The Day of the Bees

by Thomas Sanchez

  He looked at the crucifix hanging on the thin gold chain around my neck. He slipped the Star of David in his pocket. “I’m taking this as evidence. It will go into the report.” He leaned closer to me. He seemed to realize, for the first time, my condition. “Don’t think just because you are pregnant you can get away with anything.”

  “You should try it sometime. You’d be surprised what you can get away with.”

  My words made the flesh around his scar redder. He raised his hand to hit me. I did not know if his rage stemmed from simple hatred for what I represented, or if he finally realized that he could well be the father of my child. The room was silent except for the soft whimpering of a few frightened children. He dropped his hand and strode to the blackboard. He erased what I had written earlier and in bold letters chalked out:

  FATHERLAND

  OBEDIENCE

  VIGILANCE!

  The children stiffened, as if facing a strong wind. Alert, they waited for the Officer to speak, to make his speech about how they should be suspicious of all, even their own parents, and must report immediately any inappropriate behavior. But the Officer said nothing. He motioned to his men and they followed him out the door.

  That night when I returned to my cottage there was another basket hanging from the nail on my front door. Once more I had honey and sausage and soap, and even some cloth to make a small gown for my child. Someone was keeping watch over me, but who? I turned on my radio, and through the cat-yawling static I was finally able to tune in the faint frequency that broadcast from London. I listened to the litany of codified language, odd as it was, a nonsensical chant offering meaning only to the few: IT IS DIFFICULT FOR AN ARMY TO MARCH IN A MISTRAL. IT IS BEST AN ARMY ATTACK DURING A SIROCCO. WHY EAT BEANS WHEN IT RAINS ORANGES? NANCY LOVES SNAILS, ROGER EATS NAILS. These secret messages, even when I was not listening for one myself, gave a kind of comfort, alone as I was in the cottage. They allowed me to enter a clandestine world, a strange underwater garden where radio static forged a fantastical language constantly shifting its shape—a phantom language of the night, a language of love, of war. Nonsensical. And then I heard: A SHEPHERD DOES NOT GRAZE HIS FLOCK IN THE SAME PASTURE EVERY DAY.

  The code! So much had happened that I had almost forgotten. I opened the door and looked at the sky. It was unusually bright. “A SHEPHERD ALWAYS BEGINS HIS JOURNEY ON A FULL MOON.”

  I knew the rendezvous point. I had been there for the past two full moons, but the sky on both occasions had lowered gray during the day, and by night there was no moon; one could not even see one’s hand before one’s face. And here was brilliance all around me, everything glittered. The shepherd was on his way. What was my role in this? I could go or stay. I was not expected to participate, only observe. Surely the risk could not be too great.

  In these situations there was always risk. I had heard the story of a woman who, like me, was asked only to observe because she had a baby. She was not to take part in the action, so she went. But she was spotted by a patrol with attack dogs; she ran, and the soldiers unleashed their dogs. The dogs caught up to the woman, snarling and biting at her legs, jumping up and ripping away the small baby clutched in her arms, then tore it to pieces. This woman, they say, is inconsolable and wanders the roads at night calling for her child. Yet the child does not answer, so the woman wails for the dogs to come back and devour her, to put her out of her misery.

  Why do I think like this? My child is safe within my body; it is the world outside that is unsafe. If I want to change that for my child, then I must act. I cannot afford to dwell on thoughts of dogs ripping children from their mothers’ arms when the real threat is the enemy that walks among us, tearing our husbands and brothers, daughters and sons from our arms. I must act to change that. A SHEPHERD ALWAYS BEGINS HIS JOURNEY ON A FULL MOON. I must act, but that does not mean I am fearless. It is quiet. No dogs howl at this full moon.

  Lucretia, where are you going?

  I go where the shepherd kills all his beloved lambs because the invasion is coming and he does not want the enemy to eat them.

  But we have already been invaded.

  I have been invaded, but I will not kill my lamb.

  Are you drunk on absinthe?

  No, I am drunk on pain.

  Do you know what you are doing?

  Of course! My heart is not a stone tablet on which to carve the word forgiveness, it is flesh and spirit. I am fighting.

  What are you fighting for?

  I am walking. It is night. I am going. That is the act.

  Do you hear the dogs?

  Yes, but they cannot stop me.

  Do you really think they are dogs? They are so far away. Maybe it is the sound of a plane. Listen more carefully.

  I’m listening.

  Stop. Hold your breath. Your own breath is what you are hearing. That is what pursues you.

  I have walked a long time. I will stop.

  What do you hear now?

  A plane. I’m certain it’s a plane.

  Do you see it?

  No.

  What do you see?

  I’m on a high plateau. I can see the whole valley before me, and the dark edges of villages on hilltops, but there are no lights; all the villages are under blackout orders.

  But there are lights in the sky. Perhaps a plane?

  No. Stars. Winter stars. And above the silhouette of Mont Ventoux the moon hovers, full and brilliant, with a cobalt ring around its edges.

  Are you afraid?

  Always.

  Do you hear dogs now?

  No. But I see new light.

  What kind of light?

  Flickers of light. Flashlight beams on the plateau across the valley. There are specks—it’s people standing in a field. They are forming a huge L of blinking lights, marking the place on the field for a plane to land. Or maybe there will be a parachute drop of weapons and wireless radios.

  Do you wish you were with them?

  I have been with them before. I was told to be at this spot to observe. I don’t feel guilty.

  What is your biggest problem, then?

  My feet are cold. No matter how much I stamp them, despite my boots, I can’t get them warm. I can’t stop shivering.

  Do you hear a hum?

  Engines.

  Where?

  On the ground and in the sky. The ground rumbles, the sky whines. I see the plane, and a line of trucks coming up from the village below to the plateau across from me. The trucks must have been hidden in the trees until the plane was sighted. Truckloads of soldiers. Those on the plateau can’t hear the trucks. The wind is blowing away from them, blowing in my direction, and it blows clouds that suddenly obscure the light. God has put his hand over the face of the moon. I hear the plane droning through the clouds—it has lost sight of the twinkling L on the ground, it banks and circles. There are rifle shots from the plateau, yelling and screaming, high-pitched whistles, and …

  What else?

  Dogs.

  Really?

  Vicious dogs, barking.

  You should leave.

  I can’t leave. I was instructed to stay and give a report. I’m not in danger. The people on the other plateau are the ones risking their lives.

  Can you see them?

  Now I can. The clouds have parted again. I see the plane, it is circling over me.

  What’s happening to the people?

  The soldiers are after them. Gunshots.

  Get away.

  I can’t! The door of the plane is opening. I can see it in the moonlight, shining like a beacon. Something falls from the plane. THE LAMB FALLS INTO THE SHEPHERD’S ARMS. I can’t tell if it’s a person or a long metal canister. Why doesn’t the parachute open?

  If something is being parachuted onto your plateau the soldiers will be coming. Run.

  It might be a person falling from the sky.

  I don’t think that plane ever intended to land on the opposite plateau. That lighted L was a decoy to draw
the soldiers. The real drop will be on your plateau. You are the shepherd. The lamb will be falling into your arms. The soldiers will be coming. You must get out!

  The parachute is opening in the sky. The silk chute blossoms over my head. It looks like someone is dangling from the cords, trying to guide the chute away from the oak forest where the wind is blowing. I’m running on the ground, looking up, hoping somehow that I can keep the parachutist away from the trees. I can’t believe this is happening. All this work, months of planning, and now the parachutist is heading straight toward the bare winter oaks with their sharp branches waving in the wind. He can’t stop. I see him pulling frantically on his guide lines. The wind has him. Branches crack in the night—or is it the breaking of bones as the chute drags the man across the treetops?

  Is he alive?

  When I get to him he has fallen through the trees. I stand above him, gasping for breath. He lies on the ground, his clothes ripped, his face torn. He is a bloody pulp. There is nothing I can do to help him; it’s over.

  What do you do?

  I unsheath the knife holstered at his belt and begin to cut at the silk chute. I have to work fast before the soldiers get here.

  What are you cutting the parachute for?

  My baby. This is a treasure. I can make silk clothes for my baby.

  Can’t you help the man?

  He’s dead. I already stripped him of his identification. I know what to do. This silk is so hard to cut …

  Who’s that coming out of the trees?

  I don’t know. Two men with guns pointed at me. All I have is this knife. I stand up, holding the knife in the most menacing position I can. I want to be shot standing up, not on my knees.

  Don’t move. Maybe they won’t shoot.

  Another parachute is coming down.

  A man?

  No. A long steel canister. It is crashing through the treetops as it heads for us. The men are watching it.

  Run while they are not looking.

  It’s too late. The canister is falling in the clearing between me and the men.

  It could be a bomb. The first parachute was to draw you in; the man was already dead when they threw him from the plane. The second drop could be an incendiary bomb and you might die in the flames.

  In flames or from the men with guns.

  What are they doing?

  Running after the canister. It hits the ground hard and is dragged toward me by the fluttering parachute before it stops. One of the men bangs on the canister with a wrench. They try to pry it open.

  Now is your chance to get away.

  No.

  Why? They aren’t looking.

  The man with the wrench is the Cat Surgeon from the blue room in the Nice hotel.

  Him? He almost got you killed. Leave!

  The other one is dressed in black leather—pants, jacket, boots, gloves. His face is obscured by a leather mask pulled over his head, and dark goggles cover his eyes. It’s impossible to tell who he is.

  The Fly?

  The barking dogs are getting closer.

  You know what to say if he is the Fly. Say it! THUNDER IN MARCH MEANS GOOD ALMONDS.

  They unload the canister. Inside it are plastic explosives, money, a field radio, sten guns. They are trying to fit all this into the packs strapped to their backs.

  Give the code so they know who you are and don’t shoot you as a witness.

  The soldiers are coming through the trees with dogs. The two men stagger quickly toward me beneath their heavy loads. They see the knife in my hand, pieces of cut silk in my other hand, the dead parachutist at my feet. The Cat Surgeon shines his flashlight beam in my face, then clicks it off. “I know you. The opera woman.”

  I look at the man next to him dressed in black. “THUNDER IN MARCH MEANS GOOD ALMONDS.”

  The man in black says nothing. The Cat Surgeon speaks for him. “The Fly won’t talk. If he talks people will know who he is.”

  I stare into the goggles covering the Fly’s eyes, but I can’t make anything out. How do I know I can trust these men? I give the code and they answer nothing. Maybe they are trying to trick me into talking before the soldiers arrive. I glance back at the Cat Surgeon and repeat, “THUNDER IN MARCH MEANS GOOD ALMONDS.”

  He looks at me and smiles in recognition. “DUCK LOVES MOSQUITO.”

  I stare at him blankly and keep my mouth shut.

  “Oh shit,” he grumbles. “That was the wrong one. How am I suppose to keep it all in my head when it changes by the hour?” He snaps his fingers nervously, trying to recall something. “Yes, I’ve got it—cicadas. WHY DO YOU HUNT CICADAS?”

  “BECAUSE THEY SUCK THE SAP OF THE ALMOND TREES AS THEY SING.”

  “Then it is you, Lucretia. We were told you would be here. Is the Englishman dead?”

  I look down at the bloodied man. “Yes.”

  “Why are you cutting up his parachute?”

  “To make clothes for my baby.”

  “Are you crazy?” He grabs for the silk in my hand. “If you’re caught with this they will know who you are. It will give us all away.”

  I hold onto the material, trying to pull it back. “It’s mine! I need it!” Tears were on my cheeks, tears of rage. He wasn’t going to deprive my baby of clothes.

  The Fly grabs my wrist, squeezing it so tightly I feel my bones will break. A pain shoots up my arm, forcing me to release the silk. There is a mouth hole cut in the Fly’s leather face mask. The edges of the hole, damp with spittle, flutter with his breathing.

  “We’ve got to split up.” The Cat Surgeon speaks above the insistent barking of the dogs closing in. “Lucretia, go home.”

  “No, I’ll stay with you. We have a better chance of defending ourselves together.”

  “You must go home. If the soldiers go there and find you gone, they’ll know you violated the curfew and were part of this tonight. They’ll arrest you.” The Cat Surgeon takes my arm. “Come with me, I’ll get you home.”

  The Fly pulls his revolver and puts it to the Cat Surgeon’s head.

  “What’s going on? Are you crazy? Why are you pulling a gun on me?”

  The Fly says nothing, but the hammer clicks into firing position.

  “Okay.” The Cat Surgeon lets go of my arm. “She goes with you.”

  I can see nothing of the Fly’s features behind the mask and goggles. Who is taking me away? The dogs are barking; behind them are running footsteps.

  The Cat Surgeon tightens the straps of the heavy pack on his back. “Remember,” he says to the Fly, “tomorrow morning you must make the appointed rendezvous. Be there! Too much has been risked tonight—what we’ve picked up here must get to its destination.” He turns to leave. “One last thing. Damn, man, after all we’ve been through, why would you pull a gun on me? What does she mean to you?”

  The Fly is silent. The Cat Surgeon hurries off into the darkness along the plateau’s edge and disappears over the side into the ravine.

  Suddenly I gasp, not in pain, but in utter surprise. The Fly puts his leather gloved hand over my mouth to silence me. I pull his hand away and whisper, “I think my water has broken.” A wet warmth is spreading down my inner thighs. How could this be happening? I’m not due to deliver yet. Panic overtakes me. I should have gone with the Cat Surgeon; he would have known what to do.

  The Fly cranes his head in the direction the Cat Surgeon has taken, listening to a distant sound. Truck engines. The soldiers are trying to surround us. The Fly quickly starts running, leaving me alone.

  The wind is at my back, blowing away from the direction of the barking dogs. I realize the Fly is running in the direction from which it will be hardest for the dogs to pick up our scent. The dogs will follow the Cat Surgeon. I lose sight of the Fly in the darkness. Is he leaving me there as bait for the dogs? I am afraid to move. The wetness on my thighs thickens. I am trapped between two fears. If I stay I will be shot by soldiers or torn to pieces by dogs; if I run, I might lose my baby. Clouds swirl overhead
and cut the light of the moon. I feel a hand come around my waist, its arm locks behind my back and nearly lifts me from the ground. I hold my breath, too frightened to make a sound. Then I am in the air, my feet only occasionally touching the ground as we move into the night. I feel the skin of an animal against the side of my cheek. When I turn, I see the Fly’s leather mask. I am being carried, half on earth and half in the air, in flight from the snarling dogs and shouting soldiers close behind.

  Lucretia? Do you hear me? Why won’t you answer? Are you there? Please talk to me.

  I have to be quiet.

  Where are you?

  I can’t tell you exactly where I am.

  That’s okay. Just talk to me.

  I told you I have to be quiet.

  No one can hear you talking to me.

  I don’t know—I don’t know. Sometimes I think people can hear my thoughts. I think people are listening.

  Is the Fly there?

  He’s up on the ridge. I’m not certain he’s alive. There was gunfire. It’s quieter now. I think he killed some soldiers and dogs.

  If he’s up on the ridge, then you must be low and hidden.

  Yes, in a field of sunflowers. The sunflowers are all winter-dead, standing on brittle stalks. Their once bright faces have had the seeds pecked out of them by birds. It seems I am surrounded by giant pockmarked people.

  How is your baby? Are you in pain?

  My water has stopped flowing. Maybe it was a false alarm.

  Can you walk?

  I still need help. There is a pain.

  What if the Fly doesn’t come back? He could abandon you.

  I told him to leave me. His work is just as important as mine.

  You are a hindrance, a liability.

  If he doesn’t return, then I will crawl.

  Start now. You can’t have your baby in a field like a cow.

  I can’t have a baby—I must have a baby.

  Start crawling. He’s not coming back.

  He’s trying to lead them away from me, to keep them off my scent—the dogs can smell me.

  Lucretia, this is no way to end! Push the pain down in your belly and crawl.