The Beekeeper of Aleppo_A Moving Testament to the Human Spirit by Christy Lefteri

Author:Christy Lefteri [Lefteri, Christy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Literary, General
ISBN: 9781785768927
Publisher: Bonnier Zaffre Ltd.
Published: 2019-04-28T23:00:00+00:00

8

I WAKE UP WITH AFRA’S HAND resting on my chest. I can feel her fingers on mine, but there is also something else. I remember Mohammed and the key I found in the landlady’s garden. But when I move my hands I see that I am holding a chrysanthemum.

‘You got me another gift?’ she says. There is a question in her voice.

‘Yes,’ I say.

She runs her fingers over the petals and the stem.

‘What colour is it?’ she says.

‘Orange.’

‘I like orange … I thought you would stay downstairs all night. You fell asleep and Hazim helped me up – he didn’t want to wake you.’

There is something desperate in her voice, questions that she is not asking, and I can’t bear the smell of the rose perfume on her body.

‘I’m glad you like it,’ I say, and I remove her hand from my chest, allowing the flower to drop onto the bed.

Later, after I have prayed and dressed Afra, Lucy Fisher arrives. She is in a hurry today, holding two rucksacks as if she is going away somewhere. This time there is another woman with her who I think is a translator; she is dark-skinned and round and holds an old-fashioned handbag.

We sit in the kitchen for just ten minutes. She gives me the new letter with the B&B address printed clearly on it and tells me the date and time of the asylum interview.

‘You have five days,’ she says, ‘to prepare.’

‘As if I am taking an exam,’ I say, and smile. But her face is very serious. She explains that Afra and Diomande will each have their own translators, and there will be one on hand for me too.

‘Diomande’s interview is on the same day?’ I say.

‘Yes, you can travel there together. It’s in South London.’ She continues to talk, opening a map, pointing out the location, opening another train map, explaining things to me, but I’m not really listening. I want to tell her about Diomande’s wings. I want to tell her about Mohammed and the keys, but I’m afraid of her reaction. And then, from the window, something catches my eye. White planes searing through the sky. Too many to count. I hear a whistle followed by a rumbling, as though the world has ripped open. I rush to the window: bombs are falling, planes are circling. The light is too strong, I shield my eyes. The sound is too loud, I cover my ears.

I feel a hand on my shoulder.

‘Mr Ibrahim?’ I hear.

I turn and Lucy Fisher is standing behind me.

‘Are you OK?’

‘The planes,’ I say.

‘The planes?’

I point at the white planes in the sky.

There is a pause and I hear Lucy Fisher exhale. ‘Look,’ she says, very gently. ‘Look, Mr Ibrahim. Look carefully. They are birds.’

I look again and I see seagulls. Lucy Fisher is right. There are no planes circling, only a passenger plane far away, appearing through a wisp of clouds, and above us only seagulls.

‘You see?’ she says.

I nod and she leads me back to my chair.

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