls with horns, sunglasses, and even a booth selling guns. Real ones, not the air-powered ones that shot plastic BBs. And we’d barely gotten started.
We passed a whole table full of mismatched porcelain teacups. Another table just had war stuff: gasmasks, uniforms, swords and daggers. I looked for something like the dagger I’d found under my pillow, but didn’t see anything. I wondered if it had come from here.
I lingered at a table full of musical instruments—violins, guitars, electric keyboards, tubas, trumpets, flutes and an accordion. I wished I’d brought more cash with me. The worst violin they had looked better than mine. Maybe that was my problem; I was trying to do magic with the crappy second-hand violin my mom had bought in America. But if that was all, somebody at Pipkov would have told me, right? If I was going to get a new one, I should get a great one. Not something I picked up cheap in a flea market.
I bought Becky one of those stacking wooden dolls, painted to look like Darth Vader. I got my mom an embroidered tablecloth. It took two hours to reach the end of the market. Here on the fringes, the blankets were more spread out, the items more random and junky. Car parts. Broken appliances. One old man with dark, weathered skin and a blue leather jacket was standing behind a display of several retro suitcases, overflowing with old photos.
As I scanned the stacks, one of them caught my eye. I leaned over to pick it up, and my eyes widened. Time seemed to slow down, as adrenaline coursed through my body. My heart was pounding and my palms grew moist.
“What is it?” Ryan asked, putting a hand on my shoulder to stabilize me. “What’s wrong?”
I couldn’t find the words to respond. The hand holding the photo was trembling.
It looked like an old polaroid, and showed a younger version of my mom. She looked like she was in her early twenties. Next to her was my dad. I mean my real dad. I’d seen a picture of him before, my mom showed me one a few years ago. Same dark hair, same green eyes. They were both smiling and laughing.
“It’s my mom,” I said, my voice shaky. “She was here. She never told me.”
But that’s not why my knees felt unstable, and my world was spinning. Next to them in the photo was Denzi, looking exactly like he’d looked this morning in class. This photo must be thirty years old, at least. And he hadn’t aged a day.
Chapter Thirteen
I dug through the suitcases looking for more pictures. I found a few more of my mom and Blake, but mostly they were just landscapes or snapshots. There were no other photos of Denzi. My rational mind tried to pacify me. There was no way it was him in the picture. Maybe it was his father or a relative, or it just looked like him. Exactly like him.
I bought all the photos I could find of my parents. They only cost a few coins. Then I told Ryan I didn’t feel well and needed to go home. He didn’t press me on the bus ride. He probably thought I was freaking out over nothing—so what if my mom took a trip to Europe when she was younger? It was a little weird she’d never told me about it, even after I decided to study in Bulgaria. But not worth getting this upset over. I didn’t tell Ryan what was really bothering me—discovering one of my teachers was older than he looked.
And actually, I shouldn’t have been so shocked. I’d already crossed over into the realm of the impossible. But moving papers around with music and immortality didn’t seem like the same thing. Did Denzi just not age? How old was he, if that was really him in the picture? Professor Dobreva said the followers of Dionysus had unnatural longevity. What was the word he used? Omophagia. The eating of raw flesh. But I thought he was talking about ancient mythology. Then I remembered Stolina’s special diet, and the meat Denzi had picked up from the gypsies. Was everybody at Pipkov a follower of Dionysus?
I said a hasty goodbye to Ryan and rushed back to school. It was late afternoon already. I couldn’t find Denzi in any of the classrooms. Confronting him directly was probably dumb. What if he was planning on… eating me or something. What if I was brought here as some kind of sacrifice? But if that were true, why go through all the trouble of teaching me to be a better musician? It didn’t add up. Plus, I really couldn’t picture Denzi hurting me. He’d always made me feel so safe. After I searched the school and the grounds, I was still restless. Milka said the teachers lived outside the school. I considered sneaking into the office and trying to find Denzi’s home address. But I wasn’t sure what came next. Would I pound on his door like a lunatic?
Maybe it was better to talk to my mom first anyway. She didn’t pick up the first time I called. Bulgaria was eight hours ahead. She was probably at work already. I dialed again and waited.
“Hello?” I felt a flood of relief when I heard her voice.
“Hi mom, it’s me,” I said, sinking onto my bed. In that moment I was more homesick than I’d ever been. I bit my lip so I wouldn’t start crying.
“Is everything alright? I can’t really talk right now—”
“I found a picture of you and dad. When were you in Europe?”
There was a long pause, and I heard her telling someone else to excuse her for a minute, then the sound of a door closing.
“Where did you find the photo?” she asked when she came back to the phone.
“At a flea market. There were several.”
“I always wondered what happened to that roll of film,” she said, sighing.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“This isn’t a conversation we should have over the phone,” she said.
“Why not? Did you and Blake go together? I thought you met him in college.”
“I lied,” she said.
My jaw dropped. I hadn’t expected her to admit it so easily. I wondered what else she’d lied about.
“I wanted to tell you before. I just couldn’t. I was too embarrassed.”
“About what? What couldn’t you tell me?”
“Blake isn’t American,” she said. I heard her sniff, and her voice wavered. “I went to Europe after high school. I was eighteen. I met a boy and fell in love. Blake told me he was from England, but we met in Prague. We had the most magical time together. He told me he’d come visit me in America. I really believed him.” She let out a quiet sob on the other end of the line, and my heart ached for the young girl in the picture, who looked so carefree and happy.
“I didn’t find out until I was pregnant until I got back to America. I never heard from him again.”
“Was his name really Blake Kokes?”
“That’s what he told me. I tried looking him up, you know, but never found him. I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you, I was just so ashamed. I didn’t want you to think less of me. I couldn’t tell my parents either, so I made up the other version of the story. At least in my version, we dated for several months, instead of a week.”
A week? So I was basically the result of a summer fling. An accident.
I felt empty inside, worthless. It wasn’t that different from what I already knew about my father—that he hadn’t wanted me. But this somehow made it worse. He never even knew about me. And he was from Europe. Maybe I could still track him down. My heart fluttered at the thought. But that could wait.
“I’m so, so sorry honey,” she said, her voice breaking. “I always meant to tell you, but then… it seemed like maybe it didn’t matter anymore, and things were going so well for you. I thought if I told you before you left, you’d change your mind and want to stay home. And this opportunity was just so perfect for you—”
“It’s okay, Mom. Really. I understand. Thank you for telling me. One more thing, was Blake alone? There’s someone else in the picture, a guy with long blond hair.”
“He was traveling with a friend of his, named Denzi. A musician, I think.”
After talking with my mom, I grabbed my computer and looked for Blake Kokes. I tried Facebook, Google, LinkedIn—everywhere. I found lots of hits, but nobody with my dad’s face. It was like he disappeared. If he was still around, he didn’t use the internet. And what kind of person didn’t use the internet?
I always thought my dad was just some loser from Michigan. A dead end. But now, I realized, he could be so much more. What was he doing with Denzi? Did that mean he was somehow involved in whatever was going on at Pipkov? The possibility of meeting him thrilled me, but if I couldn’t find him online, the chances of tracking him down were slim. Unless Denzi knew where he was. I almost went to Iskra’s room to show her the photo. But what if Denzi was keeping it a secret from everyone, and I got him fired or something? Or maybe everybody knew and they were all hiding the truth from me. They’d probably tell me the truth after I’d proven myself. If I found out too early, on my own, would that screw things up? What if I ruined things and they sent me home?
I decided it would be better to ask him about the photo directly, in private, before sharing it with anyone else. Waiting until tomorrow morning was going to be torture. My mind was racing, so I practiced for a while. I lit the candle out of habit, but wasn’t really concentrating on it—until I saw it flickering, almost imperceptibly, in rhythm with the music like a fiery metronome. It stopped as soon as I noticed it, and I couldn’t get it to happen again. Then I doubted whether it had really happened at all.
When I heard the music again that night, at first I tried to ignore it. The last two times I’d chased after it, I hadn’t gotten anywhere. I pulled my pillows over my head and pressed them to my ear, but the music seemed to get louder and louder, until it sounded like it was directly under my bed. Always the same refrain, over and over. It was driving me crazy.
Finally I got up and put on my slippers. I lit a candle and crept down the hall, past the spooky oil paintings with faces glaring down at me. Down the wide curving staircase. I paused in front of the office but it was dark and silent. I followed the music to the same room I’d found before, with the large iron door. This time I checked carefully to make sure nobody else was in the room.
Then I reached out and grasped the door handle. The door pushed open easily this time. A chill wind brushed past me, making me shiver. The candle sputtered, so I blocked the breeze with my hand. I hesitated for a moment, before pushing forward into the darkness. I needed answers, and I was determined to get them. Even if it meant descending a spooky stone staircase to who knows where. In my pajamas. The tunnel was narrow and the ceiling so low I had to duck under it.
At the bottom of the stairs, it led off in three directions. The music was coming from the left, so I headed that way. The floor was damp and mostly dirt. The walls were thick blocks of stone. The candle only illuminated a few paces in front of me, before the light was swallowed up by the inky blackness. My pulse raced as I went deeper and deeper into the labyrinthine tunnel.
