The Murmur of Bees

by Sofía Segovia

  Francisco did not stop to remark or complain about the audacity of a politician enacting a tailor-made law for himself at his convenience. It brought him satisfaction to be one step ahead of any government plan to take his land from him, and if everyone in Linares and in the region saved themselves from being stripped of their property thanks to that law, then all the better.

  Without neglecting the cattle ranches, and lamenting that the land in Tamaulipas was not as well suited to fruit, he had devoted himself body and soul to learning—from the books he bought in California—everything there was to know about orange cultivation. After ordering every last trace of sugarcane removed, he himself measured the distance between each hole they would have to dig to receive the orange trees, and then he supervised his men planting each tree. At night he returned home tired and went straight to the bathroom to wash off the earth stuck to his body by sweat, only to carry on working after dinner, studying the method for grafting the sweet orange trees that he would soon grow from seeds. He did not want to keep buying them from another producer.

  For the first time in an age, Beatriz saw Francisco motivated. He had good days, when he seemed confident he was on the right path to save his family’s property. She would have liked every day to be like that, but no: it was not in his nature to be so arrogant and triumphalist as to believe he had found the solution to all his problems in something as simple as changing direction. Francisco was a realist. And he had days when he was overcome with anxiety: the agrarians were still circling, and due to the cost of his scheme, he had not been able to finish covering all his estates. He knew it would still take him years.

  One night, tucked up in bed, he said to her, “I feel like I’m in a race that I appear to be winning, for the time being. But it’s a long, very expensive race, and I can feel them hot on my heels. And I’m tired.”

  “If you get too tired, tell me. I’ll help you.”

  And there, lying in bed, Beatriz rested Francisco’s head on her shoulder and stroked the hair on his temple like a child, until he relaxed and fell asleep.

  Now she was tired, on her way back to Linares, and the rhythmic rocking of the train stroking its tracks had finally defeated her: for the first time since she began her railway journeys between Linares and Monterrey, Beatriz fell asleep. She was unaware of the ticket collector going past and allowing her to sleep, since he recognized her as a regular passenger. Nor did she notice when they stopped in Montemorelos, where passengers alighted and boarded. And in her deep sleep she did not realize they were passing through Alta: she did not look out, as she always did; or notice Simonopio’s absence; or feel the slight but persistent movement in her belly.

  When they reached Linares, the ticket collector took the liberty of waking her.

  “We’ve arrived, Señora.”

  Dazed, drowsy, but most of all surprised and ashamed she had fallen asleep in public, Beatriz managed to open her eyes to find that, sure enough, they were at Linares Station. She picked up her purse. A porter helped her with her luggage—and all the better, she thought gratefully, because if it had been up to her, she would have left it where it was. She did not have the energy to carry anything. She wanted to be home, in her bed, so she could sleep again.

  She was beginning to worry. At first, she had suspected that her chronic tiredness was due to the normal physical circumstances of her age and that the loss of interest in various activities to which she had devoted so much of her time in the past was something normal in a grandmother. But her friends were around the same age—some a little older, some a little younger—and none of them seemed so low in spirits.

  She felt a knot in her stomach. One of her grandmothers had died young from pernicious anemia, which had first manifested in a general weakening of the body and mind. She hoped she had not inherited the illness, but she feared she was already exhibiting its early symptoms. She would make an appointment to see the doctor the next day. She would hate to cause more pain or anxiety for Francisco, but she could not willfully continue to ignore her discomfort. If it was bad news, she decided that she would confront it without wasting any more time.

  As she left the station, she was surprised to find Simonopio waiting for her with a wide smile on his face. He had just turned twelve, but observing him closely, Beatriz thought he had grown even more in the last week.

  “What have you been eating, young man? You’re growing like a weed.”

  Simonopio walked up to her. Yes, at twelve years of age he was already taller than she was. Beatriz felt proud, though she also felt older than ever. It seemed like yesterday that Simonopio had arrived as a newborn, wrapped in a shawl and a cloak of bees.

  And just look at him now: almost a man.

  To her surprise, Simonopio had accepted Francisco’s invitation to travel to California. Beatriz had watched them depart with apprehension, with the sudden worry that Simonopio would not manage such a long journey. But he returned a month later looking much like he did before, as if, in his month of absence, in the constant company of his godfather, he had reversed the transformation that he had undergone in his phase as a wanderer of the wilds. Still, from time to time, that mature look—so out of place and that saddened Beatriz so much when she saw it in his eyes—made an appearance. It was as if, for a moment, a prisoner that Simonopio kept inside him managed to escape, subjecting him to a harsh transformation that lasted until the boy—the one he still needed to be—imposed himself again and sent the invader back behind his eyes.

  Francisco had sent her telegrams and letters to keep her informed of any news, uncertain how long it would be before he returned. From the messages, she learned that Simonopio was enjoying all the new things he discovered on their travels and that not even the foreign language was an impediment to him, since he made himself understood without speaking. A little jealous because he had not had such a good time with her in Monterrey, Beatriz learned that he did not complain or cry once. He went everywhere with Francisco and toured the orchards of young trees, row by row, to choose on behalf of his bees and mark the ones that would make the long journey back to Linares with some red ribbon that they gave him for the purpose.

  On the first day, the people who worked at the orchard were surprised that the older man was so deferential to the boy.

  “Are you going to let the boy choose for you?”

  “If you knew him, you’d know why.”

  Francisco had started out on that journey, that idea, under no illusions that the trees would belong to whoever paid for them—as one would expect in any transaction. And yes, obviously he would pay for them, he would plant them on his land, and he would benefit from them. But as the days went by, witnessing Simonopio’s excitement as they embarked on this new adventure that would take them north and to the other side of the continent, another idea presented itself, one that did not seem unfavorable to him but which he would share with no one except his wife: the orange trees would belong to Simonopio and his bees. There was nobody better than the boy to know which ones they would like, which would survive the journey, which would best adapt to his land to produce more flowers for them and more fruit for him.

  With this in mind, he allowed Simonopio to choose and to overlook a few trees that seemed leafy and strong before stopping to mark one that, to Francisco, at first glance, seemed weak and bare. Simonopio knew what he was doing. Francisco, trusting him, let him be, without caring what the gringos—or the braceros—said. They had never seen anyone like his godson, who, from the first day visiting the orchards, attracted the Californian bees as if they had been lifelong friends. It was not long before he earned the nickname Bee Charmer.

  Francisco suspected that a glance had been enough for the bees to understand that Simonopio was a kindred spirit, if not an equal, so he was not surprised when hundreds of bees abandoned their daily routine to approach his godson, perch on him, and cover his body to welcome him. The owner of the orchards almost had a heart attack, frightened by the sudden, unexpected, unp
rovoked assault. Francisco tried to reassure him, but the owner gave the order to wash the boy and his winged lining down with a high-pressure hose.

  “Wait. Look.”

  To everyone’s astonishment, all Simonopio had to do was raise his arms, and the bees all flew off as one, leaving the boy happy and unharmed.

  And Simonopio was never alone again. From then on, every day, when he arrived early in the morning to continue the careful task of choosing the trees the Moraleses would live with for the rest of their lives, the bees came out without fail to meet him—albeit never with the grand gesture of the first day. Francisco supposed that, by the end of the day, like everyone who toiled on the orchard, the bees also had a quota of work to complete, a quota they could not neglect even to spend the day with their visitor, so they switched between their duties and their attentiveness to their guest.

  Was it they, using the symbiosis they shared with the orange trees, who told Simonopio which ones were the best? Or was it simply Simonopio who sensed it? As soon as he began to wonder, Francisco stopped himself: there was little point in puzzling over it or trying to find reasons, because Simonopio was not equipped to explain them to him, nor Francisco to comprehend.

  The important thing was that he believed Simonopio would choose well, and time proved him right. Of all the trees that made the long journey southeast, only two died on the way, and no more died after they were transplanted into the black Mexican soil. Now they all flourished, even if the fruit remained no more than a promise.

  At the railway station two years after the trip to California, that December of 1922, all the first- and second-class passengers with luggage, and the third-class ones with knapsacks and crates, turned in surprise to see the strange-looking boy who had come to welcome the señora home. Beatriz thought that Simonopio, smiling, was approaching to embrace her, but she was wrong: he came just close enough to rest two hands on her belly.

  She looked him in the eyes, and his smile widened.

  37

  Slaves to Time

  We’re nearly there.

  It’s been an incredibly long time since I was last in these parts, but I don’t think the journey ever felt shorter. At my age, one realizes that time is a cruel and fickle master, for the more you want it, the faster it appears to vanish, and vice versa: the more you want to escape it, the more stagnant it becomes. We are its slaves—or its puppets, if you prefer—and it moves or paralyzes us at its whim. Today, for instance, I would like to reach the end of this story, so I wish I could have more time—that time would slow down. You, on other hand, might want this old man you’ve just met to be quiet so that you can put on your music or think about something else, so perhaps your journey is taking forever.

  But let me tell you what I know, what I’ve concluded: it doesn’t matter whether time passes slowly or quickly. What you can be sure of is that, in the end, all you want is to have more. More of those lazy afternoons when nothing happens, despite your best efforts to the contrary. More of those annoying arms that picked you up to stop you doing something crazy. More tellings-off from the mother who you thought was a nag. More glimpses, even, of your father hurrying somewhere, always busy. More soft embraces from the wife who loved you all your life, and more trusting looks from your children’s young eyes.

  Now, I’m sure my mama also wanted more time for many things, but at that moment, it would have been helpful had time done her the favor of giving her the space she needed to digest the news she received that day. A short delay so that, in her own time, she could find a way, and the right moment, to inform her husband, daughters, and the wider world that, fearing she was dying, she had discovered more life in her than she had expected.

  My poor mama. Just imagine. She would be a mother again, when she had finally made peace with the half-infertile life that had befallen her. When she had come to terms with having only two daughters who, now adults, and both of them mothers, had made her a grandmother.

  Life and time had decided otherwise.

  My papa, the first to be told as the other person involved in the matter, was delighted with the news. It would be a boy, he foretold. My sisters were not so pleased: while Carmen had stopped at saying, Ay, Mama! Consuelo, less discreet and more inquisitive, asked how, why, and when. To which my mama, losing all her patience—which she had mustered, very intentionally, for that moment—replied, Look, Consuelo. If at two months’ pregnant you haven’t figured out the how and why, I’m not about to explain it to you. And why do you care when?

  According to my sisters, that was the extent of her explanations.

  38

  He Who Must Arrive, Arrives

  Simonopio did not wish to go far from the house that spring. The first orange-blossom buds had appeared a few days earlier almost out of nowhere, and now, as if all the trees had agreed to a race, an eagerness to begin their cycle had quickly spread among them, and they put out shoots in abundance.

  From the outset, he knew he would need to be patient with such young trees: the previous year, the bees—and he with them, now and then—had still had to travel a long way to the flowers they knew before in order to add honey to their hive. Now the buds in their orchard were not yet sharing their treasure of nectar, but the bees’ patience was unlimited: like Simonopio, they went nowhere; they waited. They had waited for years for the trees, and at last the trees had arrived. They had waited patiently for them to flower, and now the trees were nearly there. They knew that at any moment, the first flower would open, generous, and from there a chain reaction would be unleashed that would fill the entire orchard with aroma, gold dust, and liquid gold.

  When that first flower opened, it would mark the end of the bees’ and Simonopio’s long journeys forever. And for Simonopio, it would also be the signal for something else.

  It was time to stay close. It was time to carry on waiting for the baby that would arrive, and that was where Simonopio’s patience had reached its limit. He observed the buds more closely than the bees did. He knew that, when the first petal opened to the light, he would not stay to celebrate the profusion. No. He would rush off, because he knew that, with the first flower, it would be time to begin the vigil for the imminent arrival of the child that would come into their lives.

  So he waited anxiously. He patrolled the orchard. He stroked a bud from time to time, taking care not to harm it, but hoping to persuade it: Open, life’s waiting for you. Open, so life arrives.

  And Francisco Morales, who with the first bud on the orange trees had begun to believe all his hopes would be fulfilled, observed his godson. As prepared as Francisco was to stroke the trees one by one as well, and as much as he fixed his eyes on them wishing they would open, he knew nothing would help: the flowers would open in their own time.

  “Simonopio, go play. There’s nothing to do here.”

  But the boy did not go, and neither did he.

  They walked. They moseyed around. They inspected the irrigation and made sure that all the trees’ roots were well covered in soft earth, that they grew straight, that there were no infestations. They kept themselves artificially busy during their long wait, inspecting things they had inspected many times, without finding any defects or problems. Until finally, when they reached the end of a row and turned around to start along the next one, they saw it: the first blossom of La Amistad’s orchard. Simonopio did not give Francisco time to smell the flower. He took him abruptly by the sleeve and broke into a run, urging him to follow.

  Confused, Francisco hesitated for an instant, but only for an instant. If Simonopio wanted him to follow, he would. There would be a reason. And he ran at the speed that his godson set along the shortcuts the boy took through the maze of trees in his orchard, without thinking or seeing where they were going. Without understanding why Simonopio had made him run to the house in such a hurry.

  39

  A Strange and Confused World

  I was born in April, though they expected me in June. I wasn’t born prematurely�
��I was born on the day when I was meant to be born—which means that, when my mama discovered she was pregnant, I was three months older than calculated: she had conceived before the date of my sister Consuelo’s wedding.

  I wasn’t the one who worked it out. It was Consuelo herself, who would always remind me: when I was a little boy, to confuse me; when I was a young man, to torment me; and then, when I was an adult, as a friendly joke—when she finally forgave us, forgave me for being born and my parents for making me. We managed, when she was old—albeit only in years—to start enjoying our relationship.

  You should know we never spoke about it, but my own very personal theory is that a brother arriving late in life tormented her for a number of reasons.

  My arrival, had it been early in their lives, would have taken my sisters completely by surprise. Look what the stork brought us today, the poor innocents would’ve been told, expected or even ordered to ask no more questions. The next day, they would’ve gone to school and announced to their friends that the stork had visited them to bring them a little boy. There would’ve been commiserations and rejoicing, some of their friends wishing the stork would visit their houses as well, but no more questions.

  However, when I was born, when my sisters were married adults, there was no longer any mystery to it. They were not stupid. To their dismay, it became abundantly clear to them how their parents—grandparents now—passed the time in their absence. And not only that, but they also had to answer their friends’ stupid questions and brazen comments when those friends learned, secondhand, that the marital activities of their parents had borne fruit.

  As if that were not enough to justify the resentment she felt toward me, imagine my sister’s reaction when my mama informed her—incorrectly—that they were due to give birth at the same time, so my mama could not be with her in her confinement, in labor, or in the weeks that followed.