The Beekeeper of Aleppo(17)

‘Please, get in,’ the man said. ‘Go ahead with these nice people and I will see you on the other side.’

‘But why won’t you come with me?’ she said.

‘I promise I will see you on the other side. Please stop crying. They will hear us.’ But the girl wouldn’t listen. So he pushed her in and slapped her hard around the face. She sat back shocked, her hand on her cheek, the men pulling at the cable as she floated away. When she was out of sight completely, the man sat on the ground, like there was no life left in him, and he began to sob. I knew he wouldn’t see her again. And that’s when I looked back. I shouldn’t have, but I turned away from the crowd of people and looked back into the darkness at the land I was leaving. I saw the opening between the trees, the path that could take me back the way I came.





4




THERE IS A NEW RESIDENT at the B&B. His shoulders are so sharp and his back so bent that when he sits in the chair, hunched over, it looks like he has wings under his T-shirt. He is talking to the Moroccan man and they are both trying to communicate in a language they don’t know very well. The Moroccan man seems to like this young man. His name is Diomande and he is from the Ivory Coast. He glances at me from time to time while he is speaking, but I don’t show him that I am paying any attention.

The bee is still alive. I located her in the garden perched on the same flower where I left her. Once again, I coaxed her onto my hand and brought her into the sitting room with me and now she is crawling up my arm. Most of the time my eyes are fixed on the patio doors. I focus on Diomande’s reflection and on the dappled shadows of the trees behind it.

‘I was working in Gabon,’ Diomande is saying, ‘and I heard I should go to Libya, that there are many opportunities there. My friend say there was war there but now it is safe, so I decide to go and get a good job. I pay fifteen thousand CFA francs to drive eight days through the desert but I was captured and put in prison.’ He has his elbows on his knees as he talks, and as he moves his shoulder blades rise up, and I think maybe his wings will open. He is very tall and very lanky, his knees coming up high so that he is folded over himself.

‘We would go three days no food,’ he continues, ‘just maybe some bread and water, many of us to share. They beat us, they beat us all the time. I don’t know who they were, but then they want two hundred thousand CFA for my freedom. I called my family but money never came.’

He adjusts his position now and places long brown fingers over his knees. I turn away from his reflection and take a good look at him, at the way his knuckles bulge and his eyes pop. There is no meat on this boy. It’s like birds have eaten him. He’s like a corpse or a bombed-out building. He catches my eye, holds my gaze for a moment and then looks up to the ceiling at the naked light bulb.

‘So, how did you get out, geezer?’ the Moroccan man says, impatient to hear the rest.

‘After three month rival militia broke into the prison and release all the hostages. I was free. I walk to Tripoli, where I find my friend and get job.’

‘I am pleased for you!’ the Moroccan man says.

‘But new employer no pay me and when I demand money he say he will kill me. I want to go back to Gabon but there is no way back, so I board smuggler boat to cross the Mediterranean.’

The Moroccan man leans back in the armchair now and follows the boy’s gaze to the light bulb on the ceiling.

‘You made it here. How?’

‘This is long story,’ Diomande says. But he doesn’t say more. He seems tired now and, probably noticing this, the Moroccan man taps the young man’s knee and changes the subject, telling him about the strange customs of the people here.

‘They wear trainers with suits. Who wears this together? And they wear sleeping clothes outdoors! Why?’

‘This is tracksuit,’ Diomande says, pointing at his own.

The old man is usually in his pyjamas at this time of night, but during the day he dresses in an old grey-blue suit with a tie.

I wait until they have gone to bed and step out into the garden where I put the bee back onto the flower. The sound of traffic is soft and a breeze blows, moving the leaves. The sensor hasn’t caught me and the darkness is soothing, the moon is full and high up in the sky, and that’s when I sense someone standing behind me. When I turn, Mohammed is sitting on the ground playing with the marble, rolling it in the cracks of the concrete. Beside him there is a worm slithering into a puddle. He glances up at me.

‘Uncle Nuri,’ he says, ‘I’m winning against the worm! His name is Habib. Do you want to say hello to Habib?’

He picks up the worm and holds it high for me to see.

‘What are you doing here?’ I say.

‘I came looking for the key because I want to get out.’

‘What key?’ I say.

‘I think it’s in that tree. It’s hanging there but I didn’t know which one.’

I turn and see that there are more than a hundred golden keys hanging from the tree. They twirl in the breeze and sparkle in the light of the moon.

‘Will you get it for me, Uncle Nuri?’ he says. ‘Because I can’t reach and Habib is getting tired.’

I look at Habib, dangling from his fingers.

‘Sure,’ I say. ‘But how do I know which key you want?’