The Ardent Swarm

by Manai, Yamen

  “You work with bees?”

  “Yes.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since always.”

  “You have hives?”

  “I manage ten on behalf of the cooperative, and I have five at home.”

  “Interesting! Do you know how to breed queens?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Good! Now tell me, do you like to fool around?”

  “Fool around?”

  “You know, fool around, drink alcohol, go out with girls.”

  “No, I don’t like to fool around.”

  “Do you pray?”

  “Yes.”

  “Every day?”

  “Every day.”

  “Perfect!”

  “No one is perfect but God.”

  Anger

  Of the bear it is said that when he goes to a beehive for honey and the bees begin to sting him, he forgets about the honey and concentrates on revenge; and, because he wishes to revenge himself on all the bees that sting him, he succeeds in revenging himself upon none of them. Whereupon his anger turns into rage and he throws himself on the ground helplessly clawing the air with his paws.

  Leonardo da Vinci

  Bestiary

  13

  Sidi worked for one of the many crown princes on a farmstead in the middle of the desert. Though the conditions were difficult and the pay disappointing, he never balked at his task. He loved his job and with his bees helped transform the farm into a small piece of heaven. Water was brought in from filtration stations, the dunes were flattened, and the ground covered with cultivable earth through which snaked the thin streams of an irrigation network. Plants flourished in the gardens, and the fields of fruit trees thrived thanks to the expertise of foreign market farmers and agronomists. During the bloom season, his girls set to work and produced a rare honey, for this was the thing about the desert—it enhanced everything, good or bad, beautiful or ugly.

  Like the rest of the employees, Sidi was forever under the supervision of natives who knew nothing about agriculture. Their science was of the religious kind and they used it to settle matters, regardless of the circumstances. In this way, the farmstead director upset his agronomists’ plans and decided that the fruit trees would be lined up facing southwest. Greater exposure to the sun, but little matter! Because when positioned in this way, they would be turned toward Mecca.

  He silenced his objectors with forceful arguments. “Didn’t Abraham turn toward God when his own people had lit a pyre and thrown him upon it? And what did God do? Did He not transform the fire into coolness and peace upon Abraham? And in the same way the trees will turn toward God, and God will transform the heat of the sun into coolness and peace upon them, and they will produce more than they have in the shade.”

  There was no point protesting. The foreign workers were there as underlings, a fact of which they were continually reminded, sometimes with, but often without, tact.

  Sidi didn’t dwell much on the local customs and enjoyed as best he could the Arabia of the poems of yore. He escaped to the desert when the opportunity arose, day or night, astride a horse or a camel. He immersed himself, body and soul, in the desert, seeking harmony in the coolness of a cave or beneath the star-filled sky. Sometimes, when he thought himself alone, a gazelle or oryx would enter his field of vision like a bolt of lightning, and sometimes, he would stumble upon ruins emerging out of nowhere, vestiges of a distant past.

  But most of his time was spent working. He was constantly nurturing new hives to match the farm’s expansion and satisfy the pressing demands of the court, whose honey consumption was beyond belief. So much so that he could barely keep any in reserve. At every harvest, a palace representative came to pick up the entirety of his stock, which had been carefully poured into stainless steel tanks.

  After three years of unrelenting production, Sidi understood the reasons for this staggering level of consumption.

  That spring, exhausted by his pilgrimage to Mecca, the prince came to the farmstead to relax.

  The farm director had been informed of his arrival by phone the night before and immediately gave everyone their marching orders to welcome him properly. As some laborers mowed the lawns and cleaned the paths, others began to erect a massive tent worthy of a Mongolian emperor. In the middle of the oasis, not far from a stream, they hammered in stakes, pulled ropes, and raised the burlap structure. The interior was lined with pashmina, and the ground covered with goatskins and Persian rugs. Workers brought in comfortable chairs, sofas, and makeshift beds decorated with ostrich feathers. They hung curtains, lamps, and thin veils. Ethiopian incense was set out alongside jugs of holy water and baskets of exotic fruit. The farm was almost ready to receive its distinguished guest.

  There was just the question of honey. Though the court was only passing through the farm, the director demanded a tank of five gallons.

  “Five gallons?!”

  “Five gallons.”

  The flowers had just begun to bloom, and Sidi didn’t have much honey in stock. To supply this volume, he would have to steal food from his girls. Obeying this order meant starving them.

  Though upset, he didn’t argue. If he objected, the director, scratching at his beard and playing the religious scholar, would invariably tell him a story about the life of Noah or Jonas, or perhaps the Last Prophet, to let Sidi know that he would do well to obey. With a heavy heart, the beekeeper opened his hives and bitterly began to make the requisite, repugnant motions. He blackened his soul to meet the prince’s needs.

  The guest of honor arrived the next morning with his royal entourage. The laborers were told to work as usual while keeping their distance from the camp. Only Sidi was free to move about as he pleased due to the wide range of his hives. He glimpsed a modern caravan of five Hummers and heard the farm director welcoming the arrivals with the greatest possible deference. While the hired hands were unloading the cars, Sidi’s keen ear detected female voices.

  His worker bees had begun the day eagerly at dawn, flocking around the fruit trees at the bases of which Sidi had placed the hives. Aware of their lack of provisions, the bees were multiplying their flights at a dangerous frequency.

  “Forgive me, my beauties . . . It’s because the prince is here,” apologized Sidi, head and voice low.

  Bent over one hive, he felt a presence behind him. He turned around but the shadow had already moved. He turned again and that’s when he saw her. She was across from him, amused by his gesticulations and monologue.

  Sidi, thunderstruck, remained frozen like a pillar of salt.

  Though a few female whispers had reached him in the wind, he hadn’t imagined he’d find himself face-to-face with one of their sources, sporting a summer dress, bare feet, and untamed hair. Women in the kingdom were forced to live in silence and behind veils, for the devil inhabited their hair, their skin, and their vocal cords. They didn’t have the right to venture far from their guardians, because if left to themselves, they’d be defenseless against the devil hiding between their legs. Such were the codes established by the bearded men elevated to the ranks of ulema and such were the laws of the kingdom. Breaking them could easily result in a bleeding back or a rolling head.

  “Are you talking to yourself?” she asked him.

  “I was talking to the bees,” he mumbled.

  “I’d be more reassured if you were talking to yourself,” she laughed.

  She was young. She must have been his age, or nearly.

  “So what were you saying to them?”

  “I was telling them not to worry. That all they need to do is flap their wings and they will find guidance.”

  The young woman’s face looked sad, open but furtive.

  “And they listen to you?”

  “I think so.”

  Like a mirage, she disappeared as suddenly as she had appeared, leaving him open-mouthed, wondering whether he had dreamed her up.

  He spent the night in a kind of hallucinatory fever. He was agit
ated, turning over and over in his bed, thinking about her . . . What was her name? Where did she come from? Was she a princess? What did he know about princesses other than that they were destined for princes?

  The next day, he waited, at the same time and spot. He was losing all hope of seeing her again when she reappeared, eclipsing everything in her path. She was there, infusing the air with her scent, and once again, she smiled at him.

  “How are the bees?”

  “They’re working,” he responded idiotically, drowning in that smile.

  “And you’re the beekeeper?”

  “Yes.”

  “You benefit from their work!”

  “All nature benefits from their work. But I take care of them. That’s my job.”

  “It seems like a pretty relaxing job.”

  “It can be dangerous.”

  “Oh, so what are the risks exactly? A bee sting?”

  “Or a bear attack!”

  She laughed. “Is that all?”

  “Absolutely, ma’am!” he replied in all seriousness. “And not just any bear. A real Numidian bear, no doubt one of the last specimens.”

  “Miss,” she happily corrected him.

  “Miss,” he repeated like a parrot.

  She sat down on the ground and invited him to follow suit with a glance.

  “A bear attack, huh? Tell me about it.”

  “There’s a mountain near my village where the air is cool and the flowers abundant. I was in the habit of taking my hives there, as my father did before me, but neither of us had ever seen a Numidian bear around. Nor had anybody in the region. The species had been declared extinct two centuries earlier, and its existence had become a legend. But you could feel the bear’s spirit deep in the forest, when all its creatures would go silent for no apparent reason. We suspected the bear was behind some odd markings: deep scratches in the tree bark, large prints in the mud . . . But no sightings. Until that summer, until the day I saw it with my own eyes. Brown, massive, built like a boulder.”

  “A Numidian bear?” she said, her face incredulous.

  Sidi nodded in confirmation.

  “After three weeks gathering pollen on the mountain, I began to pack up my things. I was pleased with the harvest. There was plenty of honey in the hives and you could smell it in every direction. I was preparing to load my cart when I saw it hurtling at me. A real Numidian bear, handsome but ferocious, eyes shining, riled up no doubt by the smell of honey engulfing the area.”

  Her eyes were shining too.

  He continued: “My donkey took off and it took me days to find him. As for me, I immediately climbed up a tree and hung onto the first branch. I watched as the bear stood up and shook the trunk until I started to wobble. I thought to myself that I’d have liked to observe him in other circumstances, and I prayed to God that I wouldn’t fall to the ground in front of him. Luckily, the bear quickly lost interest in me. He was there for the honey.”

  He stopped for a brief instant. She really was hanging on his every word.

  “He circled the hives for a bit, and then he smashed one with his paw, sending the landing board, roof, and honeycomb frames flying. He poked his muzzle inside, oblivious to the fury he had unleashed! A swarm of bees immediately massed around his head, stinging him unrelentingly. He continued to explore his treasure as he tried to get rid of them, or put up with them, but all in vain. After a few minutes, his ears and nostrils were on fire. The stings he endured were so unbearable that he had to run away in haste, followed by the cloud of lightning bolts he had stirred up.”

  She laughed at his story and in a coyly accusatory tone, said, “You’re making fun of me. You made it all up.”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “The whole story is improbable!”

  Sidi gathered his courage. “What’s even more improbable is this lightning bolt that’s struck me two days in a row in the same spot.”

  She blushed, lowered her head, then looked up and confessed. “That’s true. Nonetheless, with all due respect to improbability, today I came on purpose.”

  His body swayed.

  But approaching voices tore them from their romantic interlude. They were calling her.

  “Asma, where are you?”

  “So your name is Asma,” he murmured.

  She turned her head, stood up quickly, and hurriedly retreated. “Get out of here, quick! They can’t see us together!”

  Suddenly the voices took shape, and three men, including the farm director, swept in. Even in a polo shirt and a Bermuda hat, and not wearing the tunic of his official portrait, Sidi recognized the prince.

  “Asma, come here, you wild gazelle!” he ordered as he approached. “You’re not supposed to leave the tent!”

  Grabbing her arm, he noticed Sidi a few feet away, frozen next to his hives.

  “Who is this man?” he shouted.

  The young woman blanched and the farm director was quick to answer, “Your Highness, this is our beekeeper.”

  “Ah, the beekeeper,” said the prince, relaxing. “Well, come closer.”

  Sidi came closer, and the director signaled him to kneel. He felt weak and obeyed. He bent one leg, his knee grazing the ground. The prince patted him on the shoulder.

  “The farm’s honey is excellent.”

  “Thank you, Your Highness.”

  “Did you prepare my tank?”

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  “May God bless you. You’re doing a great job,” he said as he pulled a wad of green bills from his pocket. He slipped Sidi a few, then turned toward the girl. “Asma, straight back.”

  The director bent over and whispered, “You were lucky! Bring the tank to the tent by the end of the day.”

  Sidi stood up and watched Asma walk away, surrounded by her guards. He looked at the green bills in his clenched hand. He felt like he was holding vipers. He had never knelt before a man, and it wasn’t money that would make up for it. He threw down the bills, which were swept away by the wind. But nothing would sweep away the memory of this woman, of this insult, and of what he would see that night.

  14

  At dusk, Sidi collected his hives and brought them to the honey house where they would spend the night, sheltered from the desert’s nocturnal chill. They were calm and silent, while he was bubbling like a cauldron. His were not a people that knelt before princes, and yet . . .

  The sun was finishing its gentle descent behind the dunes as he loaded the much-discussed tank in his utility van and headed toward the prince’s tent. Asma was under there, and he yearned to see her. A yearning that could make a man lose his mind.

  He parked at the entrance to the encampment. Seated around a fire, the prince and his companions were singing, beating dafs, and strumming rababs. When the guards saw him, they ran over to unload his cargo. But he held on to the tank and kept walking, warning them, “Careful. It’s fragile. Tell me where to put it.”

  This allowed him to move past the singing men and enter the tent bathed in dim light. Behind the servant guiding him, his feet sank into Persian rugs all the way to two large marble basins. One was filled to the brim with dollars. The other was empty.

  “Pour it in.”

  As the honey filled the empty basin, he looked around to see if he could find her. He first spotted the opened bottles, wrapped in towels and drowning in buckets of crushed ice. Despite the omnipresent scent of incense, his nose recognized the potent smell of alcohol, for all that it was banned in the kingdom. In the back, behind some thin curtains, he could make out the shadows of seated women. He recognized her voice amid different tones of laughter and the clinking of champagne glasses.

  “Hurry up!” said the annoyed guard.

  Sidi tilted the tank even more and the flow of honey thickened. Outside, the music’s rhythm accelerated and the singing became more thunderous and vigorous. What’s going on here? he wondered. Why are there massive basins of honey and dollar bills?

  The last drop fell li
ke a tear.

  “Now get out of here!”

  He left the tent, started the van, and drove toward the workers’ residence at the other end of the farm. Even today, he still asked himself why he stopped in the middle of the oasis, why he turned around. And what his life would have been like if he had followed orders.

  The night’s hand had drawn its veils across the sky. He used the darkness to circumvent the guards until he reached the back of the tent, and his pocketknife to lightly pierce it. He knew that by defying the rules, he was risking his life. But an invisible force nailed him in place, keeping his eyes wide open and glued to his makeshift peephole.

  The prince and his companions were reclining on sofas, hookahs smoking and glasses brimming with alcohol. The women were no longer sequestered, but front and center. Hiding neither their presence nor their bodies, they were dancing between the men and the basins. In reality, the tent was just a luxurious Middle Eastern nightclub.

  Asma was one of the dancers, the most talented even. The diaphanous folds of her outfit created halos above her skin and completed her erotic metamorphosis. She was a temptress now, mastering her female prerogative to perfection. She made the curves of her breasts and the small of her back undulate before the prince, moving toward him like a sensual wave, alternately enticing and rejecting him, laughing as he took advantage of her gyrations to place a hand here, his head there.

  Sidi couldn’t believe it. Deep inside, while one voice was telling him to leave, another was commanding him to stay until the end, but his confused mind lacked the discernment to know which was God’s voice and which was the devil’s. He chose to stay.

  The prince beat on the daf to silence the group.

  “My friends, it’s time for honey. The farm’s honey is thick and sticks to the skin more than the soul to the body. Let’s see what the girls rake in tonight!”