The Beekeeper of Aleppo: List 4

He has his glasses on the table in front of him next to a bronze plaque with his name on it; his eyes are lit up by the screen of the computer.

“Mrs. Ibrahim, your pupils are reacting to the light, dilating and constricting in exactly the way I would expect them to if you could see.”

There is a possibility that the force of the explosion or the bright light damaged the retina in some way, but it is also possible that the blindness you are experiencing is the result of severe trauma—sometimes our bodies can find ways to cope when we are faced with things that are too much for us to bear.

Having seen all this unfold convinced me that things can change, that hope can prevail, even in the most difficult of circumstances.

That night, when I saw the boys sitting on their usual blanket beneath the tree, I thought about approaching them, and when the strong smell of cologne wafted my way, I saw they were splashing aftershave onto their faces.

I wandered over and asked them if I could sit down. They were wary, their eyes darting to the woods, but they were too young and too naïve to refuse.

I wandered over and asked them if I could sit down. They were wary, their eyes darting to the woods, but they were too young and too naïve to refuse.

“We are paying in installments, okay?”

In the middle of a concrete well there was a stagnant fountain surrounded by the pipes of an ancient watering system.

She began to feel the wound with her hands and she pressed down on it, attempting, in vain, to stop the blood.

This was not a rhetorical question—she waited for me to reply, and she opened one eyelid, halfway, to make sure that I was listening.

Where was home now? And what was it? In my mind it had become a picture infused with golden light, a paradise never to be reached.

Firas and Aya and Dahab were there, and even Mustafa’s father had made a trip down from the mountains; a quiet, unassuming man, nothing like his own father, but he was proud of his son’s achievements and he relished the food and the company, speaking to me freely about his apiaries.

Firas and Aya and Dahab were there, and even Mustafa’s father had made a trip down from the mountains; a quiet, unassuming man, nothing like his own father, but he was proud of his son’s achievements and he relished the food and the company, speaking to me freely about his apiaries.

I could see that she was struggling with herself, her eyes sparkling with grievance, her face flushed with anger.

In these tales, statues were not objects of art or reverence—they were evil-averting talismans or guardians of treasure, or human beings or animals who had been turned to stone.

In these tales, statues were not objects of art or reverence—they were evil-averting talismans or guardians of treasure, or human beings or animals who had been turned to stone.

He asks me to sit down, says my name as if he knows me, but his eyes wander. And yet there is an arrogance about him, a subtle smirk on his lips.

And yet there is an arrogance about him, a subtle smirk on his lips.

“Are there any landmarks in Aleppo?” he says.
“Of course.”
“Can you name some of these?”
“Well, there’s the Citadel. The Umayyad Mosque, Khan al-Jumruk, al-Firdaws Madrasa, which means the school of paradise, al-Otrush Mosque, the Bab al-Faraj Clock Tower...do you want more?”

I tell him as best I can about how we reached Turkey, about the smuggler’s apartment, about Mohammed, and the trip to Leros, about Athens and all those nights we spent in Pedion tou Areos. I don’t elaborate.

Istanbul felt like a place of waiting, but Athens was a place of stagnant resignation, and Angeliki’s words played on my mind: “This is the place where people die slowly, inside. One by one, people die.”

His voice was full of desperation and grievance, the sentence sounding like a demand, but there was a manic smile on his face.

The fire was bright now, and her face was beautiful and sculpted in its light, but the talcum powder gave her a pallid complexion.

When we got to the café, Baram discreetly pointed out a man sitting alone in the far-left corner.

“So where is it you want to get to?”
“England.”
“Ha!”
“Everybody laughs,” I said.
“Ambitious. Expensive.”

Children were playing with a ball in the open area between the tents and blankets. Others were squabbling over marbles.

It was Sami who had disappeared in my mind, and no matter how much I tried to bring him to life, to conjure an image of him, I couldn’t.

We salute you, O land of hope,
Country of hospitality

Beloved Ivory Coast, thy sons,
Proud builders of thy greatness,
All not mustered together for thy glory,
In joy will we construct thee.

If we have brought back liberty peacefully,
It will be our duty to be an example
Of the hope promised to humanity,
Forging unitedly in new faith
The fatherland of true brotherhood.

Diomande sits down again, dejected.

The water is almost opaque, and yet I can see those shadows slithering beneath the surface.

“I know the men are dodgy,” I said, “but I don’t think they’ll try anything.”

A doctor comes to see me because she would like to know who I am and what I was doing sleeping on the beach with my body in the water. She tells me that when they brought me in I was suffering from hypothermia.

Do you feel confused or disoriented?

If I let him live, we would still have this chance to escape, even though something of me would always be left behind, trapped within the dank walls of this apartment.

I lead Mustafa into the living room, and we sit in silence for a while—Mustafa on the edge of the armchair, wringing his hands, me on the sofa.

Dahab and Aya are waiting for you, and there are so many flowers, lavender and heather fields, and the bees also collect nectar from private gardens and allotments and along the train tracks.

He speaks with the enthusiasm of a child again, but I can detect an undertone of desperation.