The Beekeeper of Aleppo

by Christy Lefteri

  I got up and sat down beside him. The man was occupied with his writing for a long time but eventually glanced up to see who was sitting beside him.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ I said.

  ‘Of course,’ he replied but continued to write.

  ‘I want to find a smuggler. I was wondering if you could help me. I had a feeling that that was where that couple were going yesterday.’

  The man closed his book now and adjusted his position on the wall so that he was facing me. He smiled. ‘You’re very observant.’

  ‘So I’m right? You can help me?’

  ‘Most of the good ones live in the school,’ he said. ‘I can introduce you. Where do you want to go?’

  ‘England.’

  He laughed, like everybody did. ‘Are you crazy? Or maybe very rich? It is the most expensive and most difficult place to get to.’

  ‘Why is it so expensive?’ I say.

  ‘Because it is more difficult to get to. Also, people think they will be safer there and there is a good chance of being helped, as long as you are granted asylum.’

  I became aware of the money in my rucksack. If anyone knew about it, they would kill me for it.

  ‘My name is Baram,’ he said, offering his hand. ‘Are you serious about it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Would you like me to set something up for you?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  He took a phone out of his rucksack and walked several metres away, talking to someone for a few minutes before returning.

  ‘How many of you?’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘Can you meet tomorrow at 1 p.m. at a coffee shop in Acharnon?’

  I nodded, but I was beginning to feel sick and my T-shirt was soaked through with sweat.

  Baram put his phone back into his rucksack and sat down again beside me. ‘I will meet you here at twelve forty-five tomorrow and take you to the café. Make sure you bring your passports and please don’t be late – he won’t like that.’

  ‘Shall I bring money?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  * * *

  That night two women carrying many bags claimed the twins’ blankets and umbrella for themselves. I was about to stop these new refugees from sitting down, from making these blankets their new home, when it occurred to me that the twins were probably not returning. I’d been expecting them to reappear, to come and sit down again, laughing and fighting and playing on their phones. To my surprise, the women did not look nervous to be here; they glanced around with some satisfaction, as if they had just come from somewhere far worse. They took off their shoes before stepping onto the blanket, and after about half an hour, after making a few phone calls and eating some apples, they started to make something out of colourful threads. They sat opposite each other and one of the two began to weave, while the other held the ends.

  Elsewhere, a few men were playing cards and laughing. Then they began to sing songs in Urdu, a few Arabic words thrown in. The wind blew and brought with it the smell of spices and warmth, the fire was crackling, and someone was cooking. Pedion tou Areos was becoming like a new home to people: shoes lined up next to the blankets and tents, clothes hanging from trees, games of cards and music and singing, and although I should have found some comfort in this, instead I felt suffocated by these glimmering remnants of an old life.

  I pulled the rucksack close to my chest. This money was our only way out, and the next day we would be meeting the smuggler. Because of this I could not sleep. Instead I sat up all night beside Afra, listening to the sounds in the woods, waiting for the sun to rise and turn the leaves gold.

  The following day Afra and I made our way to Victoria Square, and although we arrived half an hour early, Baram was already there, sitting on the bench, the notepad on his lap, writing. He stood up when he saw us and said that we should wait there for a while, so that we wouldn’t get to the café too early – the smuggler wouldn’t like that either. He sat back down and continued to write. I tried to read it, but his handwriting was too small. Tucked into the binding of the notebook was a photograph of a young woman in an army uniform.

  ‘Who is the woman in the picture?’ I said.

  ‘My girlfriend. She died. I am rewriting my diary.’

  ‘Rewriting?’

  He didn’t speak for a very long time and I watched the half-dead dog, who was now looking up at me and moving his tail.

  ‘When I got to Turkey the army caught me,’ Baram said finally, releasing the words in one breath. ‘There were thirty-one of us altogether. They captured us and searched us all. They took three of us and let the rest of the people continue on their journey.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we are Kurdish. I was writing a diary. I had been writing it for two years, and they found it in my bag and they saw one word, only one word: “Kurdistan”. They took me to jail and they said, “What is that word?” and I said, “Kurdistan.” I had to say it because they already knew. So they locked me up for one month and three days. Then they let me go. But they took my passport and nine hundred euros and they burned my notebook. The money and the passport were not important to me, but the notepad had my life in it, and I cried when they burned it. They took my fingerprints and scanned my eyes, and I paid two hundred euros for the guard to let me go, and I ran to a Kurdish town. And from there I called my father.’ He closed the notebook, resting a hand over it.

  ‘How come you are still here?’ I said.

  ‘I’m trying to make enough money to leave. My brother is in Germany. I want to get there before he gets married.’

  At the entrance to the Metro, the man with the worry beads approached people as they came off the escalators.

  ‘I hope you will go to your brother’s wedding,’ Afra said.

  The three of us walked together to Acharnon. When we got to the café, Baram discreetly pointed out a man sitting alone in the far-left corner. He was wearing a black polo-neck and a black leather jacket and drinking cold coffee from a plastic glass with a straw. There was something immediately ridiculous about this man, but when I looked back to ask Baram if this was the right person, he was no longer there, and that would be the last time I ever saw him.

  Reluctantly I led Afra to the table where the man was now slurping the last of his coffee.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ I said in Arabic.

  The man looked up as if he hadn’t been expecting anyone. Then without saying anything he took the lid off his coffee and stuck his fingers into the plastic cup, trying to get an ice cube.

  ‘I’m Nuri and this is Afra. You’re supposed to be expecting us.’

  The man managed to get hold of the ice cube and threw it into his mouth, biting down on it.

  ‘Do you not speak Arabic?’ I said.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said in Arabic.

  We both took a seat, and maybe I was nervous, or maybe there was something about this man’s silence, but I began to ramble. ‘We met Baram in the square, he said you could help us, he called you yesterday and he said to bring our passports, which I have done, they’re right here.’

  ‘Not yet,’ he said abruptly. His words stopped my hand in its tracks. He smiled, probably at my sudden obedience, then crunched harder into the ice cube, grimacing in a way that made his face take on the appearance of a nine-year-old boy. It was amazing how much power this man-child had; in normal life he would probably have been struggling to make ends meet in some back-alley greengrocer’s in Damascus. There was a glint of something dark and desperate in his eyes, like the men in the woods.

  ‘This is your wife?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, I am Afra.’

  ‘You’re blind?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said simply, but with a hint of sarcasm in her voice that only I could pick up on, and I could almost hear her follow it with: ‘Clever man.’

  ‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘Poor blind woman – less suspicious. You’ll have to take off that hijab and dye your hair blonde. Not much we can do with y
ou,’ he said to me, ‘but you’re not a complete lost cause. Good shave, clean shirt. Work on your expression.’

  On the table the man’s phone vibrated and flashed. He glanced at the screen and his face changed, a twitch in his cheek, a clenched jaw. He turned the phone face down on the table.

  ‘So where is it you want to get to?’

  ‘England.’

  ‘Ha!’

  ‘Everybody laughs,’ I said.

  ‘Ambitious. Expensive.’

  I lowered my face, the money in my rucksack making me nervous. It felt as if I was carrying a bag full of eggs.

  ‘Two thousand euros for Denmark. Three thousand for Germany,’ the smuggler said. Then he paused. ‘You’re much better off going to one of those.’

  ‘How much to England?’

  ‘Seven thousand for both of you.’

  ‘Seven thousand!’ Afra said. ‘That’s crazy! How much does it cost to get a flight from here to England?’

  The man laughed again, and she scrunched up her face and turned away.

  ‘This isn’t a trip to England,’ he said. ‘You are paying for our services. England is a special place – you will be safer, and it’s harder for us to get you there; that’s the additional cost.’

  Afra looked as if she wanted to spit on him. I nudged her foot with mine.

  ‘That’s why we want to go there,’ I said. ‘We’re tired, really tired now. But we just don’t have that kind of money.’

  ‘How much do you have?’

  ‘Five thousand.’

  ‘In cash?’

  I looked over my shoulder.

  The man raised his eyebrows. ‘You’re walking around with that amount of cash on you?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I have some in cash and the rest is in a private account. I’ll do anything, I’ll find work to make up the money. I’ll pick up rubbish, clean cars or windows or anything.’

  ‘Ha! Where do you think you are? Even the locals can’t find work.’

  ‘I’ve had enough of this,’ Afra said, standing up to leave. I grabbed her arm. Seeing my desperation, the man smiled.

  ‘You can do some work for me,’ he said.

  ‘What kind of work?’

  ‘Just deliveries.’

  ‘Just?’

  ‘The others are kids, can’t drive yet. I need someone who can drive. Can you drive?’

  I nodded.

  ‘You can work for me for three weeks. If you behave yourself, then we’ll say five thousand euros for the two of you.’

  ‘OK,’ I said, and held out my hand to shake his, but instead he gave me a huge grin and chuckled.

  Afra was quiet again, but I could feel her anger.

  ‘You’ll have to come and stay with me,’ the man said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To ensure that you don’t run off with the car and the packages.’

  The rest of the ice in the plastic cup had melted now and he leant forward, taking the straw in his mouth and slurping as he’d done before.

  ‘And that way I’ll know you won’t run off because I’ll have Afra – that was your name, wasn’t it?’ Before she could reply, he raised his hand and asked the waiter for a piece of paper and a pen to write down an address.

  ‘Meet me here tomorrow at 10 p.m. If you don’t turn up, I’ll assume you’ve changed your mind.’

  It was early afternoon when we got back to the park. Children were playing with a ball in the open area between the tents and blankets. Others were squabbling over marbles. Two children had made a village on the ground with stones and leaves. The thought of leaving this place filled me with energy, gave me hope, but later I found myself scanning the crowds of children, hoping to see Mohammed among them. Those black eyes, the way they filled with fear and questions, I could almost see him in front of me. It was Sami who had disappeared in my mind, and no matter how much I tried to bring him to life, to conjure an image of him, I couldn’t.

  Angeliki was already sitting beneath the tree, waiting for us. Her face was covered in talcum powder again and her hands were resting in her lap. There was a stillness to her when she was like this, an aloneness that I couldn’t stand to see. Somewhere in the distance a baby was crying and I saw that her breasts were leaking again; the strong smell of sour milk hung around her.

  Afra asked me to fetch the picture from under the blanket and she handed it to Angeliki.

  ‘You draw this?’

  Afra nodded. ‘It’s for you.’

  Angeliki stared at the picture and back at Afra, a long look, and I could see the questions in her eyes but she didn’t say anything more for a while; she sat with the picture in her hands, glancing down at it from time to time and then looking up again, either at the children playing or at something in her own mind.

  ‘In here,’ she said, ‘they hide everything they don’t want world to see. But this picture, it will remind me of another world, better world.’ And maybe she knew we were leaving, for she started to cry, then she stayed all night right beside Afra, lying down next to her, resting a hand on her arm, and they slept there together all night, like sisters or old friends.

  12

  IT IS THE MORNING AFTER the interview. Diomande and the Moroccan man are in the living room drinking their new favourite beverage: tea with milk. They must have heard me get up, because there is a steaming mug on the dining table waiting for me. I join them, as Afra is still asleep.

  With the tea warm in my hands I step up to the glass doors to look outside. Today the courtyard is glowing with sunlight. The cherry tree in the middle with the twisted roots is full of birds, there must be about thirty in there, all chirping and chattering. The landlady’s garden behind is spilling over the wooden fence, red and purple flowers, fallen petals on the flagstones. I find the key behind the curtains and open the doors to let in the air and the distant smell of the sea.

  Diomande is telling the Moroccan man about the interview.

  ‘I think it go very well,’ he says, his smile so wide it fills his whole face.

  The Moroccan man high-fives him.

  ‘I told them what you said. Mother, sister, difficult life. But they ask me some very strange questions.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘What the national anthem is. They ask me to sing it.’

  ‘And did you?’

  Diomande stands up and with his hand on his chest he begins to sing, still with that same broad smile on his face:

  ‘We salute you, O land of hope,

  Country of hospitality;

  Thy full gallant legions

  Have restored thy dignity.

  ‘Beloved Ivory Coast, thy sons,

  Proud builders of thy greatness,

  All not mustered together for thy glory,

  In joy will we construct thee.

  ‘Proud citizens of the Ivory Coast, the country calls us.

  If we have brought back liberty peacefully,

  It will be our duty to be an example

  Of the hope promised to humanity,

  Forging unitedly in new faith

  The fatherland of true brotherhood.’

  ‘You know it in English?’

  Diomande nods.

  ‘Did you sing in English for them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why? What’s the problem?’ I say.

  ‘The words paint a very positive picture!’

  Diomande sits down again, dejected. ‘But I tell them. I tell them life so hard. I tell them about Libya and prison and being beaten till I think I will die. I tell them my sister and mum’s life difficult because of civil war. I have no job and my mum she sent me to find better life. I tell them all this. I tell them that here there is hope. Here maybe I will find work. I can clean, I can cook, I can teach, I have many skill.’

  The birds have silenced now and Diomande’s back is so hunched over that the wings under his T-shirt look as if they are opening up. ‘I also tell them how beautiful it is there, my country, how much I love being there
.’

  The Moroccan man is thoughtful, staring out into the courtyard, sometimes glancing over at me with a question in his eyes, but whatever it is he doesn’t ask.

  Diomande decides that he wants to go to the fair. ‘I can hear it,’ he says, ‘this crazy music all the time and see the lights over sea. Can we go?’

  The Moroccan man gets excited at the prospect of having company. ‘Geezer,’ he says, ‘let’s go! When we see the lights and the sea and hear the music, all our troubles and worries will be like a small grain of sand.’

  They insist that I go with them. They drag me, one hand each, to the stairs so that I can go upstairs and get ready.

  When I go to our room I see that Afra is already dressed and sitting again on the edge of the bed, but this time she is crying. I kneel down in front of her. The tears are streaming out of her eyes like dark rivers. ‘What’s wrong, Afra?’ I say.

  She wipes her face with the back of her hand but the tears keep coming.

  ‘Since I told the doctor about the bomb, it’s all I can think of. I can see Sami’s face. I can see his eyes looking up at the sky. I wonder what he felt. Was he in pain? What did he feel when he looked up at the sky? Did he know I was there?’

  I take her hand in mine but I can’t hold on to it for too long because I feel heat rising up through my spine and along my neck and into my head. I let go and stand away from her.

  ‘I’m going to go for a walk with the Moroccan man.’

  ‘But … I …’

  ‘I’m going for a walk with him and Diomande.’

  ‘OK,’ she says quietly. ‘Have a nice time.’ I can still hear her words – there was so much sadness in her voice – even as we walk along the wooden pier and enter the fairground, swept up in a tornado of slides and roller coasters and bumper cars. ‘Have a nice time’ echoes in my mind, even when Diomande is talking about the Ivory Coast.

  ‘The sea is like the crystal,’ he says, ‘not like this one. This one look like shit. No! Sea there is like the sky. So clear! You could see all the little fishes swimming. Is like glass. And when sun set everything is red – the sky, the sea. You should see this! Everything red.’ He sweeps his hand across the sky and I remember Afra’s paintings. We walk by the seawall, so that we’re close to the water.