The Beekeeper of Aleppo

by Christy Lefteri

The Moroccan man says she’s very beautiful, that she looks like a dancer from Paris who he once made love to in a hotel in Rabat, long before he married his wife.

He asked me about life in Syria. I told him about my beehives in Aleppo.

But I know that if I say the right things, if I convince her that I’m not a killer, then we will get to stay here because we are the lucky ones, because we have come from the worst place in the world.

Of course it was hard to predict—smugglers changed their rates on a whim—but we had a plan, and Mustafa loved plans and lists and itineraries. They made him feel safe. But I knew this was just talk; Mustafa wasn’t ready to leave the bees.

And although my mind was restless, I closed my eyes tight. I didn’t want to see or know anything more.

He had found me all those years ago, he had led me out of that dark shop and into the wild fields on the edge of the desert, and now I had to keep my promise to him. I would find a way to get to England.

“Sami, my son,” she says, “he was playing in the garden. I let him play there beneath the tree, but I was watching him from the window—there’d been no bombs for two days and I thought it would be all right. He was a child, he wanted to play in the garden with his friends, but there were no children left. He couldn’t be inside all the time, it was like a prison for him. He put on his favorite red T-shirt and jean shorts and he asked me if he could play in the garden, and when I looked into his eyes I couldn’t say no, because he was a boy, Dr. Faruk, a boy who wanted to play.” Afra’s voice is strong and steady.

held my arm up like a wounded bird, the blood coming out fast, dripping onto my trousers.

Sometimes we create such powerful illusions, so that we do not get lost in the darkness.