The History of Bees

by Maja Lunde

I could hear him inhale. The line between us crackled, as if the phone signals were objecting to the entire conversation.

  “It won’t cost you a cent, Dad. John has taken care of everything.”

  “John?” My voice was husky, the fly was good and stuck in my throat.

  “Yes. Professor Smith.”

  I cleared my throat, coughed violently, but neither the fly nor words came out.

  “Are you crying, Dad?”

  “I’m sure as hell not crying!”

  I coughed again. Finally the fly came loose, sliding across my tongue, but it was still in my mouth.

  “No,” he said.

  Another silence.

  “I just wanted to tell you.”

  “Now you’ve told me.”

  I couldn’t spit now. He would hear it.

  “Yes.”

  “Yes.”

  “So long, then.”

  “So long.”

  One solid spit gob and the fly vanished, didn’t see where, I wasn’t very interested in studying it anymore, either. I stood there with the telephone in my hand. Had a strong hankering to chuck it right down onto the ground, see the cheap, trashy electronics that made it possible to receive such bad news even way out here in the fields shatter in all directions. But I knew that getting a new one would be one hell of a headache. And it would cost money. Besides, it wasn’t for sure that the cell phone would even be damaged; the grass was already tall, as soft as a quilt. So I just stood there, with my hand clutching the phone and a pitchfork in my heart.

  WILLIAM

  I was on my way out of the blindness, was eating well and had slowly but surely started to exercise. I bathed every day, asked for freshly laundered clothes often and shaved frequently, up to twice a day. After all of these months spent like a bearded chimpanzee I had come to like the smoothness of my face, feeling the air directly against my skin.

  And I read until my eyes smarted. I could stand more all the time, increasingly more words a day, spent entire days at my desk, surrounded by all of my books, opened on the table, on the bed, on the floor.

  I reread Swammerdam; his research remained solid. I studied Huber’s hive in detail, his practical framework, and also ordered what I came across in the way of pamphlets and journals on the practice of beekeeping. There were many of them, it turned out. For the upper class beekeeping had become a leisurely pastime in recent years, something with which one filled the long hours between lunch and tea. But most of these small manuals were naturally written for the common man, in a simple language, with simple line drawings. For someone like me it didn’t take long to get through them. Some described experiments with hives made of wood, some even held that they had discovered what would have to be the new standard, but none of them had so far managed to come up with a hive that truly gave the keeper complete access and oversight. Not like the hive I knew I would create.

  Dorothea visited me daily now. She showed up with apple-red cheeks and small dishes she had prepared herself. It had to be Thilda who asked her to do so, in the hopes that I would eat more when I knew that my child had prepared the meal with her own hands. An assumption I had to acknowledge she was right about. The food tasted surprisingly good and Dorothea was clearly in the process of evolving into a proper housewife. Georgiana also came now and then. Like a wave she washed in across the room with her penetrating little-girl voice and wiped out everything I was pondering over, until she was suddenly gone again. Charlotte was the least bothersome, stuck her sharp nose in the door and usually asked if she might borrow a book, one I didn’t need myself at the moment. She picked out new books all the time; soon she would certainly have finished everything I had, so quickly did she read.

  But Edmund never came. In the afternoons I could hear his voice from below sometimes, or from the garden, or even from the hallway outside my room, but he never gave me the pleasure of his presence.

  Finally I went in to see him. It was early evening. Peace and quiet had been restored in the house following afternoon tea. It would soon be shattered by noise when the evening meal was served, but for now all was silent.

  I knocked gently on his door. Nobody answered. I lifted my hand towards the latch, but hesitated, wanting to give him time. Instead I put my hand against my face, stroking the smoothly shaved cheek. I had prepared myself before I went in, changed into clean trousers, washed. I so fervently wished that he would see this version of me, and forget the one he had met last.

  He still didn’t come to the door and I tried knocking again.

  No answer.

  Could I walk in all the same? It was his room, his private one. But still, I was his father, and the house, and thus also his room, were mine.

  Yes, I could. It was my right.

  I carefully pushed the latch down. The door slid open, remained ajar, inviting. The room was in semidarkness, the only light came from the sunset-washed landscape outside. But the room faced east and the rays of the evening sun did not reach here.

  I walked in and discovered a key on the inside of the door. Did he usually lock the door? The air was stuffy, with a scent of musk, and something else a bit rank that I was unable to define. Clothes lay carelessly scattered everywhere, a jacket over the chair, a pair of trousers and a shirt on the bed. Above the mirror was a scarf, the same bottle-green scarf he’d been wearing when he’d paid me his visit. On his night table there were dirty cups and dishes and there was a pair of unpolished shoes thrown onto the middle of the floor.

  I just stood there. An uneasiness came over me. There was something wrong with this room. Something or other that wasn’t right.

  Was it the disorder?

  No. He was young. He was a man. Of course his room was like this. I should get one of the younger girls to help him keep it tidy.

  It wasn’t the mess, but something else.

  I looked around. Clothes, plates, shoes, a mug.

  Something was missing.

  Suddenly I knew what it was.

  His desk. It was empty. The shelf by the wall. Empty.

  Where were all of his books? Where were his writing materials? Everything he needed to prepare for his studies.

  “Father?”

  I spun around. Again he had appeared without my having heard him.

  “Edmund.” I hedged. Should I get out? No. Because I had every right to be here. Every right.

  “I forgot something.” He was breathing hard and his cheeks were rosy, he had clearly been outdoors. He was handsomely but somewhat haphazardly dressed today, too, with a red velvet vest, open coat and a kerchief draped around his neck. He held a purse in his hand and walked quickly towards the sideboard up against the short wall by the bed. There was a small chest on it, which he opened and began rummaging around in. The sound of coins jingling could be heard. He opened his purse and dropped few coins into it. Then he finally turned towards me.

  “Did you want something?”

  He was not indignant about my having let myself into his room. It was apparently of no importance whatsoever.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  He nodded into space, towards nothing. “Out.”

  “Where is this ‘out’?”

  “Father.” He smiled, a little resigned, it seemed. I couldn’t remember the last time I had seen him smile and of course he owed me no explanation.

  “You must forgive me.” I smiled back. “I forget that you’re no longer a child.”

  He walked towards the door again. I took a step forward. Was he leaving already? Couldn’t he wait a little, so he had the chance to see me, look at me properly, notice how healthy I was, how well groomed, so different from the person I’d been the last time we’d spoken?

  He hesitated and stopped. We stood on either side of the door, a darkness opened between us. Two steps and he would be gone.

  “Can I ask you about something?” he said.

  “Of course. You can ask about anything you might be mulling over.”

  I smiled agreeab
ly. Now the good conversation would soon be under way; this could be the beginning for us, of something completely new.

  He drew a breath. “Do you have any money?”

  I started. “Money?”

  He waved his purse and made a face. “Almost empty.”

  “I . . . No. I’m sorry.”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll have to ask Mother.”

  Then he disappeared out the door.

  I went into my own room, feeling oddly dejected. Was I merely a provider in his eyes? Was money all he wanted from me?

  I sat down by the desk. No, it couldn’t be so. But money—for him perhaps it represented everything we lacked. The poverty the family had lived in during recent months, it was completely understandable that it had an impact on him. For him the lack of money was the clearest indication that his father was ill. That I had gotten out of bed again was all well and good, but I still didn’t manage to procure for him what he really needed. He was young. Of course this simple, precarious need was the most essential for him. But he had to give me time. Because my idea would potentially give him both what he knew he needed immediately and what in the long term he would understand was most important.

  I dipped my pen in the inkwell and drew it across the paper. I had never been much of an illustrator, regrettably; as a zoologist, observational drawings are an important part of the work. But over the years I had nonetheless forced myself to work on my technique and now I could at least use the pen as a tool.

  I had some vague thoughts that I had to get down before they disappeared. I envisioned a box of wood, with a sloping roof. The basket hives were organic in design, like a nest; they almost blended in with the waving hay in the meadows. I wanted to create something else, a construction based on civilization, a small house for the bees, with doors, openings, the possibility for inspection. It should be man-made, because only humans could construct proper buildings, a building it was possible to monitor, which gave humans, not nature, control.

  I drew for several days, scale drawings of the different parts, envisioned how the hive could be put into production, and put all of my energy into the details. The family lived its own life in the house out there, I scarcely paid them any heed, but nonetheless I received daily visits from Georgiana and Thilda. And Charlotte.

  One morning she came especially early. Knocked lightly on the door, as was her custom.

  At first I didn’t answer, I was too busy with the details on the roof of the hive.

  Another knock.

  “Yes,” I sighed. The door opened. She stood there with one foot in front of the other, as if she were summoning her strength.

  “Good morning, Father.”

  “Good morning.”

  “Can I come in?” The voice was calm, but her gaze wavered uncertainly towards the floor.

  “I’m working.”

  “I won’t disturb you. I just want to give this back to you.”

  She held out a book. Held it in both hands, as if it were something valuable. She took a couple of steps across the floor, lifted her head and looked at me.

  “I was hoping perhaps we could talk about it a little?”

  Her eyes were gray-green, a little close-set. Not like Thilda’s. On the whole she bore very little resemblance to her mother.

  “Put it there.”

  I nodded in the direction of the bookshelf. A telling gaze, one I hoped would be enough so I’d be spared rejecting her outright.

  “Yes.” She lowered her head again and went over to the shelf and stood there.

  I thought better of it. I was indeed busy, but there was no cause to be sharp all the same. “I’m in the middle of something, but would be happy to speak with you later,” I said in what I hoped was a gentle voice.

  She didn’t answer, just looked at the book that she still held in her hands. “Where does it go?”

  “On the shelf, of course.”

  “Yes, but I mean, don’t you have a system for them?”

  “No. Just put it there.”

  She looked up, eager now.

  “Maybe I can organize them for you?”

  “What?”

  “The books. I can organize them alphabetically by author, if you like.”

  She was apparently not giving up.

  “Well, yes, why not.”

  She smiled slightly, bent down towards the shelf and sat down on the floor. Her neck was a nicely curved line, with her hair put up simply, no corkscrew curls over the ears. She didn’t seem to care about that kind of thing. She squirmed, changed her position, clearly found a comfortable position that she could maintain for a while. She was apparently going to be here for some time.

  Then she started to work. She worked quickly, her movements were precise. And the care with which she handled the books, as if they were baby sparrows she was helping back into the nest.

  I bent over the drawing again, tried to continue, but was unable to refrain from watching her. The enthusiasm in her movements, the meticulousness, concentration, awe, every single book was lined up exactly with the next. She ran her finger along the spines to make sure that not a single one stuck out from the row. That is how I had handled them myself once upon a time. She must have noticed my gaze because suddenly she turned around and smiled. I smiled back fleetingly and quickly returned my attention to my work again, with an incomprehensible feeling of having been found out.

  Soon she was finished. I could hear that she got to her feet, but pretended that it had no effect on me, as if I was far too immersed in my own work. But she didn’t leave the room, just remained standing there.

  I looked up. “Thank you.”

  She nodded in response. But wasn’t she going to leave? It was impossible to work with this shadow of flesh and blood that stood there breathing.

  “You’re welcome to sit down,” I said, finally, and pulled out a chair. I owed her that much.

  “Thank you.” She hastened to perch on the edge of the chair seat.

  Again I resumed working.

  “What’s that?” she asked and pointed at the drawing.

  I looked up. “What do you think?”

  “A beehive,” she replied quickly.

  I looked at her in surprise. Then I realized that she’d of course seen all of the pamphlets I’d had sent.

  “Are you going to build it?” she asked.

  “I’m going to have it built.”

  “But . . . is that the first thing you’re going to do?”

  “The first? Don’t you see all of the books I’ve already read?” I waved around me.

  “Yes,” was all she said. Then she stared down at her hands, which lay primly folded in her lap.

  The irritation rose inside me. “Didn’t you say that you would be quiet?”

  “Forgive me. I’m quiet now.”

  “I can hear the wheels grinding in your brain.”

  “It’s just that . . .”

  “What?”

  “You’ve always said that one must start with the fundamentals.”

  “Now then, have I said that?”

  Yes indeed, so I had. Many times. Not to Charlotte directly, but to Edmund, when he was sitting with his schoolwork and wanted to start straightaway with the most difficult calculations, even though he still didn’t master simple multiplication.

  She lifted her gaze.

  “And you’ve spoken so much about how zoology always starts with observations.”

  “Is that right.”

  “You’ve always said that the foundation lies in the observations. And after the observations comes the reasoning.”

  A band formed around my forehead and tightened. My own words in Charlotte’s mouth. I’ll be damned if she wasn’t right.

  TAO

  Dr. Hio took us with her. One lift going up, then a long corridor. Then a lift down. She walked quickly, glanced every now and then over her shoulder; perhaps she didn’t want to be seen. She had received clear instructions, she said, nobody was to vi
sit him. He was in the isolation ward. Nobody was allowed to enter.

  “But,” she continued, mostly to herself, “you are the mother.” She glanced quickly at Kuan, as if discovering him for the first time and corrected herself. “You are the parents. You must be permitted to see him.” Her voice trembled as she said this, the businesslike empathy was gone.

  What awaited us? Wei-Wen in a sickbed. Pale. His eyes closed. The blood vessels on his eyelids, more visible than usual. The little body, previously so full of stubbornness and energy, now completely lifeless. His arms at his sides, a cannula with a plastic tube in one. The arms that wrapped themselves around my neck, the cheek, damp and smooth, that was pressed against my own: surrounded by machines, bleeping apparatuses, shimmering screens. Sterile. White. Alone?

  It was a long walk. Or had she taken a detour? Every time we passed somebody, she nodded curtly and sped up her pace a bit more. We were swallowed up inside the building. As if we were on our way to a place with no exit.

  Finally she stopped. We stood in front of a steel door. She looked quickly around her, as if to ensure that there was nobody nearby, before she pressed a button. The door opened with a suction sound. The door was framed by black rubber molding, making it completely airtight. We stepped over the threshold. A louder hissing could be heard here, an air-conditioning system in high gear. The air pressure changed. The door slid shut behind us, the suction pulling it into the frame.

  I had been expecting health care personnel. Sterile staff members, dressed in white, who flocked around us. Stern voices, authorities, you have to go, you have to get out, this zone is off-limits. I had prepared the words I would say. Prepared myself to be tough with Kuan. I could see from his eyes that he had already pulled out, he was on the defensive, didn’t want to be here, in forbidden territory.

  But the corridor in front of us was deserted. The ward was deserted. We walked in, turned a corner. I expected a counter, a reception, doctors hurrying past. But there wasn’t a soul to be seen here, either. Dr. Hio led the way. I didn’t see her face, but her steps were hesitant; she walked more and more slowly.

  She stopped in front of a door. This one was also made of shiny steel, no fingerprints, no signs of life, as shiny as a mirror. A round window in the middle, a porthole, like on an old ship. I tried peeking in, but the ceiling lights shone too sharply, the greenish reflection made it impossible to see anything at all.