The Beekeeper of Aleppo(31)

When we go downstairs, the Moroccan man and Diomande are not there. The landlady tells me they have gone out to get some sun. She is cleaning again. She is wearing a lot of make-up, long black lashes that look too big to be real and bright red lipstick the colour of new blood. But no matter how much of that sheen she sprays and no matter how much she scrubs, she can’t get rid of the dampness and the mould and the smell of terrible journeys filled with fear. I wonder how she came to be in this country. I guess that she was born here because of her excellent British accent, and I know she has a lot of family members because in the evenings I can hear so much noise from her place next door, children and other relatives coming and going. And she always smells of spices and bleach, as if she is always either cleaning or cooking.

I contact Lucy Fisher and tell her about the problem at the GP surgery and she apologises and says that she will bring the new documents tomorrow. She is calm and businesslike, and I like that Lucy Fisher is looking out for us. But her error, however small, reminds me that she is human, that she has limitations and this makes me afraid.

Afra is sitting on the sofa listening to the TV. Apart from meetings with Lucy Fisher, this is the first time that she has agreed to venture out of our bedroom, to allow herself in some small way to be part of the world. I sit with her for a while, but eventually I drift outside into the concrete courtyard and look through the fence at the landlady’s garden. Mohammed was right! It is so green, full of shrubs and trees and flowers, with a hanging basket and a bird feeder and some children’s toys – a small blue bicycle and a sandpit. There is also a pond with a water feature of a boy angel holding a conch, but no water is coming out of it. The courtyard is bare and grey compared to the landlady’s garden, but the bee is nestled on one of the flowers, sleeping. The wooden tray suddenly reminds me of the apiaries and how the hives were like the nests of wild bees. I remember removing the individual trays to inspect the honeycomb. It was my job to ensure that the honeybee populations coincided with the nectar flows. I had to know where they occurred, where the crops were located, and then make plans so that I could manage the colonies and achieve my objectives, because it wasn’t just honey we were producing, but pollen and propolis and royal jelly.

‘You should bring your bed out here.’ I turn and the Moroccan man is standing there with a huge smile on his face. ‘What a beautiful day,’ he says looking up at the sky, ‘and they say this country is all rain.’

In the living room, in the evening, the Moroccan man and Diomande play hangman using English words. It’s a total disaster, but I don’t say anything, and I don’t correct their spellings, and soon the other residents have joined in. The Afghan woman is very competitive and claps loudly when she wins. The man she always speaks to, who I understand now to be her brother, is a bit younger than she is and wears a lot of gel in his hair and has a wonky goatee. They are both very intelligent. In the nights when I’ve sat here listening to them talk, I’ve heard them speak Arabic, Farsi, English and even a bit of Greek.

I watch Diomande’s back, the wings that I mistook for shoulder blades, the way they move beneath his T-shirt, the way he brings his hand to his spine now and then, a habit he has probably had all his life. He is always in pain, this boy. But his smile and his laugh are full of light. He is arguing with the Moroccan man about how to spell ‘mouse’. The Moroccan man thinks there is a ‘w’ in it. Diomande is whacking his hand on his forehead.

My eyes close and the voices begin to merge together and when I open them again I can hear the bees, thousands of them working like they used to. The noise is coming from outside. The room is quiet now, apart from the sound of the marble rolling on the floorboards. Mohammed is sitting on the floor.

‘Uncle Nuri!’ he says when he hears me moving. ‘You’ve been sleeping for such a long time.’

The clock on the wall says 3 a.m.

‘Did you find the key?’ he says.

‘There was no key. They were flowers.’

‘You went to the wrong place,’ he says. ‘It’s not that tree – it’s in the other garden. The green garden. It’s one of the small trees. The key is on there. I can see it through the hole.’

‘What do you need the key for?’ I say.

‘I need to get out,’ is all he says. ‘Will you fetch it for me?’

I unlock the patio doors, and the sound of the bees hits me. The air is thick and full, but I see not even one bee. The darkness is empty. Mohammed follows me out into the courtyard.

‘Do you hear that?’ I say. ‘Where is it coming from?’

‘Just look in the other garden, Uncle Nuri, and you will find the key.’

I look through the hole, but it’s so dark that I can barely see the trees, let alone a key.

‘You have to go over the fence,’ he says above the noise, this constant buzzing coming from the deepest place of the atmosphere, like waves or memory. I get the stepladder and climb over into the landlady’s garden. I am suddenly surrounded by the softness of the black trees and flowers, blurred shapes rustling in the breeze. The small bicycle is leaning against the wall, and I recognise the outline of the sandpit and walk around it. I can hear Mohammed guiding me now, he is telling me to turn left, and eventually I see what he is talking about, a small shrub, and this time there is one key hanging from a branch. It catches the light of the moon. I have to pull hard to take it off, it’s tangled in the foliage, and then I put the bicycle next to the fence so that I can step on it to climb back over.