The History of Bees

by Maja Lunde

  Rick and Jimmy had both arrived. They were working a short distance away from us. Rick walked slowly back and forth; for once he kept his mouth shut, his body swaying slightly, like he didn’t know where to begin. Jimmy had already started working. He lifted empty hives and stacked them together neatly.

  “Something like this can’t just happen.” Emma sobbed into my sweater.

  I didn’t have an answer.

  “There must be something that’s been done wrong.”

  I released her. “You think this is because of operational errors?”

  “No, no.” Her crying abated. “But what about the feed?” She straightened up, her face was concealed by shadow, her eyes didn’t meet mine.

  “Fine—good Lord, look at the calendar, you know this isn’t when they run out of feed!”

  “No, of course not.”

  She wiped her face. I stood there, my hands idle; I didn’t know what to do with them.

  She looked out of the shadow under the tree, towards the field and the light.

  “It’s very warm. Many of them are out in the sunshine all day.”

  “They’ve done that every single summer for generations.”

  “Yes. Sorry, but I can’t bring myself to believe they can disappear. For no reason.”

  I clenched my teeth and turned my back on her.

  “You can’t believe it. But that doesn’t make any difference now, does it.”

  A lone bee buzzed past us.

  “Sorry,” she said softly. “Come here.”

  She lifted her arms again. Stood there, soft and safe. I let her hold me, buried my face in her sweater. Would have liked to cry like her, but my eyes were as dry as dust. I had trouble breathing. It was too suffocating, her sweater smothered me, the warm skin radiating through the fabric.

  I pulled away. Began stacking some boards, but had nowhere to put them so I ended up piling them up on the ground. Tidying up aimlessly, haphazardly.

  She came towards me, held out her arms.

  “Hey . . .”

  I had been betrayed, like Cupid by his mother. But I had no mother to cry to. No mother to blame, either, because I didn’t know who had betrayed me.

  And I couldn’t bawl like a child swollen with bee stings.

  I shook my head severely at Emma’s open arms. “Have to work.”

  I took a few more boards and put them on top of the last, a tottering tower.

  “Fine.” Her arms dropped to her sides. “I’ll go fix you guys something to eat.”

  She turned around and left.

  The evening sun was a fiery red hole in the sky. Hard rays and long shadows.

  My body ached, but I just kept going. I had hives in seven different locations, and the same sight greeted me everywhere.

  We’d come to the last place, the forest behind the McKenzie farm. A little grove in between the fields. The hives were half in the shade. Normally, they buzzed along with the birds in the trees and the flies swerving left and right. But now everything was silent.

  All of a sudden Jimmy was there with three lawn chairs.

  “We have to sit down now,” he said.

  He found a spot a bit away from the hives. Rick and I plodded behind him. Rick hadn’t said a word all afternoon, I found myself wanting a story. Every time I looked at him, he turned away; maybe he wanted to hide his shiny eyes.

  Jimmy pulled out a thermos and a package of cookies. Had he brought them? Or gotten them from Emma? I didn’t know. He pulled the plastic off the cookies and put the package between us. Then he poured coffee. We each took our cup. No toast this time.

  The lawn chair squeaked. I tried to sit still, not move at all, the sound was wrong. It belonged to another time. Jimmy took a sip of coffee, slurped. That sound was wrong, too. An everyday sound. The cup securely in his hand, I suddenly had the urge to grab that sturdy fist and fling the coffee in his face so there would be silence. What was I thinking . . . Poor Jimmy. It wasn’t his fault.

  We could talk about a lot, the three of us. About beekeeping. About farming, about tools, workmanship, carpentry. And about the village, gossip, people. Gareth, we could talk about him for a long time. Women, too, at least Rick and I could. Usually the conversation flowed freely. We always found something to talk about and to laugh at. Jimmy and I took the lead; the talk between us was like Ping-Pong, while Rick delivered the longest monologues.

  But today we had no words. Every time I tried to say something, it got stuck. And I think the others felt the same way, because Jimmy kept clearing his throat and Rick looked back and forth between us and kept drawing his breath. But nothing came out.

  So we drank the coffee and ate cookies. And tried to sit completely still, so the creaking of the chairs wouldn’t remind us that it was way too quiet. The coffee was tepid, had no flavor. The cookies went down, provided a little relief; only now did I realize that the craving in my stomach was hunger.

  So we sat like that, while the darkness descended upon us, around us.

  Into our bones.

  TAO

  I couldn’t find any street signs, the map was no help. And I didn’t meet anyone I could ask. But the certainty that I was somewhere I shouldn’t be increased within me. I was in the areas the receptionist had pointed out, those over which the authorities no longer had any control. Only those who had refused to move remained here. Those who were abandoned. Those who were hiding.

  I turned a corner. In front of me was yet another deserted street. It was getting increasingly dark, the shadows longer, and it was too quiet. A movement caught my attention out of the corner of my eye. I spun around. A gate revealed a courtyard. Was there somebody in there?

  I kept walking forward and passed the gate. Until now I hadn’t thought about being afraid, only about getting away. But suddenly I noticed how all of the muscles in my body tensed. Should I turn around?

  I took a few more steps. A little slower now. Nothing else happened. Perhaps it had just been my imagination. Or maybe it was an animal. A cat, a rat. Something which tried in vain to continue its life in this abandoned place, where there was no food, barely weeds, just a few frail shoots that forced their way up through cracks in the pavement.

  I lifted my head. At the end of the street I glimpsed something blue and white. I walked faster. It became clearer, the white icon against the blue background. It blinked; the power supply was perhaps not stable. But there was no doubt: at the end of the street was the subway.

  I was jogging now. It was doubtful that the station was open, but there would presumably be a map there. And maybe I could follow the tracks from there and find my way to settled areas. Out here the subway was still beneath the open sky, not in a tunnel like in the city center.

  But I wasn’t quick enough. Somebody came out through the gate behind me. I caught sight of a tall, gawky body moving towards me. A short whistling signal cut through the air. All of a sudden I became aware of two more people who had popped up behind me, one on either side, without any idea of where they’d been hiding.

  They were perhaps twenty meters away, but they were fast. They ran towards me, and were gaining ground quickly. A tall, skinny girl and two boys. Not children, not adults. With smooth skin and elderly eyes. They were all skinny, on the verge of obliteration. But it seemed as if the sight of me gave them far more strength than their body weights would imply.

  I didn’t wait, I knew what they wanted. Their eyes told me they were willing to do anything, as long as it alleviated their hunger. It was as if they were carrying all the desperation of the old people in the hospital, but had the energy and physique to act in response to their distress.

  Again I ran. But differently this time. When I left the old people I’d run away from my own disgust. This time I was running for my life.

  And they were catching up with me. I didn’t dare turn around, but I heard them. The steps against the pavement. The six feet hitting the ground in an irregular rhythm. The sound grew louder and louder.

&n
bsp; In front of me the blue sign grew. If I made it there, if I made it into the station, if a subway came.

  But I understood that I was deluding myself. No train would come, not here. There was nobody here but me. And them. Three desperately hungry young people, without any hope for a life. But nonetheless compelled by the innate human drive for self-preservation. Compelled by instinct. They were also our world.

  They were only a few meters away now. I could hear their breathing. Soon they would be on top of me. Grab my back, throw me to the ground.

  I had no choice.

  Suddenly I turned around and without a word I raised my hands over my head to demonstrate surrender.

  All three of them stopped. Looks of astonishment spread across their faces, momentarily replacing the wildness. I focused my gaze on the girl. Why her? Perhaps because she was female, like me. Perhaps she would be the easiest to convince. I tried to express all of my ideas about human compassion through my gaze. Stared, forced her eyes to stay focused on my own. Had it happened later, she might never have looked me in the eyes. But two quick blinks told me I’d caught her by surprise. Because she stopped, looked back and forth, at me and then the two others. We stood there like that, all four of us. I dared to move my gaze now. From the one to the other, letting my eyes rest for a moment on each of them, wanted them to see me, really see me, have time to think. So I became something more than a fleeing back, prey. So I became human.

  “Are you alone here?” I asked softly.

  Nobody answered. I took a step forward.

  “Do you need help?”

  A tiny sound escaped from the girl, a whimper, a “Yes.” She hastened to look at the one boy, the tallest. Perhaps he was the leader.

  I took a chance and addressed him.

  “I can help you. We can get out of here. Together.”

  A slanting grin slid across his face.

  “You’re afraid.” His voice was loud, higher than I’d imagined.

  I nodded slowly, kept looking him in the eyes.

  “You’re right. I’m afraid.”

  “When people are afraid they’ll say anything,” he said.

  I didn’t answer.

  “Is the subway running?” I asked instead.

  “What do you think?”

  “Have you tried going to another neighborhood?”

  He laughed. A sharp laugh. “We’ve tried most everything.”

  I took a step towards him. “Where I live, there’s food. I can buy some for you.”

  “What kind of food?”

  “What kind?” The question caused me to hesitate. “The usual things. Rice.”

  “The usual things,” he mimicked. “Do you want us to leave our home for a serving of rice?”

  I looked down the street behind him. Deserted. Dusty. Nothing resembling a home.

  He nodded at the other boy and the girl. They took a step towards me. Were they getting ready to attack me?

  “No. Wait.” I put my hand in my purse. “I have money!”

  I rummaged around. My fingers came across crackling paper.

  “And food. Biscuits.”

  I took out a package and held it towards them.

  The girl was immediately at my side. She snatched the package out of my hand and started to tear off the paper. I moved a few meters away.

  “Hey!” The tall boy leapt forward. The girl clenched her fist and I heard how the biscuits were crushed into crumbs in the package.

  She was about to dash off, but the boy was on top of her. He forced her fingers open and took the package of biscuits. She said nothing, but her eyes filled with tears. The boy stood with the package in his hands. The logo was simple, in black and white. The print was smeared a little, perhaps from the sweat on the girl’s hands.

  “We have to share,” the boy said and looked at the girl. “We have to share.”

  The three of them were busy with one another now.

  Should I try to run? No. I had to give them everything I had, be generous. Not flee. Then they’d be on top of me. I had no choice.

  I stuck my hand into my purse again. Swallowed, hesitated, but had to.

  “Look here. Money.”

  I didn’t dare move any closer to them and left a few worn bills on the ground, the last. Only small change was left in the tin box in the hotel room.

  The boy stared at them.

  I took a step backwards. Tears welled up in my eyes. “Now you have everything I’ve got.”

  He continued looking at the money.

  “And now I’m leaving.” I took another step. Then I turned around. Calmly I walked away, in the direction of the subway.

  One step.

  Two. Three.

  My legs wanted to run, but I forced myself to walk slowly. To continue to be a human being for them, not start the chase again, not become their prey. Hold my head high, not turn around.

  I heard that they were moving a little behind me. The material of a jacket being twisted, the soft clearing of a throat. Every tiny sound stood out in the silence. But no feet against the pavement.

  Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.

  It was still quiet.

  Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen.

  I dared to speed up my pace as I approached the station, which was closed with a chain and padlock. Only then did I turn around.

  They were still standing there, in the same place and looking at me. All three of them equally expressionless. No sign of movement.

  I walked towards the corner, keeping my eyes on them at all times. Then I walked around the corner of the house. I could no longer hear them. In front of me was yet another deserted street. I had the subway track on my right-hand side, a dead row of houses on the left. There was not a soul in sight.

  I ran.

  WILLIAM

  The package arrived in the mail ten days later. The writings of Dzierzon. I brought it upstairs with me and closed the door to the room on the second floor, which was now wholly and fully mine. Thilda didn’t sleep there anymore, not even now that my health was restored. Perhaps she wanted me to ask her to return to the conjugal bed, maybe she wouldn’t come until I begged and so it would never happen.

  The bed loomed, soft and safe before me. How easy it was, just to go to bed, let the blankets swaddle me, make everything dark and warm.

  No.

  Instead I sat down by the window with the package in my lap. I caught a glimpse of Charlotte’s white-clad back at the bottom of the garden, bent over the hive. She spent hours down there. She had carried down a table and a chair for herself, sat with papers and an inkwell. I saw her constantly observing and taking notes in a little leather-bound book, with enthusiasm and lightness in her movements. She was like me, worked the way I had previously worked, though it felt like a long time ago now. I hadn’t been to the hive myself since my conversation with Rahm. I had turned my back on it, wanted mostly to break it into pieces, jump on it, to see the pieces of board fly in all directions, splintered and destroyed. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it—the bees prevented me; the thought that thousands of desperate and homeless bees would rise up and attack me.

  I undid the twine, broke the seals and folded the paper to one side, and with a German dictionary at my side I started reading. Until the end I kept hoping that Rahm’s claims were wrong, that he had misunderstood something, that Dzierzon had absolutely not produced such an advanced hive. But even though my German was shaky and I only understood a fraction of the texts, one thing was clear: his hive was very much like mine; the doors were positioned somewhat differently and the roof pitch was at less of a slant, but the principles were identical and the method of use the same. Furthermore, he had carried out a series of in-depth observational studies of the bees in their hives and a lot of the research entailed precisely this. The underlying philosophy was rock solid and testified to an infinite patience; everything was scrupulously documented and with an exemplary presentation of the argument. Dzierzon’s work was world class.

  I p
ut the writings away and once again turned my attention towards the window. Charlotte put the lid on the hive out there, walked a few steps away and took off her hat. She smiled to herself before setting out towards the house.

  I opened the door. I could hear her footsteps below. I moved over to the landing. From here I could see her. She walked into the hall. There she sat down by the sideboard, took out her notebook and opened it in front of her. She reconsidered, her gaze suspended for a second in space, before she bowed her head and wrote. I walked down the stairs. She lifted her head and smiled when she saw me.

  “Father. How nice that you’ve come,” she said. “Here—you have to see this.”

  She wanted to show me the book, held it out to me.

  But I didn’t look at it, simply walked to the coat stand, found my hat and jacket and quickly dressed.

  “Father?”

  She beamed at me. I looked away.

  “Not now,” I said.

  The passionate enthusiasm in her eyes, I couldn’t bear to be in the same room with her. I walked quickly towards the door.

  “But it won’t take long. You have to see what I’ve been thinking.”

  “Later.”

  She didn’t say anything more, just had this gaze, so determined and assertive, as if she didn’t accept the rejection.

  I didn’t even have the energy to be curious. She hadn’t found out or thought of anything that had not already been thought and I couldn’t bear to explain this to her, disappoint her, tell her that all the time she’d spent down there by the hive only resulted in things that were obvious, that all of her thoughts had already been thought a thousand times before. I opened the door slowly, registered how something indolent had once again descended upon my body and a sigh was released from my diaphragm. I prepared myself for many more in the time ahead. In my hand I squeezed the key to the shop, to my simple, country seed shop. That’s where I belonged.

  The Swammer pie left behind a coating of grease on the roof of my mouth, but I was still unable to refrain from eating. I had already shoved two down in the course of the morning hours. The scent of them poured out of the bakery and was intrusively present also in my shop. It penetrated through all the cracks, even when I closed the door, a constant reminder of how simple it would be to buy one more, or several. The baker even gave me a discount; he thought I was too thin, but that wouldn’t last for long. It felt as if my body had already begun to expand, as if it were in the process of recovering its former sloppy constitution.