Still running his hands through his wet hair, Nadim approached two teenage boys, twins, who had arrived the day before. They were sitting on a blanket beneath a tree, their clothes tattered, their skin dirty; they were new here and frightened, but there was a boyish playfulness between them; one would say something, and the other would laugh and they would nudge each other. I watched as Nadim sat down beside them on their blanket, introducing himself, shaking their hands.
By this time, the man beneath the tree, the one who had nodded at Nadim, had gone.
Nadim then put his hand into the pocket of his jeans and took out some money. He gave the twins about forty euros each, from what I could see. This was a huge amount for two boys who’d probably been living off food scavenged from bins.
‘Nuri,’ Afra said, drawing my attention away, ‘what are you doing?’
‘Just watching.’
‘Watching who?’
‘I don’t like it here,’ I said.
‘Neither do I.’
‘Something is wrong.’
‘I know.’ And just those words, coming from the mouth and the mind of my wife, calmed me. I held onto her hand, squeezed it, kissed it. With every kiss I said, ‘I love you. I love you, Afra, I love you, I love you.’
I told her about Mustafa in England, what he had written about his beehive and the British black bees, and she lay on her back and listened to me and for the first time I saw a small smile appear on her lips.
‘What kinds of flowers are there?’
‘There are fields of lavender and heather.’
Then she was silent for a while. ‘I think the bees are like us,’ she said. ‘They are vulnerable like us. But then there are people like Mustafa. There are people like him in the world and those people bring life rather than death.’ She was silent again, thoughtful, and then she whispered, ‘We will get there, won’t we, Nuri?’
‘Of course we will,’ I said, though I didn’t really believe it then.
That night I tried to imagine that the crickets were bees. I could hear them all around me. The air and the sky and the trees were full of bees the colour of the sun. I realised that I hadn’t replied to Mustafa – something about Nadim had distracted me, something I couldn’t explain that had drawn me away from what I had needed to do. And the crickets sang and I pushed the sound away and imagined the bees. I thought of my mother again, and her red silk fan. Yuanfen. Fate. A force that draws two people together.
It was my mother who had supported me when I wanted to become a beekeeper. My father’s disappointment had made him shrink – in the weeks after I announced that I wouldn’t be working in the shop, that I wouldn’t be taking over the family business, he seemed to become a much smaller man. We’d been sitting in the kitchen after an evening meal. It was June, already very hot, and he was drinking ayran with salt and mint. The ice cubes clinked in the glass. My mother was emptying the leftovers into the bin. It was as if he knew I had something to say that he wouldn’t like, for he kept looking at me over the rim of the glass, a frown on his face, his gold wedding band gleaming in the light of the setting sun. He was already a small man, hardly any fat on him, with bulging knuckles and a prominent Adam’s apple that moved visibly when he talked, but his presence was big, his silence and contemplation often filled the room.
‘Well?’ he said.
‘Well?’ I replied.
‘I want you to go to the wholesaler’s early tomorrow morning – we need more of the yellow silk with the diamond pattern.’
I nodded.
‘Then you will come to the shop and I will show you how to make up the curtains – you can watch me the first time.’
I nodded again. He drank his ayran in one go and held the glass up for my mother to refill. But my mother had her back to us at this point.
‘I will do what you want for another month,’ I said.
He put the glass down on the table, still empty.
‘And what will happen after this month?’ His voice was heavy with brooding anger.
‘I will become a beekeeper.’ I said this matter-of-factly, placing my hands on the table.
‘So you are giving me a month’s notice?’
I nodded.
‘As if I am not your father.’
This time I did not nod.
He looked out of the window, the sun blazing in his eyes, making them the colour of honey.
‘And what do you know about beekeeping? Where will you work? How will you earn a living?’
‘Mustafa has taught me—’