I turn off the TV and the room plunges into silence. Nobody seems to care.
I wander over to the computer desk and sit down. I think of the field in Aleppo before the fire, when the bees hovered above the land like clouds, humming their song. I can see Mustafa taking a comb out of a hive, inspecting it closely, dipping a finger into the honey, tasting it. That was our paradise, at the edge of the desert and the edge of the city.
I look at my face on the dark screen, thinking of what to write – Mustafa, I believe I am unwell. I have no dreams left.
The landlady comes in and begins to clean the living room with a bright yellow duster. She tries to reach the cobwebs in the corners, tiptoeing with her platform shoes and skinny elephant legs, and so I get up and offer to do it for her. I spend the afternoon dusting the walls and tables and cabinets in the living room and any of the rooms upstairs that have been left open. I get a glimpse into some of the other residents’ lives. Some have made their beds, while others have left their rooms in a mess. Some have trinkets on their bedside cabinets, precious things from a past life, photographs on the dresser. Propped up without frames. I don’t touch anything.
The Moroccan man’s room is tidy, everything folded neatly, a bottle of shaving foam on the dresser, razors lined up. There is a black and white photograph of a woman in a garden. The photo is faded and white at the edges, and there is a small gold wedding band on the dressing table next to it. The photo next to that is of the same woman, some years later. She has the same eyes and smile; she is sitting on a wicker chair holding a baby, a toddler standing beside her. Another photo, glossy, many years later, is of a family: a man, a woman and two teenage children. The last one is of a woman standing on the shore with the sea behind her. I turn it over and read the words in Arabic:
Dad, my favourite place. I love you x
I head downstairs feeling heavier than before and decide to go for a walk. I make my way to the convenience store; the Arabic music reaches me as I walk along the street. Although I’m not familiar with the song that is playing, the music transports me home, its tones and rhythms, the sound of my language surrounding me and soothing me as I enter the little shop.
‘Good morning,’ the man says in English. His accent is good and he is standing very upright, as if he is guarding the place, middle-aged, cleanly shaven. He turns the volume down and follows me with his eyes while I walk around. I stand by the counter staring at the unfamiliar newspapers: The Times, the Telegraph, the Guardian, the Daily Mail.
‘It is a beautiful day,’ he says.
I am about to reply in Arabic, but I don’t want to have a conversation with this man. I don’t want him to ask me where I am from and how I got here.
‘Yes,’ I say finally, and he smiles.
Just beneath the magazines, on the last row of shelves, I notice a sketch pad and colouring pencils. I have some change in my pocket so I buy them for Afra. The man glances at me a few times and opens his mouth to say something, but a woman calls him from the back of the shop and I leave.
In the late afternoon the Moroccan man returns, calling my name as soon as he walks through the door.
‘Nuri! Mr Nuri Ibrahim! Please come here – there is a gift for you!’
I go out into the hallway and he is standing there, a huge smile on his face, holding a wooden tray with five plants it.
‘What’s this?’ I say.
‘I had a bit of money saved and I went to the vendor on the street and got this for the bee!’ He shoves the tray into my arms and nudges me through the living room, toward the patio doors. He picks up an overturned plastic table in the corner of the courtyard, wiping the muck and dried leaves off with his hand.
‘Right,’ he says, ‘put it on here!’ Then he stands there for a while admiring the flowers – sweet clover, thistle and dandelions. ‘The man told me which flowers to get, which ones the bee would like.’ He goes into the kitchen and comes back with a saucer of water. He rearranges the plant pots into a line, so the bee will be able to get from one to the other without flying, and he puts the saucer in the tray.
‘I think she will be thirsty,’ he says.
For a while I can’t move. I can see him staring at me, waiting for me to put the bee into her new home, and there is a shadow of disappointment in his eyes at my lack of enthusiasm. In this moment, standing beneath the tree with the flowers beside us and the sun beaming down, I remember my father. I remember the look on his face when I told him I didn’t want to take over the family business, that I wasn’t interested in selling fabric. I wanted to be a beekeeper with Mustafa, I wanted to work outdoors in nature, I wanted to feel the land beneath my feet and the sun on my face, to hear the song of the bees.