The Beekeeper of Aleppo(70)

‘Do you really want to know?’ she said.

‘Of course.’

‘Because I’m not sure you really want to know.’

‘Of course I want to know.’

There was a long pause, and then she said, ‘He came in here – Mr Fotakis. I thought it was you because you’d locked the door. I didn’t know he had the key. He came in here and he lay down beside me, just where you are lying now. I realised it wasn’t you because of the smell of his skin when he came closer to me, and I called out and he put his hand over my mouth and his ring scratched the side of my face, and he told me I should be quiet or you would come back and find me dead.’

She didn’t need to say any more.





13




THE SKY IS BIG AND blue and full of seagulls. They sweep across and dip down into the sea, and up again, up and up and up, into the heavens. There is a cluster of multicoloured balloons above me, rising and becoming smaller until they fade into the distance. There are voices around me and then someone has my wrist in his hand. He is checking my heartbeat.

‘Strong heart,’ the man says.

‘What’s he doing here?’ A woman is standing in the sunlight.

‘Maybe homeless.’

‘But why is he in the water?’

Neither of them asks me, but I don’t think I could speak anyway. The man lets go of my wrist and drags me by the arms so that I am on the dry sand. Then he heads off somewhere. The woman stands there still, looking down at me as if I’m a seal. She takes her coat off and lays it over me, tucking it in around my chin. I try to smile at her but I can’t move my face.

‘It’s OK,’ she says. There is a catch in her voice, a shimmer in her eyes, as she looks at me upside down, and I think maybe she is crying.

The man returns shortly with some blankets. He takes off my wet jumper and wraps the dry blankets around me. After a little while I see blue flashing lights and people are lifting me onto a stretcher and then I am inside and warm and we are moving fast through the streets, the siren screaming. My eyes close as the paramedic beside me begins to check my blood pressure.

When I wake up I am in a hospital bed, wired to a heart monitor. The bed next to mine is empty. A doctor comes to see me because she would like to know who I am and what I was doing sleeping on the beach with my body in the water. She tells me that when they brought me in I was suffering from hypothermia.

‘My name is Nuri Ibrahim,’ I say. ‘How long have I been here?’

‘Three days,’ she says.

‘Three days!’ I bolt upright. ‘Afra will be worried to death!’

‘Who is Afra?’

‘My wife,’ I say. I try to search my pockets but I’m no longer wearing trousers.

‘Please can you tell me where I can find my phone?’

‘We didn’t find a phone,’ she says.

‘I need to contact my wife.’

‘I can contact her for you, if you give me the details.’

I tell her the address of the B&B and the landlady’s name, but I don’t know the number. The doctor asks me a lot of questions: Do you have thoughts of killing yourself, Mr Ibrahim? How is your memory? Do you find that you are forgetting important events? Do you forget little everyday things? Do you feel confused or disorientated? I try to answer as best I can. No. My memory is good. No. No. No.

I have a brain scan. Then they bring me some lunch, which is peas and mushy potatoes and a bit of dry grilled chicken. I eat all of it as I’m starving by now and then I sit up in bed and hum a song that my mother used to sing to me. I can’t get it out of my head. I don’t remember the words but the melody is a lullaby. Some of the other patients look at me as they pass my bed. There is an old lady with a Zimmer frame who keeps going up and down. I think she has started to hum the song too. I fall asleep and when I wake up there is a woman in the next bed; she is pregnant and is resting her hand on her bulging belly. She is singing the song too and she knows the words.

‘How do you know the lyrics?’ I say.

She turns her face towards me; it is dark and clear and shiny under the halogen lights.

‘I knew it when I was a child,’ she says.

‘Where are you from?’ I say.

She doesn’t reply. She is lying on her back and moving her hand in circular motions over her belly, singing the song as a whisper to her unborn child.

‘I claimed asylum,’ she said, ‘and they denied me. I’m appealing. I’ve been in this country seven years.’

‘Where are you from?’ I say again, but my mind blurs and I hear only the faint sound of her voice and see the gentle flicker of the light above me fading into black.

The following morning it is quiet on the ward and the bed next to mine is empty. A nurse approaches and tells me I have a visitor, and I see the Moroccan man walking towards me.

He sits down in a chair by my bed and puts his hand on my arm. ‘Geezer,’ he says, ‘we’ve been so worried about you.’

‘Where is Afra?’

‘She is at the B&B.’

‘Is she OK?’

‘Why don’t you just get some rest? We’ll talk about it later.’

‘I want to know how she is.’

‘How do you think she is? She thought you were dead.’