‘Why?’
‘Listen. In its midst is a very big pavilion with a dome rising high in the air. They come to a place with a long table which has words etched onto the surface. It says, “At this table have eaten a thousand kings blind in their right eye, and a thousand kings blind in their left eye, and a thousand kings blind in both eyes, all of whom have departed the world and have gone to tomb and catacomb.” Every king who ever ruled this place was blind, in one way or another, so that they left it full of riches and devoid of life.’
I watched Mohammed’s face, saw the thoughts moving behind his eyes. There was a pause, as if he was holding his breath. Then he exhaled.
‘That’s a very sad story.’
‘Yes, it is a sad story.’
‘Is it true?’
‘It’s always true, don’t you think?’
‘Like back home?’
‘Yes, just like home.’
Mohammed lay back and turned towards the glowing fire and closed his eyes.
Seeing the smoke rising into the morning sky, I remembered Mustafa smoking the colonies during harvesting season; we used the smoke to protect ourselves while we harvested the honey. That way the bees would not smell each other’s pheromones and would be less likely to sting in self-defence.
We filled a can with wood chips and shavings and started a fire, and once we got the fire going a bit, we snuffed out the open flame and stuffed more fuel on top of it. You don’t want an open flame, because if it hits the bellows they can become like a flamethrower and burn the wings of the bees.
When we had so many colonies we couldn’t manage them on our own we hired workers who would help us build new hives, raise queen bees, check the colonies for infestations and also collect the honey. In the field where Mustafa stood, our employees were also smoking the colonies, and puffs of smoke rose from their cans and into the blue sky where the sun blazed down upon us all. Mustafa prepared lunch for everyone – usually lentils or bulgur with salad or pasta and egg stew, followed by baladi soft cheese with honey. We had a small hut with a kitchen and outside a canopy with fans to provide some relief from the heat. We sat together to eat, Mustafa at the head of the wooden table, stuffing food into his mouth after the morning’s hard work, dipping bread into the tomato sauce. He would be so proud, proud and grateful for what we had achieved together, but a part of me always wondered if this gratitude also came from fear, a fear of the unknown, of some future disaster.
Mustafa lost his mother when he was five years old. She and his unborn brother died during labour, and I think he lived forever on the edge of imminent catastrophe, and so he came to appreciate everything with the joy and terror of a child. ‘Nuri,’ he would say as he wiped the sauce from his chin, ‘look what we have created! Isn’t it marvellous? Isn’t it just so marvellous?’ But there in his eyes was a glint of something else, a darkness I had come to recognise as belonging to his childhood heart.
7
IN THE MORNING, WHEN I get up to use the bathroom, I see that Diomande’s door is wide open and he is collecting scattered sheets of paper from the floor. The Qur’an is open on his unmade bed. He puts the pile of paper in a drawer, opens the curtains so that the sunlight floods into the room and sits down on the edge of the bed. He is wearing only tracksuit bottoms, his body is hunched over and he is holding a T-shirt in his hands.
He hasn’t noticed me standing in the doorway. His mind is elsewhere, and he turns slightly towards the window so that I see a strange deformity jutting out of the skin of his back where his shoulder blades should be. As if he’s just hatched out of an egg, there are small white wings, tight and muscular, like scrunched-up fists. It takes a moment for my mind to catch up with my eyes. He quickly pulls the T-shirt over his head. I shift my feet and he turns to face me.
‘Nuri – this is your name?’ The sudden sound of his voice startles me. ‘I met Lucy Fisher,’ he says. ‘She is very nice lady. I think maybe she is worried for me. I tell her not to worry, Mrs Fisher, don’t worry! There are opportunities in this country. I will find job! My friend told me if I want to be safe and if I want to stay living I should come to UK. But she look more worry than before and now I am worrying too.’
I stand there staring at him. I can’t find my voice to reply.
‘When my dad died, we had very difficult time, there was no work, money was very little, and not much food for two sisters, and my mother she told me, “Diomande, I will find some money and you will go, you will go from here and find a way to help us!”’