there by my side with his hand on my arm. He doesn’t ask me where I went or why I slept on the beach, and I don’t tell him that I walked into the sea at night. He doesn’t ask me anything, but he doesn’t leave either, which annoys me at first because all I want to do is hum the lullaby, but after a while his presence soothes me. There is something about his solidity and silence that brings some peace to my mind.
He takes his book out of his pocket and begins to read, chuckling to himself now and then. He stays there until the very last visitor leaves and then he returns again the next morning to pick me up. He comes with a bag of clothes. I take off the hospital gown and put on the things he has brought me.
‘They are pyjamas,’ he says. ‘Diomande calls them tracksuit. He said you will be comfortable in these. I don’t understand it. You will have to walk in the streets now in nightwear.’
Just before we leave the hospital the doctor comes to see me again. I am perched on the edge of the bed and she sits opposite me on the visitor’s chair with a clipboard in her hands. The Moroccan man is by the window, looking down at the car park.
‘Mr Ibrahim,’ she says, hesitating, tucking her brown hair behind her ear, ‘the good news is that your brain scan was clear, but from what happened and from the information that I have from you, I believe you are suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. I advise you strongly to seek some counselling from your GP.’ She says all this slowly and clearly, looking at me straight in the eyes, and then she glances at her clipboard and I hear a small sigh before she checks her watch. ‘Can you reassure me that you will do that?’
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘Because I wouldn’t want you to put yourself in danger again.’ There is real concern in her eyes now.
‘Yes, Doctor, I promise that I will take your advice.’
* * *
We get the bus back to the B&B. It is mid-morning by the time we arrive and the landlady is dusting the living room. She clomps across the wooden planks in her platform shoes to greet us. She is wearing bright yellow rubber gloves.
‘Would you like a nice cup of tea, Mr Ibrahim?’ She almost sings these words, and I don’t reply because I am distracted by something in the courtyard. Afra and the Afghan woman are sitting on deckchairs beneath the cherry tree, by the bee. When Farida sees me she says something to Afra, then gets up to let me sit down.
Afra is silent for a very long time. She has her face tilted towards the sun. ‘I can see shadows and light,’ she says. ‘When there’s a lot of light I can see the shadow of the tree. Look!’ she says. ‘Give me your hand!’
I put my hand in hers and she sits forward into the light and positions my hand across her eyes. Then she tells me to move it from left to right, making a shadow sweep across her face.
‘Now it’s light,’ she says, smiling, ‘now it’s dark.’
I want to show her that what she is saying is making me happy, but I can’t.
‘And I can see some colour!’ she says. ‘Over there.’ She points at a red bucket in the corner of the garden. ‘What is that? A rose bush?’
‘It’s a bucket,’ I say.
She lets go of my hand and her face drops. I see that she is rolling that marble in her fingers, running it along her palm and wrist. The red blade in the middle catches the light and becomes translucent. There is a gentle buzzing in the distance that gradually becomes louder, as if a swarm of bees is making its way to this concrete courtyard.
‘I missed you,’ I hear her say. ‘I was so scared.’ And the wind blows and shakes the blossoms and sends them swirling around her. ‘I’m so glad you’re here.’ Her voice is full of sadness. I watch the marble.
‘You have forgotten Mustafa,’ she says.
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Have you forgotten about the bees and the flowers? I think you’ve forgotten about all that. Mustafa is waiting for us and you haven’t even mentioned him. You’re lost in a different world. You’re not here at all. I don’t know you anymore.’
I don’t say anything.
‘Close your eyes,’ she says.
So