The Day of the Bees

by Thomas Sanchez

  I feel the deep hum of the vibrating bee earth whenever the Bee Keeper is near. I watch the days sail by in a haze of pollen dust. At a certain point in life a woman surrenders her notion of passion and succumbs to the solace of compassion. Francisco, do you understand what I am telling you? I still want you, but I no longer need you. My womb is deaf to you. The ability to bear children has been forever taken from me. My menstrual periods will always be violent, in revolt against rhythms that now have no purpose, like waves crashing on a barren beach. I am not like you. You can live without love, but not without passion. So you cannot live without a woman—whether it be me, a rich socialite, or a paid model with the scent of pine in her hair.

  You have written to say that what you left for me in the Bearcat at Elouard’s farm will explain all; meanwhile you left me here to wait, alone and cuffed to our memory. My darling, if a woman’s dress is on fire, you don’t offer her a piece of cake. We have love, but we no longer have a life. You don’t allow me that. Do you think I only wanted to be with you in order to share your triumphs? You insult me now by not allowing me to share your failures.

  My darling, I did not betray you. I was lost to you long before the Bee Keeper found me. At night when he comes to me, I can smell the bee pollen on his skin. He is already taken, but so am I, for the rest of my life, by you. He gives me his honey, but my hive is empty. Maybe his queen knows this and that is why she is not jealous. Maybe she is the queen because she learned compassion first. I have learned that the Bee Keeper does not keep her; she keeps him. Now he keeps me from you, but his heart belongs to the queen.

  He seduces me with small presents, simple offerings from the land: pots of honey, loaves of olive bread, clutches of wild flowers, hares and partridges stuffed with dried apricots. He warms my feet before a fire of grapevine wood. It was he, that long-ago night when I found the dead woman on the road, who took the bottle of absinthe from me while I slept and smashed it on the ground. He was the one who left the harvest baskets filled with gifts to sustain me. He is the one who knows that a single bee must fly over twenty-five thousand kilometers just to fill one jar of honey. He is the one who knows that a bee must visit each blossom at least eight times in one day in order for a perfect fruit to bloom. He is the one who knows that the male honey bee’s genitals explode when he makes love to his queen, filling her up so that only he impregnates her. He is the one who knows that no matter how much honey he fills me with, I will never again be the sweet girl I was with you.

  He is used to being calm around bees; he knows that fear will cause them to sting. He touches me gently, his fingers have the feel of light winged bodies on my skin. When I lie against his chest I hear the hum inside his heart, the flutter of bee wings fanning their nectar into a deep weave of honey. I am no longer drunk on green-gold absinthe, but on the mercurial flow of propolis, a milky secretion of bees after they have feasted on the resinous sap of trees. This royal jelly is fed only to the queen; it is her sustenance.

  I bathe in the morning with lavender soap, running the sweet scent over my skin, hoping to attract my Bee Keeper. He smells the scent rising off my breasts as he walks between the purple mounded rows of lavender in the mountains. He knows that the queen is the center of the hive, keeper of the home, it is her world. He calls to me and I go. The ground beneath my feet is a white carpet of fallen almond blossoms. The clouds above pile up on themselves, creating a cirrus lace filtering the sun. I lie on the earth’s carpet, the branches of almond trees overhead. I am in the queen’s world where males are only guardians, pollinators of fruit and flower. In the distance thunder slaps the curve of the horizon. A buzz fills the air. The Bee Keeper lies down beside me, our outstretched hands move toward each other, through falling blossoms our fingers touch. A bee lands on his forehead, it travels over his face and down his arm, crossing over the bridge of his fingers to mine. The sensation of the bee makes me shiver as it glides up my stomach, across my breasts, and along my arched neck. I am afraid to move. Wings brush my cheek. The bee stops on my quivering lip. The sky is struck through with lightning, a sky bruised blue from suck of memory.

  Francisco, I am not betraying you. The Bee Keeper’s heart belongs to the queen. He deserves to come home and taste crushed berries when his lips sting mine with a kiss. I am the woman with bee-stung lips. Do you hear me cry when he kisses me? I am not certain I cry for you, or for this man attempting to release me with kindness. He does not stop when he touches the gold ring at the center of my being. He says nothing, but he knows. How cold the ring you pierced me with must feel to him. Cold as ice. How many men have gone into how many women and felt another man there? It is not that uncommon; it is life. It takes a brave man to continue, to penetrate to the center of the hive where fresh honey awaits.

  Lucretia, where are you?

  I am walking through orchards of leafless trees. I am walking through barren winter fields of cut grapevines. I am true as a blind watchdog who barks only when it senses danger. I reveal less than half, exposing just the shadow. My world is light playing on stone walls, a moon at noon, a sunset at midnight, a train in a tunnel, a plane cutting through a cloud, a man parachuting into a burning sea. My reality is discovering a young girl stripped and shot, the bullet holes in her naked skin the size of the buttons on the convent dress she once wore. My reality is hiding with men in the mountains, watching them scratching for something to eat beneath the oak trees, searching for truffles, wild asparagus, tiny mushrooms, and instead finding hidden mines that blow off their faces. I have heard brave laughter at night in the mountain hideouts, the accordions squeezing out plaintive tunes for gypsies and bankers to dance together, the music inspiring petty thieves and priests to lock arms and join in. They are all strange comrades in arms, queer fellows in the bed of war. I cannot quit them, I cannot betray them.

  I know some would turn away from this sorrow, judge it against more peaceful times and say, For God’s sake, woman, seek your own happiness, you have suffered enough! But these are not peaceful times. Let those who are not strong enough to know of these things, much less live them, abandon me here. Let the bluebirds of optimism take flight, for this is about survival of the fittest in an unfit world. The battle is real, we are occupied by a foreign body.

  It is difficult for an army to march in a mistral, so sometimes one person must act alone. The blind watchdog’s eyes are a luminous red in the midday sun. The black crows in the barren fields don’t even croak as I pass by. They know I can take apart a sten gun in seconds; they know I can cook up a plastique bomb faster than I can make an omelette. I keep moving in a shifting landscape.

  Lucretia, are you dreaming?

  No, but I think you ask the important question. Is this a dream? Maybe peacetime is the dream. Maybe we are only truly awake when there is war.

  That’s a terrible thought.

  It’s a thought I’ve had while destroying ancient Roman bridges. After the charge is set beneath a bridge there is the explosive blast, balanced arched stones fall into water, the poetry of purpose is erased by the need for survival. Can you tell me what is reality and what is dream?

  I can’t tell you anything. I can barely stand to hear you speak. Your words are filled with heartbreak. I can only hope that you are not angry with me for reading these letters, tracing your pain on the page. This is not the kind of thing I would normally read, it is too private, too intense. But something compels me to continue. Perhaps it is shame.

  Shame? Who are you now? Who is reading my life? You used to be Zermano, you used to be my baby, you used to be Louise.

  I can’t answer that question. I can only fear for this journey you are on. I am compelled to take each step with you, to see where it leads, to bear witness.

  Watch out for the bomb craters. You might step in one and break an ankle.

  I will be careful.

  You will be quiet. You will follow me for a long way and a long time. You will watch me go to the sanctuary. It is not quite dawn yet.


  I am watching. What is this place?

  The Virgin Mary appeared here in the seventeenth century: she of the exposed heart, she of the mother’s grief for a lost child, she with a mother’s power to heal. For ages faithful pilgrims have descended the steps into this vaulted stone crypt, where Our Lady’s statue is illuminated by votive candles. In the chapel over the crypt the walls are covered with photographs of children—children lost to disease, to childbirth, to the unknown. Photographs to remind the Virgin Mother that these are missing children to be kept safe until their mothers can join them. There are alcoves with still more photographs: children on crutches, in wheelchairs, in sickbeds, in steel braces, in military uniforms. Hundreds of expectant faces stare from the walls, pleading to be saved, healed, returned.

  Did you come here for your child?

  No. I don’t believe in this house of lamentation. We are all missing children.

  You have lost your faith.

  Faith abandoned me.

  Why are you here then?

  In the south altar of the sanctuary there is a beautiful Madonna with Child carved in gilded wood. I was told to go there and light a candle, so I do. The candle’s light illuminates more faces on the wall. These photographs are old and yellowed, covered with dust and cobwebs, the faces faded by time. Among them is a fresh piece of paper standing out bright white, on it is neatly penned: LUCRETIA, I AM IN THE GROTTO.

  Who is in the grotto?

  He is. He told me to meet him here.

  Who is he? The Bee Keeper?

  Follow me outside and up the trail on the hillside rising behind the chapel. We can’t get lost, there are crude wooden crosses staked into the ground marking the way. Don’t stop to catch your breath. Here we are. A trick of the trail brings us out under a rock overhang into a grotto half obscured by ferns. In the cool dampness of the grotto is a lichen-covered marble statue of Our Lady. She is seated, cradling her full-grown son in her arms. Her son is dead from the cross, his hands, feet, and side pierced with fatal wounds. The expression on her face is ironic. If she can let Him go, if she can give Him up to heaven, then why can’t we?

  The sun is coming up.

  It changes the color of the rocky overhang above us from gray to an ethereal milky beige.

  Beautiful.

  Watch as the hand of light points into the grotto and flares into another color.

  It’s a gorgeous rose hue.

  Turn around, the entire valley below us is lighting up.

  I hear church bells.

  Look further, beyond the vineyards, farms and orchards. Above all is Mont Ventoux.

  It’s massive in this light.

  That’s where my baby is, where the Bee Keeper keeps watch.

  There are fires in the valley.

  Farmers are burning vine cuttings from their vineyards. Soon the sky will be smudged with smoke and Mont Ventoux lost in haze.

  Someone is coming.

  Quick, get behind the statue.

  Who is it?

  It’s not him.

  Then who?

  It’s the Cat Surgeon. He’s calling to me.

  “Lucretia, is that you in there?”

  How did he know I would be here?

  “Goddamn it, answer!”

  I’m not answering unless he speaks the code.

  “THE DOG WITH EYES BARKS AT ALL HE SEES.”

  He knows the code, I can answer. “THE BLIND DOG ONLY BARKS WHEN IT SENSES DANGER. Why did you come? I was supposed to meet Monsieur Royer.”

  “I have a note from him. Here, take it. These are your instructions.”

  “Where is Monsieur Royer?”

  “There’s no time for explanations, just do as you are told.” The Cat Surgeon stares at me strangely. “What’s that on your dress?”

  I look down. My coat is open and the top of my dress is spotted with two damp stains. I can’t tell him what is happening. There is no baby, but there is still milk, and even in times of danger it flows.

  I am marching. I march alone, but soon I will be joined by many.

  Lucretia, do you think it will ever stop raining?

  At night the snails move. We move.

  So dark, so wet.

  Walking across these fields, with the suck of mud around my rubber boots, the rain quickly erases my steps, as if I have never been here.

  There are patrols everywhere in this area.

  I am grey in grey rain. I am invisible, but the sten gun under my coat is hard steel.

  You have become so hard.

  If the birds peck away all the soft flesh of the peach, they come to the hard stone at its center.

  The rain is blinding.

  The note said the meeting is tonight. I have my instructions. Everyone will be there.

  Do you remember the code?

  IF YOU WANT TO EAT SNAILS YOU MUST STARVE THEM FIRST.

  What is this village we are climbing to now?

  Its name makes no difference, its time has long passed, it is deserted. Once, other wars were fought here in the narrow streets leading up this terraced mountainside. Catholics and Protestants hunted each other, burned each other, beheaded each other, threw each other from the ramparts of the castle above us now.

  I can barely see the ramparts. Are they still there?

  Yes, but everything is overgrown, vines cling to the crumbling stone. It’s a medieval ghost town. Rain rushes down eroded streets and through destroyed walls of houses…. I hear something other than pounding rain.

  I don’t hear anything.

  Up ahead, through that arched doorway—footsteps. Someone is there, on the other side of the stone wall.

  The instructions said they would all be here.

  I can’t be sure it’s them.

  Just walk through the door and say the code.

  Forget the code. I’m going in with my gun ready. I’m sliding along the stone wall, I’m stepping through the doorway. So dark. What’s that shuffling sound? Eyes in the night. Yellow eyes. Growling. Something huge comes at me from the blackness, clattering over broken floor tiles.

  Shoot!

  No, it might be them!

  Shoot before it’s too late!

  I’m shooting. God, I’m shooting! Red bullets pierce yellow eyes. It’s hit but it’s still coming. It crashes out of the darkness, banging into me, throwing me back against the wall, knocking the wind out of me.

  What’s that strange breathing?

  Not me, I’m too terrified to make a sound.

  What you shot is next to you, moaning. Shine your flashlight on it.

  Yes, yes, I’m switching it on. I’m shining it.

  It’s a huge pig!

  A wild boar lies on its side, its stunned eyes staring into the light beam, blood bubbling from its black snout.

  There’s grunting back there in the corner.

  I’ll shine the light.

  Baby pigs scattering, confused!

  I have killed their mother. This is where she had them, to get out of the rain.

  Pigs living in the houses of ghosts.

  Someone’s calling from outside. It must be them. I’m not waiting. I’m shouting the code. “IF YOU WANT TO EAT SNAILS YOU MUST STARVE THEM FIRST!”

  A voice shouts back. “THAT’S SO THEY’LL SPIT OUT ALL THEIR POISONS.”

  They know the code. I’m going out. The rain slashes my face; I can’t see well. Shapes in the grey. The same voice that shouted the code speaks now.

  “Good evening, Louise.”

  My name is Lucretia. Who can this be?

  “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.” The grey shape in the rain steps forward. It is the Officer. “Drop your gun.”

  I can make out others, more soldiers with their rifles aimed at me. I drop my gun.

  “That’s better. Now be a good girl and come with us.”

  Perhaps if I act like I’m going to surrender without trouble they will let down their guard and I can find a chance to run, disappear in the rain. If I am arrested
I must be abandoned by those like me who move in the night for security reasons. It will be the end of Lucretia, but not the end of the war. Lucretia must survive. I spin around and run. A swift pain explodes in the back of my head as something blunt strikes me. The rain swells up in fierce gusts and everything goes black.

  The night consumes me and a dark bird bursts from my chest, explodes from my throat, and soars skyward. It looks back, watching my every move, alive to my unconscious state as I am pulled down steps rushing with a dangerous torrent of rainwater. The bird follows as soldiers drag me through mud and throw me into the back of a truck. Rain beats down as I am driven along winding roads, past flooded vineyards and orchards, then up through towering stone columns of an old Roman gate: the village of Reigne. The truck stops in the square before the church and I am dragged out. The Officer bangs the iron knocker of the church door. A priest finally opens the door. The priest, dressed in a nightshirt, holds a lantern that illuminates his frightened face. The Officer whispers; the priest nods nervously and closes the door. The Officer motions to his men. They drag me up the church steps, press my back against the door and stretch my arms out at my sides. The Officer puts a fist under my chin and shoves up my face. I can see him as clearly as the bird above, and I can hear him.

  “Normally I like to hang traitors by the neck.”

  The Officer motions to a soldier standing by the truck, who rushes up the steps with a canvas sack. The Officer takes a can of paint and a brush from the sack. He pries off the can’s lid and dips the brush in. Above my head I hear the swish of his brush, painting words.

  “This time I’m going to do something different.” The Officer throws the brush down and pulls a hammer and nails from the sack.