The grandfather looks out at the sky and the bright red earth. He instinctively raises the back of his hand to his brow to wipe away a few beads of sweat. The heat, which came early this year, will linger well past dusk today.
He breathes in and out slowly, as if trying to reproduce the rhythm of the landscape. The mountains around him are dotted with argan, carob, and olive trees as well as tufts of thyme and cypress. He knows he should go home, that the mosquitos will begin to target his arms and ankles soon, that Anir is waiting for him.
Like the mountains, she has seemed indifferent to everything and everyone since that night. Every time he thinks about her, he sighs and an image reappears: the mother and child. . . . No, don’t think about that, he tells himself.
Just marvel at the sky, the ground, the trees. Give in to the inescapable urge to dissolve into the sand and light. The air here is so stifling that he can’t even hear the leaves rustle as the birds hunt for a tree to roost in.
His face is relaxed, his features at rest, his mouth and eyelids closed. Dusk has always been his favorite time of day. The old man opens his eyes and bares his white teeth.
He knows they’re coming and doesn’t want to miss them. He enjoys watching them return to the Saint’s Apiary after hours of work. Drunk on pollen and nectar, the bees retreat to their hives for the night, carefully and methodically, as if driven by a higher intelligence, an anonymous architect, or pure chance.
Extract — continue reading at the source.
