The Murmur of Bees

by Sofía Segovia

  Which had arrived.

  Simonopio—who had remained motionless for hours, missing the company and conversation of his bees and sad that Francisco Junior was not there, in spite of his prime spot on the great boulder in the river—readjusted his position expectantly. And then, covered with his robe, appeared Ronda, who until then had not allowed himself to be seen. Simonopio noticed that he did not seem very happy about having to remove the garment: as impressive as his underwater talents may have been, he was not immune to the cold. It may also have been that he was afraid of getting sick, but he had summoned the town to see his aquatic concert, and even people from Montemorelos had shown up. There was no going back now, no postponing the event: he had taken a tidy sum of money, and now he must deliver.

  At last he took off his gown, handed it to his son the treasurer, and leaped from the bank into the water in front of the wheel.

  63

  Ronda’s Singing

  Nobody recognized the first few notes of the corrido that traveled loudly from ear to ear, but it did not matter: Ronda was singing. They had seen him go underwater, and now the audience could hear his voice and listen to his song. In unison, everyone—including the disbeliever who had prepared in advance to pelt the failed subaquatic singer with rotten fruit and vegetables—let out a loud sigh of admiration. Ronda, the True Wonder, was singing under the water. They could all hear him, but even so, some bent forward as far as possible to hear better, while those a little farther back stood to try to see something.

  The cries of Sit down, Out of the way, and You’re stopping us from hearing it marred the incipient concert somewhat, though by then, those with the clearest view began to protest. Yes, it was true that Ronda, the self-proclaimed True Wonder, was singing underwater without any equipment, but he was not submerged; instead, he was behind the stream of water that fell with the constant movement of the wheel. There, standing on the firm riverbed, loudly and out of tune, he sang a song he had composed himself. Neither the singer nor the performance was a wonder of any sort, and so the complaining began, because singing under a mere sprinkle, without breathing equipment or a microphone, was an ability that every one of them possessed without the slightest need for skill or mastery, much like Ronda himself.

  “What’s happening?”

  Those at the back were unable to see the silhouette of Ronda behind the stream of water, but those at the front gladly explained the situation to them, so that they could join in the spreading discontent. Even those who had gone there that day expecting a ruse felt offended and conned: even for a trick, Ronda’s was very cheap, and not worth the twenty centavos he had taken from them.

  Simonopio had not expected a trick. He had gone to see a wonder, which he thought had begun when Ronda dived in. He had felt his heart skip a beat from the excitement, but it resumed its normal pace when he saw the man emerge from the river behind the stream of water. The song that Ronda sang was not even very good: Who was interested in the sorrows of a man whose mule was dying? That was something that could happen to anyone, on any day of the week.

  Still, he did not understand why the audience was complaining so much. Ronda had not even lied: he was singing underwater as promised. The people, themselves, had believed what they had wanted to believe. Simonopio immediately lost interest in Ronda and concentrated on the faces, voices, and furious rage of the crowd, though he did not feel tempted to join their vociferous and foulmouthed complaints. Rather than conned, he felt disappointed. Had he been able, he would have thrown himself into the water and left, but he did not want to push past all the people who were pressing ever closer to the river, demanding the return of their money from Ronda’s son, the treasurer. Tired of the yelling and complaints, Simonopio remained motionless in his spot, trying to rid everything and everyone from his mind. But it was not easy.

  He’d had enough: enough yelling and enough of the negative atmosphere that prevailed. He had been sitting on that freezing rock for too long already. He could no longer ignore the cold or his frustration. He had invested a lot of time over the last five days trying to imagine how someone could sing underwater, and to witness it, he had turned down the invitation from Francisco Junior, who had gladly and generously wanted to share his papa with him.

  He decided that he would apologize to the boy, and while there were no wonders to tell him about, Simonopio knew Francisco would laugh when he heard how they’d started throwing leftover food at Ronda. He would also tell him how the waterfall the con man hid behind was so thick that no bread or tomato could pass through it—that the projectiles hit the stream of water only to drop into the river. He would tell him how it was not until it occurred to someone to throw an orange, hard, that Ronda began to receive the reward for his musical efforts, by force. He would tell him—and this he knew would make the boy laugh—that even certain ladies from the social club, tired, freezing, and bored after the long hours waiting out in the elements, had lost their composure and, in the swarm, had begun to talk and shout just like the rabble they would never allow into their exclusive club or the first-class pavilion at the Villaseca Fair. Still not daring to leave his spot, Simonopio recognized that positioning himself on that rock to see the show had not been the best idea. Now he felt trapped there until the people decided to leave, because swimming across the river to the far side would not be sensible: it would mean getting wetter and returning home on the longest route.

  He decided to be patient. It would not be long before the people left, with or without their money, and then he could go back to La Amistad.

  It was too late to join the two Franciscos, but the wait would be more pleasant if he could see them, so Simonopio decided to sense them. His body was trapped on that boulder, but he could allow his mind to fly, and so he did. He made himself forget the curses, his own disappointment and that of others, the complaints, flying oranges, failed singing, centavos, and pesos, and in doing so, he went to where his godfather and Francisco Junior were. His mind flew toward a day in harmony. He perceived some chorizo that upset a stomach and the sense of anticipation from aiming and firing a rifle. He arrived at some badly made holes in the ground and some unplanted trees. He felt breathless as he sensed the weight of some infertile and hostile land. He saw the hatred in some eyes that were watching them and sensed the determination behind the sight of a weapon about to be aimed at them.

  Then he knew what it feels like when one’s heart really stops. A beat, two. Then he knew what a heart feels when it misses a beat, two, then remembers that, to live, it must beat again, even if the first beat hurts as if the chest has been split open. He knew the true horror that one feels when, without needing to be asleep, one falls endlessly; when the world collapses. He knew how one feels when, without warning, an uncontrollable pain invades the body, so great that it cannot be contained, so great that, in order to go from that moment to the next, in order to survive, one must let it out or cease to exist.

  Before diving into the river’s icy water to swim to the bank and then penetrate the thickest part of the mass of people, without slowing down, without caring whom he knocked over, the strange boy of the Morales family—the one everyone who witnessed the events that day had thought was mute—let out the most powerful scream they had heard in their lives. The most desperate. The most painful. Stunned, all at once, they stopped complaining and yelling at Ronda.

  From where had he appeared, and what had caused such a cry? None of those present who saw him run off in the direction of the hills—like he was possessed, some would say—were ever able to explain it. On the rock where he had spent almost the entire day there remained a pair of shoes that nobody retrieved.

  64

  Leap of Faith

  “She scolds you too?”

  What questions the boy asked!

  Of course Beatriz scolded him when warranted, and she put him in his place when he deserved it. But Francisco Morales would not have admitted that to his son, at least not that day, so he did what all fathers do
instinctively: evade the question, avoid answering, change the subject.

  “Come on, let’s go plant the trees.”

  Father and son climbed onto the cart to bring the orange trees closer to the roadside. The trees were not heavy for an adult, but their weight and size meant that it was not easy for a seven-year-old boy to move one without damaging it. Francisco saw how his son imitated his movements and how he looked up, hoping for his approval, and he thought, This is how we build a relationship; this is how I’ll teach him to be what he must become: little by little, as Beatriz says—not all at once.

  He climbed off the cart and took all the trees down. Then he held his son’s hand and helped him jump down onto the irregular surface of the road. Francisco Junior was not content to just drop down and plant his feet on the ground; instead he propelled himself upward to prolong the leap and, in doing so, make something simple into an exciting adventure. Francisco Senior wondered how long ago he had stopped doing the same thing: jumping higher than necessary without knowing how he would land or what consequences there would be. Picking up the first orange tree—a product of his orchard but, before that, the fruit of his imagination and daring—it occurred to him that having dared to change the agricultural calling and perhaps the history of an entire town was comparable to taking a great leap like his son had just done with complete faith.

  Satisfied, happy with the result of years of hard work, he brought the first tree to the place where it would strike root forever.

  And then he saw him in the distance, on the hill: accompanied by his son, Espiricueta had arrived. Late, but there he was.

  65

  The Return

  Stop, please. I need air. Pull over. I want to get out for a minute. Just a minute. To be honest, I never thought it’d be so tough coming home, and for me, my home always started on this road my ancestors made, now bordered with dying and dead trees.

  They must’ve thought they’d be eternal, that they’d never age, that they’d never die. Now look at what’s left of them.

  66

  See, Listen, Understand

  Francisco Morales, who until the age of seven they had called Francisco Junior, climbs out of the taxi that collected him that morning from his house, as quickly as his body allows, tangled as it is by age and disuse.

  The young taxi driver looks at him with confusion and alarm.

  He is afraid that someone of such an advanced age might decide to die in the car—because, first off, at his young age, he has never seen a dead person, and second off, he does not know and wonders how dirty death would be if it arrives. He decides that it might be very dirty, so he prefers that, if the old man is going to die, he should do it out of the car, which does not even belong to the driver. He does not want to have to explain to the owner or have his pay docked for the cost of cleaning, so he responds immediately to the elderly gentleman’s request to pull over.

  Protecting the integrity of the vehicle is his priority, but what makes him get out after his passenger is curiosity: he cannot leave things as they are. He has to know the end of the story, even if he hears it with the old man’s final breath.

  That morning, Francisco Morales had called the taxi company that, whenever there was a need, was normally called by Hortensia, a woman hired by his children when he was widowed, to act as housekeeper and nurse. He did not feel that he needed a nurse, since he was still capable of meeting his most basic physiological needs without help, but he would never object to having someone to take care of him.

  He did not call Hortensia “Nana”—at his age it would have been ridiculous, but what difference was there between her and his nana Pola?

  Just affection. A minor thing.

  He’d made the call obeying a rare impulse for someone his age. That morning he had woken ready to follow the routine that had bound him to Hortensia for more than fifteen years. A routine of distant friendship: she in the kitchen and he in the comfortable La-Z-Boy, a gift from his children one Christmas, which he had gradually tamed and molded to the contours of his body. Now he spent all day in the permanent, soft embrace of his seat, getting up only when he began to feel the pressing and pinching of his elegant reclining rocking chair, which tired long before he did of the constant proximity.

  Sometimes it seemed to him as if he were turning into a marble statue by Rodin, the one called The Thinker that he had seen once in Paris, sitting for eternity in the same position, because he could not be bothered even to recline the seat a little or use another feature of the La-Z-Boy, which was for elevating the legs.

  In this way the hours passed of their own accord and without warning. They faded away. There, with the curtains closed and in the dark, between visits from a child, grandchild, or great-grandchild, he closed his eyes and ears, though the television was always on as a window into the world. What could he see or hear on that glowing cube, on that idiot box, that he did not already know? In his long life, he had seen it all, and he did not want to watch reruns of anything. Because sometimes it was as if everything were a repetition: the same mistakes, the same warning signs, and the same governments, even if the faces changed.

  No surprises. Ever.

  He closed his eyes and ears, and he locked himself away in the past to remember, because the only repetition he could tolerate was that of the memories with which he had filled his life.

  But that day, he had lifted the receiver and called to request a taxi like an expert. He had filled his wallet with money, and without saying anything to Hortensia, who was as ever in the kitchen making one of her aromatic soups, he went out into the midday sun to wait for his ride, which promptly arrived. He did not sit in the back seat, as any paying passenger is expected to do; he sat in the front, to see everything with his eyes wide open.

  “We’re going to Linares.”

  He silenced the young driver’s objections, assuring him that he had enough money to pay for the return trip as well as the gasoline. He had enough to cover the cost of the entire day, if necessary.

  Sitting in the front, seeing the road unimpeded, he started to tell the story that he wanted to tell, the story that none of his children or grandchildren, prisoners of the hurried pace of modern life, had wanted to hear other than in bits and pieces, because they always interrupted.

  Is it true you threw yourself off a bridge once because a train was coming? they must have asked him once or twice.

  Yes.

  And what happened? How did you survive?

  A nopal patch saved us.

  And what was it like? his interviewers asked, before, as usual, immediately losing any real interest in the question and then losing the thread of the conversation, because their cell phone rang with a call or beeped with a notification that they had been tagged in that thing called Facebook, or with a message that included a kindergarten’s photo of the day, in which a member of the new generation of the family appeared.

  Look. Do you want to see it?

  I don’t have my glasses, but thanks.

  That day, he decided to tell it from start to finish, even if the taxi driver was not interested in an old man’s story. He had always remembered, but since life had been put on hold by his widowhood; by his old age; by the silence, the immobility, and the isolation, the details of his story had grown ever-more vivid, more colorful, more present. As always, he tried to contain them, control them, but his memories had surprised him that day, requesting freedom, air, light. Let us out, some asked him. Others took him by storm and said, Let us in now. It was as if, that day, they had all decided to assail him at once, to flood his senses—the five that convention acknowledges, and the others that he knew existed but that he had never been able to access, use, or even understand: the ones of which Simonopio had spoken to him when he was a boy and that he had never had the patience or time to study and develop.

  Tired of resisting so much, Francisco had surrendered to the battering.

  Now he had to let the memories that whirled around him in or out, or
he would explode. Now he understood that they spoke to him, that they called to him, that something had been calling to him for many years, but he had resisted seeing or hearing, or it had been impossible for him to do so, surrounded by the busy everyday life of an enormous city.

  That day it was imperative that he listen to the come-come-come-come that called to him and that he relive the story in which he never, even when he was young, thought he was the protagonist. Now, at last, he managed to fill and understand the hidden gaps in the story he had thought he knew in full.

  He climbed out of the car because he needed air, even though he had the window open.

  But going out does not improve his condition, because Francisco Morales still needs air, as he will continue to need it until he reaches his destination. As he will continue to need it until he finishes telling the story like he has never done before: with the new spherical vision that Simonopio had tried with such enthusiasm to teach him and that he has only just started embracing. The vision that is now enabling him to understand and to feel tenderness for a new, experienced, and older mother of an irrepressible child. That helps him sympathize with Carmen and even with Consuelo, and understand the crosses that his father had to bear—understand them in his belly and in his cells and no longer just as a simple, if bitter, anecdote. To understand, if not forgive, the envy and resentment that drive one to kill, and also to decipher and finally embrace Simonopio’s world as his own.

  67

  But Simonopio’s Image Invades Your Mind,

  Francisco, and it’s not the one with the gentle eyes and generous smile that you like remembering so much: the image of the young man surrounded by bees and sun, who took you to school, happy, pulling on Thunderbolt’s reins for too short a time. The mental portrait you see now is not the one you took with you when you went and the one that has accompanied you all these years since you left. No, the image you see today behind your eyelids, the image of him in your mind’s eye, is one that you’ve never seen before. The face you see on him today, so many years later, is one of absolute suffering, unfiltered, with no pretenses or condescension.