Napoleon's Beekeeper

by José Luis de Juan

  ‘In four or five months, it all depends on the doldrums in the Persian Gulf. But if you’re thinking about joining the ship, I’m sorry to disappoint you. Not even an extra pin is going to fit aboard. Vous comprenez, monsieur?’

  What would it take to persuade this man who has earned his trust to find a spare spot for him and his bundle of books in the hold of the Lamarck?

  His legs feel heavy when he treads down the three steps of one of the port taverns. It’s been years since he set foot in here, not since before his wedding, perhaps. He notes the glances from the innkeeper and the patrons sitting at a table playing cards. How long has it been since he tasted a drop of grappa?

  And since he played cards? Before his father died, he would play at times. Two of the schoolmates he once played with are still here, as if they haven’t moved from their seats. He watches their movements through the cloud enveloping him as he feels the burning liquor slip down his throat.

  24.

  Bonaparte just needs a beekeeper, Anselmo contended in the meeting. Only someone close to bees could make him see things with crystalline clarity, he said.

  According to Anselmo, Bonaparte is not fully conscious of the influence the insects have had on his life. Bonaparte believes he chose the bee as his emblem for the metaphor of industriousness, as well as for the echo of the gold bees from Childeric’s tomb. But that’s just the tip of the iceberg. And then the accomplished parish priest indulged in one of the tricks of his trade. Have you never entertained the thought that, until now, the story of the Emperor resembles the resurrection of Christ: we feel that something greater than the Emmaus incident must have occurred, and the Gospels haven’t told us?

  Yes, what could be missing at this stage? Pasolini wonders as he peers through his glass of grappa at the misshapen cards (the long beaks, the hearts that look like arrow tips in reverse) that have been laid down by Mario, the player sitting before him.

  His mission is to take Bonaparte into his study and use his beekeeping maps to account for the battles that Bonaparte fought. He imagines unfolding the map of Austerlitz first, as it is one of the most flawless and convincing; he has been working on it for years. It is a work of art, almost as much as the very battle was. Anselmo was bedazzled when he showed it to him; even he, already persuaded, marvelled at the ease with which the activity of bees dovetailed with the meeting of weapons.

  How can he forfeit this chance, when it’s something he has fantasised about for so long? If he devised a system that revealed the concurrence of some deeds with others, he did so with the thought that, one day, he would show it to the victor of Austerlitz. Over the topographical map of the Austerlitz battle he placed a sheaf of translucent onion-skin paper, on which he’d recorded the small, precise world of bees. It was thrilling to see how they coincided, how day after day some occurrences mimicked others and ended up merging and led to the same result: the victory of one army and the defeat of the other. Pinpointing cause and effect was challenging and debatable, but not so the existence, in the same time and space, of two strategic sets of moves that apparently had no knowledge of one another.

  Bonaparte, Pasolini says to himself, now far removed from the coarse gestures of the card players, will be astounded. And then his questions will come, his deductions, the unfolding of his powerful intuition, and of that omnivorous curiosity that sets him apart.

  Standing before the map of Austerlitz, which can be glimpsed beneath the transparent sheaf that records the bees’ activity, it seems to Pasolini that he can see and hear Bonaparte. The victor of Austerlitz asks him in a sharp voice what his sources are, how these have been tested and whether he is utterly sure of the veracity of what he has captured on the onion-skin paper. As the responses arrive, the Emperor asks for a compass, ruler, paper and pencil. He carries out a few quick measurements with the compass and transposes the distances to the ruler. Then he engages in complex calculations, querying without pause the estimated number of bees per swarm, the height of their flight, the speed. Pasolini deduces that he is familiar with the findings of Réaumur, Huber and Bonnet with regard to the organisation of the hive. The artillery commander’s numbers rush dramatically onto the paper. In a matter of minutes, he figures out the calculations that took Pasolini weeks because he has the particulars of his army in his head, down to the minutest details.

  ‘His secret weapon,’ Anselmo said. ‘You will reveal to Bonaparte the secret weapon of his that he was never aware of, not in Austerlitz nor in Marengo nor in Jena.’ A weapon that was imperfect and instinctive, but at the same time sure and predictable. Pasolini, as a beekeeper, possesses a certain dominion over bees that has nothing to do with the one Napoleon exercises over men on the battlefield, whether they be generals, officers or simple foot soldiers. The Emperor knows them, can predict their behaviour, regulate their passions, handle them. Even if sometimes he errs, his successes are greater than his mistakes. As for bees, the opposite is true: his knowledge is limited; he knows something and the rest he intuits. If bees, with their perfect discipline, have had some influence on his victories, the question then becomes how to direct that influence, how to control the pulse of the hive, how to manipulate the virgins to his advantage.

  Pasolini leaves the tavern and strides uncertainly, slowly – stopping every now and then to quarrel with himself – towards the pier where the Lamarck is moored. The gaslights are being lit around the port.

  Moving lowly pawns, he says to himself, hearing Anselmo’s voice, frightening princes, weakening monarchs, rousing the troops: that is Bonaparte’s job, a job he learned over the course of four lustra on so many battlefields. Learning how to do the same with bees could likewise take the Emperor a long while, perhaps longer than with men, given the bees’ instinct precedes him. He has no time to waste, the lives of seven Siamese cats wouldn’t suffice for him to do everything he intends. If bees are of vital importance to cementing his glory or even preserving it from oblivion, he should elect an expert, someone whose knowledge of bees runs deep.

  25.

  Kneeling on the marble floor, a man whispers in the confessional, his back partly covered by the purple curtain.

  ‘Yesterday the newly appointed head of the Carabinieri came to ask for my advice. I thought it must be a gallbladder issue, judging by his surly expression. Or a prostate problem, although he’s still young. Right away he said he’d come about something else. He asked me about the Tuscan Bonapartist Society, given that I am listed as secretary and treasurer. I gave him trivial details about its beginnings and purpose. I told him there weren’t many of us, unfortunately, and I mentioned Bonetti, Lefebvre and Zamagni. He asked me if you, Father Anselmo, were linked to the Society. I told him that you were only my confessor and that you sometimes came to certain sessions in the capacity of spiritual adviser…’

  Anselmo wonders who must have told the Carabinieri.

  A pious churchgoer starts coughing as he waits in one of the side pews, pressuring him to finalise the confession.

  ‘Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis…’

  The parish priest goes up the stairway of the Bishop’s Palace. He remembers a similar situation from a long time ago. One of his first postings, Siena. That was where he started the Society, though he had to disassociate himself from it when he was sent to Elba. He was twenty-three years old when he arrived in the Tuscan city after being in the Brindisi seminary from eleven years of age. One year in Rome and one summer in Paris, coupled with a prelate, completed his theological education. When he arrived in Siena the attack on the Bastille was on everybody’s lips. The local nobility closed ranks. It was a delicate time, a witch-hunt climate. In his cell he kept the works of Rousseau, Diderot and Montesquieu, which he had brought back from France. Soon he became aware of the conservatism of the people of Siena, from the Palio nobles to the new bourgeoisie who were taking over the city.

  Anselmo forged a way through those unmoving minds thanks to the confession and catechism, which turned them into a cadre of enl
ightened men open to a different means of organising society. He preferred his initiatives one on one, their small cell at most, their intimate coterie in the half-light of the sacristy. In Siena, in spare moments in the safety of his cell, he translated into Italian Discourse on the Origin and Basis of Inequality among Men, which would later be printed in Florence. Then he dared to translate Reveries of a Solitary Walker. And, when Bishop Bellini sent him to Elba, he took on the task of channelling the Genevan’s celebrated Confessions.

  He remembers the day clearly. Bellini scanned the turbulent sky from a window in the audience chamber. He was a slim man, quite tall, with an erect bearing. His long, bony hands suggested a guarded person, astute, a priest of souls who was distant and a realist. He’d summoned Anselmo because for months the faithful had been lining up at the young priest’s confessional seeking absolution. Men, mostly, but also young women. And he spent longer than usual seeing them, which had caused a bit of a stir. In contrast, Father Domenico languished in his gothic, elevated confessional, like a bird fallen asleep in a cage. When one of his devout parishioners arrived to tell him their bleary misgivings and rattled the grille, he woke, startled. And, during the catechism the adolescents, waking from a lethargy that had lasted generations, had started asking questions.

  ‘Father Anselmo,’ said the bishop, turning around swiftly, ‘I regret dragging you away from your tasks. I know you are very busy.’

  He motioned towards a blue velvet armchair.

  ‘I hate circumlocutions and would wager that you do too. I’ve heard that…’ he paused as he chose the right words, ‘…through carrying out your ministry you disseminate foreign ideas that foster social discontent and even perhaps rebellion. I am not speaking of a veiled insinuation, of misconstrued words made by someone who harbours animosity towards you, but about a persistent rumour that for months has been growing like a ball of snow. Baron Fragola visited me two weeks ago, very agitated, and made a formal accusation. In the past few days I have confirmed his allegation from diverse sources. I have formed an opinion and perhaps even a decision, but I want to hear from you first, Father.’

  To Anselmo’s surprise, Bellini didn’t speak to him from his episcopal throne but, after the first few words, took a seat in an armchair the same as his own, facing him. It seemed as if the two of them were waiting for a higher authority, perhaps a cardinal, who had been delayed, and that they were making the most of this to discuss the ins and outs of the interview that they were going to have with him. The impression was reinforced by the bishop’s tone, which was friendly and conciliatory.

  Anselmo thought then what he thinks now as he waits in the audience chamber of this other bishop, in Pisa, because of something worse, as yet undecided: what should his defence be? As is the case today, it wasn’t in his best interest to reject the accusations point-blank, because doing so would turn the bishop against him. Accepting them without nuance or reasoned resistance would make him an irresponsible eccentric, and the prelate would give him the severest of punishments. He saw immediately that Bishop Bellini’s inaction when faced with the rumours, as well as his slowness to respond to Baron Fragola’s claims, deducible from his words, confirmed his reputation as an independent-minded man. That was a trump card Anselmo could play: meekly offering his own head to the baron would weaken the bishop’s position. Bishop Bellini wanted the culprit to squirm, for the matter to remain under his control, hidden behind the ecclesiastic chasuble.

  After thanking the prelate for the opportunity to defend himself, he said:

  ‘The accusations don’t surprise me, especially coming as they do from Baron Fragola, Your Eminence. It has never been my intention to overstep my role and take on the tasks of the parish priest, but given this is my first placement, I have endeavoured to work hard. San Esteban, as you know, has been in decline for the past few years. Father Domenico is elderly, and he is tired, right now he is bedridden with a fever. I resolved to elevate the parish, to inspire the apathetic parishioners who attended church only to inhale incense as if it were snuff and nod off. And that has its risks. In my humble opinion, Your Eminence, one cannot remain blind and deaf to the affairs of the world. Some parishioners who had strayed have returned. And they confess, ask questions, demonstrate their bafflement at what is happening all around them, seek counsel. I don’t know how to respond to them with empty words, with maxims that instead of clarifying things confuse them.’

  ‘Is that why, Father Anselmo, so many people, even people from the other end of Siena, line up at your confessional? Because you listen to them and respond to their questions? You would have nothing to fear from trying to dispel their spiritual doubts.’

  ‘I only fear divine justice, Your Eminence.’

  Bellini clasped his hands firmly. He looked straight at the priest, his eyes bright, with not a flicker of impatience. Rarely since has Anselmo encountered such a gaze, that of someone who has played a part knowing that he is only playing it, someone who hasn’t fallen and perhaps never will fall into the trap of believing that it is the only role he can play.

  ‘Our mission is to prepare the faithful for eternal life, to make them worthy of it,’ he said slowly.

  ‘Very true, Your Eminence. I seek never to forget that. And that’s why I listen to them. I understand that the life of a man should not go against his principles, for in that way he would not be a whole person, but only a false being, unworthy of heaven.’

  Bishop Bellini stood and lifted his hand in a paternal gesture to indicate to the priest that he should stay seated. He went to the window he’d been gazing out through when Anselmo arrived. To the south, in the distant sky above Florence, the clouds were gathering, an intense purple, a haematoma emerging from the Tuscan epidermis.

  ‘I understand your point of view, Father Anselmo. Which doesn’t mean I approve of your actions. While in other parts it is all uncertainty and confusion, even terror, here things are still as they were. We shouldn’t be the ones to lift the veil.’

  The prelate made a meditative stroll around the room, looking at the ceiling and the floral mouldings at the edges. He skirted the heavy throne that he had avoided for the entire interview and settled into it. His movements had the ease of a consecrated actor who, after many performances, knows the secret of appearing natural.

  26.

  The cautious knocks on the door of his bedchamber startle him. Bonaparte leaps to his feet, as he would when sleeping in his tent on a battlefield. He is surprised to find that he is not fully clothed as he would be when at war.

  ‘A dispatch from Vienna, Your Majesty.’

  ‘From Vienna?’

  Undoubtedly it is urgent. He has made it known that dispatches from Vienna are a priority and that he should be informed of them at once. He has managed to sleep for barely an hour, perhaps because of his nocturnal emission in the courtyard.

  Bonaparte, in his unbleached flax nightshirt, breaks the seal and on a loose sheet reads:

  Enclosed is an encrypted message for the Emperor.

  Gibberish. It takes him hours to decipher it. He hasn’t used the code for a long time, as recent messages from Vienna have tended to be in French and haven’t been all that important. And he’s tired. Yet what if it’s something truly important? Far-reaching support that might act as leverage to get him out of this chicken coop, why not. The one who knows how to decipher these Viennese messages is Berthier, but Berthier is in Marseilles at present and won’t be back until Tuesday.

  He dismisses the captain. What to do. He scrubs his face with cold water. He dresses quickly. On his desk are the books on apiculture, just as he left them the day before. He sweeps them aside. Then he remembers that in a few hours he is supposed to be at Pasolini’s farm.

  He lingers over the first paragraph of the message. He knows that making a start by searching for the general meaning of small fragments speeds up the process. The best tactic is to attack the repeated figures and leave the lone ones until the end, he tells himself. After wha
t seems like a protracted length of time, his stuffy head has only managed to make sense of half of the first long sentence, typically Viennese, stupid:

  orders from Princess Charming…to Your Majesty the…

  considerations…to ensure…collected retreat from the island…

  beneficial sea baths…at that time…excessively heated movements…

  Vienna…insidious and motionless cloud…

  The sublime stupidity of the Austrian officials. Who the devil is Princess Charming? Could it be something to do with the Tsar? Or is it referring to one of those Polish aristocrats, who have princesses like I have cardinals? It could be the typical formula destined to throw the reader off track, as was once employed in all coded messages, with the objective of causing an undesired receiver to lose interest, making him believe he has a courtly letter and not an affaire d’état.

  Bonaparte yawns. The existence of so many imbeciles – and not only in Austria – makes him feel like quitting for real, rendering his tactical abdication in Fontainebleau definitive. He yawns once more, closing his eyes. Before, this ubiquitous imbecility gave him wings, curiously; it made him feel so much greater than his legendary height. He would see himself as being in possession of eagle eyes in the empire of the blind. He should dismiss his entire entourage, a ragtag of parasites who followed him to Elba, and remain with half a dozen servants. Marcel, certainly, in the kitchen, and the rest, chosen women. Cut all ties with Princesses Charming, leave the continent to sink into chaos and the English to stew in their horrible vinegar-and-spice-based sauce. He should take up writing jeremiads and beekeeping.