The Beekeeper of Aleppo(29)

‘Uncle Nuri!’ Mohammed said, a huge smile revealing a missing tooth. ‘This place is called Biscuit Island! The girl from the container told me!’

It was a cold morning and gulls and pelicans dipped down to the sea. On the safety of this land and in the warmth of the fire and the sun, people began to fall asleep. Mohammed was lying flat on his back. He was not asleep; he was looking up at the vast blue sky, squinting his eyes against the brightening light. In his hand he held his tiny marble, rolling it around in his fingers. Afra was sitting on the other side of me. She had her head on my shoulder and her hand grasping my arm as if I might slip away. She was holding on to me so tight that even when she fell asleep her grip didn’t loosen, and I remembered Sami when he was a baby, the way he used to fall asleep with Afra’s nipple in his mouth, his little hand still clutching the material of her scarf. It’s amazing, the way we love people from the day we are born, the way we hold on, as if we are holding on to life itself.

‘Uncle Nuri?’ Mohammed said.

‘Yes.’

‘Can you tell me a story so that I can fall asleep? My mum used to tell me a story when I couldn’t sleep.’

I remembered a tale my own mother used to tell me when I was a little boy in the room with the blue tiles. I remembered her with her head in the book, a red fan flickering in her right hand; eating kol w Shkor, her beloved Aleppo sweet.

‘Come on, Uncle Nuri!’ Mohammed said. ‘Come on, or I will fall asleep by myself and not hear a story!’

I was suddenly irritated with the boy. I wanted to stay in my own mind, with my mother’s voice, with the fan flickering in the lamplight.

‘If you can fall asleep, why do you want a story?’

‘So that I can fall asleep better.’

‘OK,’ I said. ‘The story goes like this: a wise caliph sends his servants – I can’t remember exactly how many there were – on a quest to find the mysterious City of Brass in the far desert wastes, which no one has ever entered. The journey takes two years and a few months and it is full of hardship. The servants take one thousand camels and two thousand cavalry. This I remember.’

‘That’s a lot! What would anybody do with a thousand camels?’

‘I know, but that is how the story goes. They pass an inhabited land and ruins and a desert with a hot wind and no water and no sound.’

‘How can there be no sound?’

‘There just isn’t.’

‘What – no birds or wind or talking?’

‘Nothing.’

Mohammed sat up. He was more awake than before. Perhaps I’d chosen the wrong story to tell him.

‘Come on!’

‘OK,’ I continued. ‘One day, they come to a wide plain. They see something on the horizon, tall and black with smoke rising to the sky. When they come closer they see that it is a castle, built of black stone with a door of steel.’

‘Wow!’ Mohammed’s eyes had widened now, full of curiosity and wonder.

‘I don’t suppose you’re getting sleepy now?’

‘No,’ he said, shaking my arm so I would go on.

‘OK. So beyond is the City of Brass, protected by a towering wall. Behind the wall is a shiny paradise of mosques and domes and minarets and high towers and bazaars. Can you imagine it?’

‘I can. It’s beautiful!’

‘It is very beautiful and gleaming with brass and jewels and precious stones and yellow marble. But … but …’

‘But?’

‘But the whole place is empty. There is no movement, no sound. The men find no people. In the shops, in the homes, on the streets … only emptiness. There is no life in this place. Life is as useless as dust. Nothing can grow here. Nothing can change.’

‘Why?’

‘Listen. In its midst is a very big pavilion with a dome rising high in the air. They come to a place with a long table which has words etched onto the surface. It says, “At this table have eaten a thousand kings blind in their right eye, and a thousand kings blind in their left eye, and a thousand kings blind in both eyes, all of whom have departed the world and have gone to tomb and catacomb.” Every king who ever ruled this place was blind, in one way or another, so that they left it full of riches and devoid of life.’

I watched Mohammed’s face, saw the thoughts moving behind his eyes. There was a pause, as if he was holding his breath. Then he exhaled.

‘That’s a very sad story.’

‘Yes, it is a sad story.’

‘Is it true?’

‘It’s always true, don’t you think?’

‘Like back home?’

‘Yes, just like home.’

Mohammed lay back and turned towards the glowing fire and closed his eyes.

Seeing the smoke rising into the morning sky, I remembered Mustafa smoking the colonies during harvesting season; we used the smoke to protect ourselves while we harvested the honey. That way the bees would not smell each other’s pheromones and would be less likely to sting in self-defence.

We filled a can with wood chips and shavings and started a fire, and once we got the fire going a bit, we snuffed out the open flame and stuffed more fuel on top of it. You don’t want an open flame, because if it hits the bellows they can become like a flamethrower and burn the wings of the bees.