‘Fifteen euro,’ he tried again. ‘Very beautiful stone.’ The colours caught the light. Marble and amber and wood and coral and mother-of-pearl. I remembered the prayer beads in the souq in Aleppo. The man pushed them closer to my face.
‘Twelve euro,’ he said, ‘very beautiful!’
I pushed them away violently with the back of my hand, and I saw that the man had become frightened. He stepped back, lowering the beads.
I showed him both my palms. ‘I am sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry.’ The man nodded and turned to leave and I stopped him.
‘Can you tell me where I can find Elpida Street?’
‘Elpida?’
I nodded.
‘Zitas Elpida?’ The man lowered his face and mumbled something in Greek. Then he said, ‘Are you asking for hope? Elpida mean hope. No hope here.’ There was sadness in his eyes now, but then he chuckled to himself, ‘El-pi-dos,’ he said slowly, emphasising my mistake. ‘Elpidos Street.’ He signalled to the right, to a street just off the square, and he continued along his way, worry beads held up like a prize, the smile on his face.
I crossed the square and turned onto a tree-lined street. At the end of this street was a long queue of refugees outside a building with glass doors. There were prams and wheelchairs and children, and locals weaving through the chaos with their dogs. The doors opened and some refugees came out holding bags, while some others went in. On the corner there was a crowd, some standing, others sitting on the steps outside another set of glass doors. People were greeting one another and talking among themselves. As soon as they saw their friends the children ran into the street to play. The sign on the entrance said: The Hope Centre. And there was something about all this that made me more determined to leave.
I noticed that the women and children were going inside, while the men stayed outside; some sat down on the steps, others looked in through the windows, some headed back to the square. I waited, hovering, and a man came to the door; he was wearing a pair of mirrored sunglasses on his head, which he lowered onto his nose as he stepped outside. They reminded me of the police officers at the Leros camp and I was about to turn and walk away when the man greeted me warmly in Arabic. He explained that this was a centre for women and children only, a place where they could have a hot shower and a cup of tea, where the children could play and new mothers could nurse their babies.
I returned to the park and picked up Afra and together we walked to Victoria Square. She was quiet, sniffing the air like a dog, probably creating pictures in her mind – the coffee, the rubbish, the urine, the trees, the flowers.
At the Hope Centre we were greeted by the man with the mirrored glasses and Afra was given a number so that she could take her place in the queue for a shower. I was told to come back in a few hours. I peeked through the window; to the right, behind a wooden frame, children were playing. There were paintings on the wall, Lego and balls and board games on the floor, Afra was being guided to a chair, given a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits. She was smiling, so I left.
First I went back to the square and found an Internet café. I hadn’t checked my emails for a while and was hoping to hear from Mustafa.
12/04/2016
Dear Nuri,
Last week I attended a dinner held for refugees and there I met a man and a woman. The woman works with refugees in a nearby district, helping new arrivals to fit in. The man is a local beekeeper. I told them both that I had an idea to teach beekeeping to refugees and jobseekers. They were both very impressed! They are helping me to set it up with some local funding. I hope that soon I will be giving workshops to volunteers.
The beehives are thriving, Nuri! These British black bees are very different from Syrian bees. I thought that they would never work under 15 degrees Celsius, but these bees work at temperatures much lower and they even continue to work in the rain. The bees gather nectar from flowers along train tracks and private gardens and parks.
My dear Nuri, I don’t know where you are. At night I open the map on the floor and I try to imagine where you might be. I am waiting for you.
Mustafa
Even in the email I could hear the excitement in Mustafa’s voice again, that innocent boyishness that had carried him and moved him through life.
Dear Mustafa,
I am sorry that I haven’t been in touch and that you have been so worried. I promise that I will find a way to make it to England. It has been a difficult time. Afra and I are staying in Pedion tou Areos, a large park in the city of Athens. I am struggling to find or even imagine a way out, but we will get out of here and be in England before you know it. Most people are trapped here. So many come and not many leave. But I have the money and I have passports. I will need to do something soon because I fear that we cannot survive here much longer.