The History of Bees

by Maja Lunde

  “Swammerdam himself described them as . . . exotic sea monsters.”

  They giggled now, the ladies.

  I didn’t dare look at them. Instead I took out Swammerdam’s work and quoted the fabulous words that I personally had pondered so much over, clung to the book, hoped the audience would finally understand and recognize the true passion.

  “If the reader looks at the admirable structure of these organs, he will discover exquisite art, and he will understand that God, even in the smallest insect, even in its tiny organs, has hidden overwhelming miracles.” I ventured to look up and it was extremely clear that I’d lost, because the faces that stared back at me were at best upset, some even angry, and finally I understood, took in fully what I’d had done. I had not succeeded in any sense in telling them about the wonders of nature; I had stood here and spoken about the vilest of the vile, and on top of that had mixed God up in all of it.

  I didn’t tell the rest of the story; that poor Swammerdam never managed to do anything else after this, that his career was over, the studies of the bee chased him into a maelstrom of religious musings, because the bees’ perfection frightened him and he had to remind himself all the time that only God, and not these small creatures, was worthy of his investigations, love and attention. Confronted with the bee it was difficult to believe that something else existed out there that was more perfect, not even God. The five years he virtually lived inside a beehive destroyed him forever.

  But I realized there and then that if I told them this, I would not only be ridiculed, I would become somebody they hated, because one does not question the Almighty.

  I folded up my manuscript, while the blush rose in my face and I stumbled like a little boy as I stepped off the podium. Rahm, whom I wanted to impress more than anybody else, was clearly struggling to contain his laughter, because his face was frozen in a strange smile. He reminded me of my father, my real father.

  I shook hands with several of those who’d attended after the lecture was over. Many of them didn’t know what to say and I noticed how people were whispering around me, some snickering in disbelief, others reacting in anger and shock. The blush spread from my face, slid down my spine, planted itself in my shins and found expression in an uncontrollable trembling, which I vainly sought to hide from my surroundings. Rahm must have seen it, because he rested a hand on my shoulder and said softly: “You must understand that they are imprisoned by trivialities. They will never become like us.”

  The consolation didn’t help, it just emphasized the difference between him and me; he would never have chosen examples that offended his listeners. He understood what they could stand, held sway over the balance between us and them, understood that the world of science and the world of human beings were two different places. As if to stress what he’d said and my obvious lack of understanding of my audience, he suddenly laughed. It was the first time I heard his laughter, it was short and low, but it startled me all the same. I turned away, was unable to look at him, his laughter weighed too heavily upon me, it took all the importance away from his consolation, stung so intensely that I had to turn away and take a step away from him. And there she was.

  Perhaps it was weakness, the poorly concealed vulnerability in me on this day; I was no longer simply the mysterious visitor who worked with something grand and incomprehensible out there with the professor, and this enabled Thilda to become forward. Because she didn’t laugh. She proffered a gloved hand, curtsied and thanked me for the “ahem . . . marvelous” lecture. In the background her female companions were still giggling. But the sound faded away, they faded away, and I didn’t notice Rahm, either, just the hand. I held it in my own for a long time, felt the warmth of her skin emanate through the glove, how my strength came back through this hand. She didn’t mock me, she didn’t laugh at me, and I was so infinitely grateful to her. Her eyes sparkled above the beautiful nose; they were wide-set, so open to the world and life, but first and foremost, to me. Imagine, to me! Never before had a young woman looked at me like that, it was a gaze that allowed me to understand that she was willing to surrender herself completely, to give me everything, and just me, because she didn’t look at any of the others around us in the same way. This thought caused my knees to start wobbling again and I finally looked down. It was like cutting a cord; it was physically painful and I wanted nothing more than to resume this eye contact and forget about the world around me.

  It took months for people in the village to stop talking about my performance. While I had previously been met exclusively with respect and deference, there were now several people who grasped my hand harder, pounded me on the back, the men in particular, and spoke to me with a half smile and poorly disguised sarcasm. And the words expand to their full potential, Nature’s Bible and exotic sea monsters pursued me for years. Nobody ever forgot Swammerdam, either, and his name was later used in many and extremely diverse contexts. When the horses mated on the meadow, it was described as “Swammerdam-like activity.” Drunk men who had to relieve themselves at the tavern in the evening said that they were going out to “air the Swammerdam,” and the local bakery’s signature dish, an oblong meat-filled pie, was suddenly only called “Swammer pie.”

  It bothered me astonishingly little. In a way my decline in status was worth it. At least that’s what I thought when a few months later Mathilda Tucker and I were wed. I had long since had the opportunity to notice her narrow, typically British lips, by the time we walked down the aisle of the church. I had ventured to steal a kiss during the proposal and discovered to my dismay that they did not have the ability to open up like a large, secret, sticky flower, or perhaps a Swammerdam sea monster, as I had fantasized about in the late-night hours. They were just as dry and stiff as they appeared. And the nose was, truth to be told, a smidgen too big. But nonetheless, my cheeks were flushed when our marriage was blessed by the priest. I was, after all, getting married, and truly becoming part of adult life, without understanding then that adulthood contained features that made most of my dreams impossible, that forced me away from the world of science. Because Rahm was right—although I continued with some half-hearted research projects, I had opted out, abandoning my passion for the discipline.

  But I was so certain, so completely convinced that Thilda was the one for me. Her sedateness fascinated me enormously, she always thought carefully before she answered a question. Her pride as well; I was filled with admiration for how she truly stood behind what she believed, a quality one seldom found in young women. It was only later, though not much later, only a few months into our marriage, that I understood she actually considered each answer for so long because she was not especially bright and I recognized the pride for what it actually was: an indomitable stubbornness. She never gave in, as it would turn out. Never.

  But the most important reason of all for why I wanted to marry her was one I wouldn’t even admit to myself, but which I only now, in my sickbed, could bear to take in, a recognition that was about my still being just as primitive and greedy as a ten-year-old child: the fact that she was a living, soft body. That she was mine, that she would be accessible to me. That very soon I would have the chance to squeeze up against this body, lay it down beneath me, pound my body against it, as if it were raw, moist earth.

  Unfortunately, that part didn’t turn out as I had imagined, either, but was instead a dry and hurried affair with far too many buttons and ribbons, corset wires, prickly wool stockings and a sour smell of armpits. I was nonetheless drawn to her with the instinct of an animal, a drone. Again and again, ripe for procreation, even though the last thing I wanted were descendants. Like the drone, I sacrificed my life for procreation.

  TAO

  They’re doing what they can. They’ve said they are doing what they can.” Kuan filled a teapot a nurse had just given us with tea leaves. With calm hands he poured tea into a cup. As if we were at home, as if it were an ordinary day.

  A day. Another evening. Had I eaten? I didn’t know. T
hey brought in food and drink for us on a regular basis. Yes, I had managed to get something down, a few spoonfuls of rice, a little water, to stop the gnawing of my stomach. The leftovers had hardened into a cold, rubbery lump in the aluminum bowl. But I hadn’t slept. Hadn’t showered. I was wearing the same clothes as yesterday, before everything happened. I had dressed up, put on the nicest outfit I owned, a yellow blouse and a skirt that went down to my knees. Now I hated the feeling of the synthetic fabric against my body, the blouse was too tight under the arms and the sleeves were too short, so I went around constantly stretching them.

  “But why don’t they tell us anything?”

  I was standing. I never sat down. Stood and walked, running a marathon in captivity. My hands were sticky, with a constant cold sweat. My clothes stuck to me. There was an odor around me, a scent I had never smelled before.

  “They know more about this than we do. We just have to trust them.”

  Kuan took a sip of tea. It filled me with rage. The way he drank, the steam from the cup, how it floated up under his nose, the faint slurping sound. It was something he had done thousands of times before. He couldn’t be doing it now.

  He could scream, shout, scold, blame me. That he just sat there like that, with the cup between his hands, warming himself on it, his completely calm hands.

  “Tao?” He put the cup down suddenly, as if he understood what I was thinking. “Please.”

  “What do you want me to say?” I stared hard at him. “Drinking tea doesn’t help, that’s for sure!”

  “What?”

  “It was an example.”

  “I understood that.” His eyes were shiny now.

  It’s our child, I wanted to scream. Wei-Wen! But I just turned away, couldn’t bring myself to look at him. The sound of the teapot being lifted and hot tea being poured. He stood up and came towards me.

  I turned around. There he was, holding a steaming cup of tea out to me, in a steady hand.

  “Maybe it will help,” he said softly. “You need to get something down.”

  A cup of tea was supposed to help matters . . . drinking a cup of tea. Was that his plan? Do nothing, just sit here. So passive, without any will for change, for control, to do something.

  Once again I turned my face away. I couldn’t say all of this. He had too much on me.

  The weight between us was not equally balanced. But nonetheless, he didn’t blame me, didn’t put the responsibility on me. He just stood there, holding out the teacup, his arm sticking straight out from his body, almost unnaturally rigid. He drew a breath, was perhaps about to say something else.

  At that moment the door opened. Dr. Hio came in. Her facial expression was impossible to read. Regret? Dismissal?

  She didn’t say hello, merely nodded to us in the direction of the hallway. “Please accompany me to my office.”

  I followed her right away. Kuan stood there with the cup in his hand, as if he didn’t know what to do with it.

  Then he finally collected himself, quickly put it down on the table; a little tea splashed over the rim. He noticed it and hesitated.

  Was he going to waste time wiping it up? No. He straightened up quickly and followed after us.

  She went first, Kuan and I did not look at each other, the huge thing would have to remain unsaid. We just kept our eyes on her. Her back was erect in the white coat. She moved quickly and lightly. Her hair was put up in a ponytail and it swung like a young girl’s.

  She opened a door and we entered a gray room. A room without personality. No pictures of children adorned the walls, just a telephone on the desk.

  “Have a seat, please.”

  She indicated two chairs and rolled her own to the other side of the desk, so it didn’t separate us. Perhaps that was something they had learned during their studies, that the desk gave them authority and when they were going to speak about serious matters, it was best to come across as much like a fellow human being as possible. She was going to say something serious. Suddenly I wished that she were seated elsewhere, not so close. I leaned back, away from her.

  “Can we see him?” I asked quickly. Suddenly I didn’t dare ask the other questions. How is it going, what’s happening to him, what has happened to our son?

  She looked at me. “I’m afraid you can’t see him yet . . . and I have unfortunately been relieved of responsibility for your son.”

  “Relieved of responsibility? But why?”

  “We have worked with a number of hypotheses in connection with the diagnosis. But it is still unclear.” Her gaze wavered. “Anyway, the case is so complicated that it lies outside of my field.”

  I felt a weak sense of relief. The worst words were not used. She didn’t say departed, dead, passed away. She said it was complicated, that they had hypotheses. That meant that they hadn’t given up on him.

  “OK. Fine. Who has taken over?”

  “A team was flown in from Beijing yesterday evening. I will give you their names as soon as I receive word myself.”

  “Beijing?!”

  “They are the best.”

  “And in the meantime?”

  “I’ve been asked to tell you that you must wait. That you can go home.”

  “What? No!”

  I turned towards Kuan. Wasn’t he going to say something?

  Dr. Hio fidgeted in her chair. “He’s in the best hands.”

  “We will not leave here. This is our child.”

  “I’ve been asked to say that it will take time before they know any more. And there’s nothing you can do here now. Wei-Wen’s case was very special.”

  I stiffened. Was.

  The words could scarcely be heard when I finally opened my mouth.

  “What are you trying to say?”

  I turned to Kuan again for help, but he sat without moving. His hands lay motionless in his lap. He was not going to ask any questions. I turned to face her again.

  The words came from deep inside me: “Is he alive? Is Wei-Wen alive?” She leaned forward slightly, ducked her neck and lifted her head towards us, like a turtle peeking out of its shell. Her eyes were round, pleading, as if she were begging us not to pester her anymore and she showed no signs of answering.

  “Is he alive?”

  She hesitated. “The last time I saw him, he was being kept alive through artificial means.”

  Beside me Kuan gasped. I saw that his cheeks were wet, but it didn’t concern me.

  “What does that mean? That he’s still alive, that means that he’s still alive?”

  She nodded slowly.

  Alive. I held on to the word. Alive. He was alive.

  “But not without help,” she said in a low voice.

  It wasn’t important. I forced myself to think that it wasn’t important. The most important thing was that he was alive.

  “I want to see him,” I said loudly. “I am not leaving until I’ve seen him.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

  “He’s my son.”

  “As I told you, I’m no longer responsible for him.”

  “But you know where he is.”

  “I’m truly sorry.”

  I got to my feet abruptly. Kuan raised his head, looked at me in astonishment. My eyes did not meet his. I turned to face the doctor.

  “Show me where he is.”

  GEORGE

  I sent Rick and Jimmy home around five o’clock. Just one-third of the hives were left. I could manage the rest by myself. Couldn’t afford to pay them for hours that weren’t necessary.

  Around sunset I’d almost finished. At about the same time, the field was attacked by some extremely tenacious flies. Where they went during the daytime, I had no idea. But at dusk they appeared, huge clouds of them, impossible to get rid of. It seemed as if they liked people, because they were all over me, following my every step.

  There was nothing to do but go home. I was on my way to the car when Tom called. I hadn’t saved his number, honestly didn’t know how, but
I recognized it.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “Hi.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Why do you ask?” I said and chuckled.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Used to be people started conversations with how are you. Now, since cell phones, people ask where you are,” I tried to explain.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m out in the fields. Doing quality control.”

  “Oh. Does it look good?”

  “Terrific.”

  “Good. Good to hear. That makes me happy.”

  That makes me happy? The words sounded awkward in his mouth. Was that how he’d started talking?

  “What do you think that means, by the way?” I asked.

  “Means?”

  “About society? That we ask each other where we are, instead of how it’s going?”

  “Dad.”

  “I’m kidding, Tom.” I tried to laugh. As usual, he didn’t laugh back. We were silent for a couple of seconds. I laughed louder, hoping it would help, but just when I was standing there with my mouth open like the church doors on Sunday, a fly flew right into my trap, all the way in. I could swear that it hit my uvula. It tickled something fierce. I didn’t know what I should do, whether I should try to cough it up or swallow, so I tried doing both at the same time. It didn’t work.

  “Dad,” Tom said suddenly. “You know that thing we talked about the last time I was home?”

  The fly wriggled and tickled in the back of my throat.

  “Are you there?”

  I coughed again. “Yes, last time I checked.”

  He was silent for a moment.

  “I got a scholarship.”