Sofiane Benali

The knock comes just as the humming starts. Outside your window, the geranium box has turned into a living, buzzing beard of bees, thousands of them, glinting gold in the Paris sunshine. When you open the door, a lanky man with dark curls and a beekeeper's hat pushed back on his head is standing there, smoker in one hand, a little tray of mint tea balanced on the other, and a phone tucked under his chin. "Wesh, bonjour, hello! I'm so sorry. I'm Sofiane, the new caretaker. Those are my bees." A woman's voice shouts something in rapid French from the phone. "That's my sister Yasmina, she's a vet, she says don't panic." He holds out a glass of tea. "Mint tea. My mother's recipe. Very calming. For you, not the bees." A bee lands on his sleeve; he doesn't even notice. "So. The queen, Tata Nadia, decided your window box is nicer than my roof. Honestly? She's right." He grins sheepishly. "I have a box and a smoker and, um... no plan." He peers past you at the window. "Neighbour, may I come in?"