Pushing the front door open, she scans the scene: lots more doors, three long hallways, a dark staircase on her right, and what looks like a dining room down the corridor before her. She readjusts her bags, then Hartford points her up the enclosed staircase.
There is a woman standing by the window on the landing; Silvia thinks this perhaps was the shadow.
“Oh, hi.” Silvia smiles and, embarrassed, tries to blow her bangs away from her sweaty forehead as she approaches from below.
“Cynthia.” The woman extends her hand.
“I was just wondering where you were.”
The expression on Cynthia’s face is bewildered, almost irritated. Silvia feels a flash of guilt, as if she shouldn’t have been wondering about this, as if she has no right to wonder where Cynthia will be at any given moment. “Well, here I am! And you are?”
“Sorry, right, I’m Silvia.” She finger-combs her bangs, trying to make them smooth.
“Ah yes, the writer. I remember. Lovely.” Her expression opens up and becomes instantly warmer, familiar, and yet her eyes focus, the way a camera’s lens focuses, on Silvia’s face. “You look a bit different from your photo.”
“Do I?” Silvia tries to remember which photo she sent and how she could possibly look all that different. She’s looked exactly the same her whole life.
“Well, welcome,” Cynthia says. “Hartford, help our guest with her bags. I’m so sorry”—she smiles—“you’ll have to forgive him, it’s all new for us. Oh, and put her next to Ibrahim.”
Silvia’s waiting for more, like a description of who Ibrahim is or why she’ll be placed next to him, but that’s all there is to it. Cynthia goes down the stairs, and Silvia watches her, aware of Cynthia’s undeniable magnetism even beyond her physical beauty. Hartford grunts as he picks up her heavy bags.
“Here you are,” he says, delivering her to an open door. “There’ll be a bell for dinner.” And he’s gone.
The walls of Silvia’s bedroom are unfinished wood. Pine, probably, though she isn’t the kind of person who can distinguish one wood from another. The room is larger than she expected. Two thin twin mattresses are placed, monk-like, straight on the floor. The view is over the garden, and in the distance she can see endless fields, yellow and scorched. There are four doors: one to the hallway, which she had come through; one to an empty cupboard; one which she presumes is to Ibrahim’s room; and one closed with a very small padlock.
She dismisses the encounter with Cynthia and tries to forgive herself for her awkwardness. Everything will be fine, she thinks, a secular prayer. It’s gorgeous here, the house is massive, everyone will have plenty of space. And maybe she’ll be able to write, maybe writing will be fun; maybe she will find inspiration.
She opens her big bag to get her eye mask, thinking to take a nap, and the first thing she sees is the family copy of the Bible with a note from her mother sticking out. Love you, xoxo.
She stuffs the Bible back in and checks her phone, wanting to see if her parents responded to her text, wanting to dispel the thrum of weirdness she feels. No reception.
Too exhausted to act on her curiosity, she pulls the cotton bedcover over the mattress and lets herself flop onto her back, practically flush with the hardwood floor, where she sleeps until there is a knock at one of the doors.
VIII
IBRAHIM PUTS HIS PAINTS in one corner, drops his materials in another, then evaluates the place. Not bad. The man who let him in—what was his name, Henry? Something that reminded him of Robert Redford, but he can’t remember why—said he’d be next to a girl, a writer, called Silvia. He decides to introduce himself and knocks.
“Hello? Is anyone there?” he calls, knocking harder this time. “Anybody home?”
After nearly a minute the door finally opens, revealing the girl he feels it’s safe to assume is Silvia.
“Oh. Hi.” Ibrahim smiles a smile that he’s practiced.
“Hi.” She seems caught up in sleep: her eyes are dream-soft and she’s got pillow creases on her cheeks. The stamp of sleep suits her, he thinks.
They look at each other, knowing they’ll be sharing a significant amount of time. They look with scepticism and hope, in equal parts.
“Ibrahim.” He puts out his hand and sneezes.
“Bless you.”
“Thanks. Allergies.”
She takes his hand. “Where are you from?”
“Toronto.”
“I mean, where are you from originally?”
“Uh, Toronto.”
Silvia looks down to her knees. “Oh, right.”
“And you are?” He leans in through the door, gripping either side of the frame, and then walks into the room.
“Me? Sorry, yeah, Silvia. I’m Silvia.” She looks around at the twin mattresses behind her and remembers what Cynthia said about being put next to Ibrahim. Next to—on that same bed? Are they meant to be . . . ? “Are we sharing—” she starts.
“A room?” he continues, moving towards the two mattresses and turning his head to look back at her. “Didn’t they tell you?”
She moves her head in a way that’s both a nod and a shake.
“Which side do you want, window or wall?” He sits and stretches out on the mattress nearest the window, watching her discomfort grow, a red stain up her neck. “What, don’t you think it’ll be big enough for the both of us?”
Silvia does something with her bottom lip, sucking it through between her teeth. Her skin looks dewy. Ibrahim has heard people use that word to describe nice skin, and he thinks this must be what they meant. Her skin looks as though it’s resting above a thin layer of water, her eyes the open pools.
He stands up. “Sorry,” he says, laughing. “I couldn’t resist. My room’s through there.” He gestures to the door from which he came. “You’ve got the bed all to yourself.”
“Right. Of course.” Silvia feels very aware of her feet and their position on the uncovered wood floor. “So, what are you here for?”
“You make it sound like a prison sentence.”
“I mean, are you an artist?”
“Sort of, yeah.” His face twists halfway to a frown. He walks over to her window. A little too tall for the frame, which is placed right underneath the sloping roof, he has to bend to put his eyes to the smudgy glass. Dust and cobwebs make intricate, animate patterns.
“So not a beekeeper?”
“Can I be a bit of both, please, miss?” He turns around and gives her a full beam, showing the spaces between his teeth. He has the feeling that he wants to win.
His teeth are surprisingly small, she thinks, like milk teeth. His hair is longer than hers, and his face, when she examines it, is actually pretty handsome. His skin is the golden brown of wet sand.
The energy between them is chaotic; she doesn’t understand this sort of magnetized tension. She thinks about the word subject: a painter’s subject, subject of discussion; subjected to; the opposite of object.
Since she doesn’t answer, he continues, trying to fill space. “What are your plans for while you’re here?”
“Plans?”
“Like, what are you working on? I heard you’re a writer.”
“You heard—? Uh . . .” How to explain, what to say, should she lie, could whatever she says now be a promise to herself to write that thing? It’s not writer’s block if it’s blocking nothing. “I’m still figuring that out, I guess.”
When she turns her head, he can see that her hair has been cropped to reveal the mole at the top of her neck, placed there painterly. His first impression is that her hair is too short, boyish. It looks like a toadstool, but then he thinks, It will grow.
“Do you know how many people will be coming?” she asks, but what she’s actually wondering is why Cynthia has paired her with this man, whether she can request a room change to be next to a girl; something about Ibrahim gives her a twist in her stomach.
There is a bell, and a voice that follows: “Suppertime, everyone!” Ibrahim
looks out the window and sees Hartford’s floppy hat floating in the middle of the patch of grass that forms a sort-of courtyard between the outbuildings.
Everyone. That means everyone must have arrived.
“No idea, but I guess we’ll find out now. Let’s go,” he says, but she’s already two steps ahead of him.
Neither of them bothers to lock their doors.
IX
EVERYONE ARRIVES at the same time, and supper is already on the table when they get there. Ibrahim notices the colour of the cold boiled ham, lipstick-pink, the rim of fat gone white. There’s a jug of milk too, and all the glasses are already full.
A starched white tablecloth has been laid over all the mismatched tables that make up the communal eating area. There are additional pitchers of milk, and candles that reflect their warm light off the wooden wall paneling.
Everyone takes a place wherever he or she was standing. And then they wait, full of first-day nerves. The evening light sits yellow on the table, a corner falling onto Ibrahim’s face.
“Well, everyone,” Hartford says, presiding at the head of the table. Ibrahim sees that the other end of the table is empty; Cynthia hasn’t arrived. Hartford opens his mouth, swallows whatever he was going to say, then tries again. “Bone appa-teet!”
The people at the table serve themselves from the porcelain bowls that line the surface: potato and lentil salads, both smothered with store-bought mayonnaise, fresh bread with fresh butter, and spinach from the garden with zucchini, shelled peas, baby radishes, the first wisps of carrot. Though it’s still spring, Hartford explains that the unseasonable heat has advanced some of the produce to summertime size.
The milk tastes of cow. The peas taste of green. The ham tastes as ham should—Ibrahim has never had pork that tastes so good. (He and his siblings have eaten pork ever since their mother died; any semblance of practicing their faith dissolved after that, though none of them drink very much alcohol. His father still prays fairly regularly, but mostly conversationally, finding comfort in talking rather than the whole salah.) Everything is delicious; they all say so. A buzz of chatter rises.
On Ibrahim’s side of the table are two similar-looking men and one blond woman. The men must be brothers, maybe cousins. They look like they might have sat around playing video games as children, and their skin, now pulled taut over bulging muscles, still holds the memory of their former chubbiness. Even though they’ve now got broad shoulders and tapered waists, grapefruits buried in their shoulder sockets, you can always tell from the face. The way chin meets neck.
The blond woman is drinking quickly and eating copiously. She’s pale and plump as a Vermeer lady. Abnormally pale. Her eyes, eyebrows, and eyelashes are almost albino. Her name is Alicia.
Silvia is sitting opposite Ibrahim. On one side of her is a married couple, Marie-Juliette and Jean-Baptiste, who explain that they go by MJ and JB respectively. On the other is a pair of young girls who look like art-school hipsters. Ibrahim doesn’t say anything, but he frankly does not see the point of neon-green nail polish on a farm. Both girls are silent; Ibrahim wonders if they are afraid.
In fact, the only person who seems to talk comfortably is a girl who’s narrow, pretty, and pointed as a bird, a heron maybe. She has platinum hair with dark roots and a wide mouth revealing big teeth.
“How many days has it been since it’s rained, then?” the bird girl—Monique, they’ve learned—asks Hartford.
“About forty-five days now, I’d say. Yes, forty-five days.” Hartford wipes off his milk moustache with the back of his wrist.
“What will we do about it?” Monique asks.
“There’s nothing much to do,” says Hartford. “We adjust.”
“Does it affect the honey?” Ibrahim asks from across the table.
“Bees aren’t personally affected by water, no, but if the flowers are dehydrated, then the honey, the little that can be made from the meagre nectar samples, will be lacking in flavour. Not to mention quantity.”
“So yes?” Ibrahim glances across at Silvia with a tricksy half-smile. “It does affect the honey, then?”
Hartford coughs. “Well, I suppose you could say that, consequentially, yes, in one way or another.”
“And when can we expect Cynthia?” Ibrahim persists. “Or does she not travel among us?”
As an answer to his question, the screen door to the garden swings open and a tall column of a woman is there. “Good evening, everyone. Hello, hello.” Cynthia nods to each side of the table, sighing like a gracious but slightly put-upon monarch. “Welcome.” Her shirt is crisp, tucked into her trousers, and she is carrying nothing. Or at least her hands are empty, though her pockets look full. “Thank you all for coming. I hope your journeys were fine. I know we’re not exactly conveniently located, but I am very happy to have you here and look forward to getting to know each and every one of you.”
Another general mumble. Cynthia looks around at each person’s face. “Ten, have we?” she asks Hartford.
“Yes,” Hartford replies. “Two haven’t arrived, and I don’t believe they will.” He passes her two bits of paper. She stuffs them into her pockets without looking at them.
“Right. So, we make our living from our honey, as you know—last year we sold two thousand pounds—and with your help this year, and a few new hives, we’re hoping to double that. There’s also the livestock and the garden, and some general maintenance to do. The day starts with breakfast at a quarter past seven, and you’ll alternate chores in the afternoon. I’m sure you’ll do very well. That’s why we picked you!” Cynthia fetches a jug of water. “For when you finish your milk,” she says, and places it in the centre of the table before walking deliberately to take her place at the opposite end of the table from Hartford.
Everyone settles into the dynamic of their collective relationship. They help each other to seconds, make tentative gestures at passing condiments and water; they bounce around pleasantries and generic background questions, unintentionally cross-checking each other. Where are you from, what do you do, how long do you plan to stay. Nobody gets into the whys yet. Whys are for later.
“Hey, can you pass the . . . ?” Silvia reaches for the water.
“You haven’t finished your milk,” Cynthia says.
Silvia retracts her hand. “I don’t like milk,” she replies.
Cynthia raises her eyebrows. “Nobody else is complaining, Silvia.”
For a moment there is silence at the table. Then Cynthia continues: “Does anyone else have any questions?”
One of the brothers next to Ibrahim pipes up. “I do, actually, a quick one. Where can we get cell reception? I noticed there isn’t any in the—”
Hartford jumps in. “You’ll find there isn’t any at all on the property,” he says. “Maybe in Smooth Rock.”
There’s an unhappy mumble around the table.
“In any case,” Hartford continues, “cell-phone use is not encouraged. The radio waves can interfere with bees’ communication.”
“Wait—are you serious?” the other brother asks. He’s holding up his phone, and the one next to him is jabbing at the screen of his own.
Monique laughs; Hartford looks at her sternly. Ibrahim notices that Monique’s irises don’t have a solid edge but are ruffled, the colour bleeding, as if water had gotten into her eyeballs before they’d finished forming. They’re the colour of rust, and veined with blue and black. In fact, her eyes look exactly like the quartz of the rocky shield beneath them, but rock made somehow soft, diluted, what with the undefined borders. Monique is definitely an artist, he thinks.
“There’s a pay phone at the end of the road,” Cynthia continues, “before it forks off to the highway. You can make and receive calls there.” She grins. “I’m sure you’ll get used to it. Now, I suggest you all go up to your rooms and get a good rest. Early start tomorrow. Hartford will clear up tonight.” Cynthia smiles at Hartford, then takes her leave.
The group around the dirty dinin
g table is left sitting there like an unassembled jigsaw, and piece by piece they go back to their rooms.
X
SILVIA RUMMAGES THROUGH her still-not-unpacked suitcase to get her toothbrush. She didn’t bring toothpaste, figuring there would be some here.
The common bathroom is at the bottom of the stairs. The corridors are conspicuously bare. Most people have art or photographs or some kind of identity hanging on the walls of a home. Family pictures. Framed maps. Horseshoes or antique washboards. Here there’s nothing.
As she opens the bathroom door she’s listening for sounds upstairs, so she doesn’t expect the sound inside: “Hey!” A blur behind the door.
“Sorry,” Silvia says, letting go of the handle.
A second later Monique opens the door just enough to peek through. “Oh, it’s you.” She is wearing only her underwear and an off-white wife beater, baggy around the armholes. “Come in.” She opens the door wide so Silvia can pass through. “I’m just brushing my teeth.”
“Me too,” Silvia says, holding up her toothbrush like it’s a white flag. “Sorry,” she says again, trying not to look at Monique’s unshaven armpits or the rounded peach of her butt. “Do you have any—”
“Toothpaste? Yes.” Monique squeezes some onto Silvia’s brush, jawing down on her own between her molars. “So what do you think?”
Silvia looks at Monique in the mirror. “Of what?”
Monique spits into the sink. “Cynthia! Hartford! This whole thing!”
“Oh . . . fine?”
“I can’t place Cynthia. I’m usually really good with people, but I don’t know, there’s something about her that’s just unreadable.” Monique examines her face close up in the mirror. Silvia notices how she goes over her skin with her fingerpads as if she’s painting it.
“Oh.” Silvia doesn’t find herself caring very much—it doesn’t seem relevant. “She seems professional, I guess. Like she’s doing her job.”
The Honey Farm Page 4