The Enlightenment of Bees

by Rachel Linden

  “I had an amazing time today,” I yell over the high whine of the rickshaw. “Thank you.”

  As a testament to how acclimated I am becoming to India, I don’t flinch as we narrowly avoid hitting two men in dress shirts sandwiched together on a motorcycle. The warm evening air blows around us, tossing my curls this way and that.

  “Me too,” Kai yells back. “Thanks for coming with me.”

  For a moment our eyes meet and something flickers in his . . . Interest, awareness, attraction? Whatever it is, I feel it cross the line between friend and something else entirely. It’s a heady sensation. I think of his confession, his reluctance to trust. For the right girl, I’d risk it . . . What did he mean by that? Was it just a statement of fact? Or something more?

  He reaches out and brushes a curl from my cheek, tucking it behind my ear. His fingers linger for a moment against my cheekbone. The gesture is strangely intimate, caring. I drop my eyes, suddenly self-conscious, unsure where to look. My attraction to Kai should be simple. He’s so good, so easy to like, so true. But the soft places of my heart are still too tender and bruised. I am not ready to love another man, no matter how perfect he seems.

  I glance back up, and he is still looking at me, his face half in shadow in the interior of the rickshaw. I want to say something, to acknowledge that I feel what is between us, but that it’s complicated. I don’t know what to say, however, and the moment passes, swallowed in the soft, muggy Mumbai night.

  Chapter 26

  “Mia! My dear girl.” Nana Alice picks up my call on the fifth ring. She sounds surprised and delighted. In the calm before breakfast, the rooftop terrace is empty. I lean against the wall and press the phone to my ear. Nana Alice has been constantly on my mind, and we’ve been texting back and forth, but with jet lag and the twelve-hour time difference, this is the first opportunity I’ve had to call her at a decent hour. By my calculation, it is early evening in Seattle.

  “How’s India?” she asks.

  What can I say? India is . . . a puzzle, by turns intimidating and disappointing but also enthralling. I don’t know how to put it into words. And Kai. It’s only been about ten hours since our rickshaw ride last night, and my emotions are still running high.

  I look around in the early morning gray, at the uneven concrete floor of the terrace, the plastic lawn chairs, the few straggling tropical plants in pots.

  “India is . . . complicated. It’s great,” I hasten to add, because I want her to imagine the trip she wants me to have, not the trip I’m actually having. I lean over the railing of the balcony and watch a man pushing a cart laden with brooms down the alley. I hear smooth classical music in the background over the phone and the low murmur of voices.

  “Where are you?”

  “Albert’s nephew arranged for us to have a three-course dinner at the restaurant in the Space Needle,” she says loudly into the phone. “It revolves. The view is top-notch.”

  “Wow, the Space Needle, huh?” I’m surprised that she and Albert are dining in the upscale revolving restaurant atop the famed Seattle landmark. It’s both touristy and expensive.

  “The wild salmon is a little dry, but the local Riesling is delicious,” Nana Alice confides. She sounds ever so slightly tipsy, but perhaps she’s just ebullient because of the special occasion. Or because of Albert. I hear him in the background telling her, “Alice, my dear, this nice waitress wants to know our choice for the dessert course.”

  He called her my dear. No way they’re just old friends.

  “I should go,” Nana Alice says buoyantly. “I think I’ll have the crème brûlée.” I’m not sure if that last statement is directed at Albert or me. “Albert says, ‘Safe travels.’ We’ve been following your trip on the Instagram.”

  “So I heard.” I’m amused picturing the two of them surfing the web.

  “We saw a picture of you and Rosie in a little yellow buggy. You looked scared to death. And some photos of you making pancakes. That’s my girl.”

  I shake my head, amazed by the speed and connectedness of technology.

  “I’ll let you go now,” Nana Alice chirps into the phone. “Our dessert just arrived.”

  “Wait,” I almost shout. “How is your treatment going? Any news?” I feel so helpless, so far away. I need to know that she is being taken care of, that she will be okay.

  “It’s going very well,” Nana Alice assures me. “I’m feeling better every day.”

  “What does your doctor say?” I ask, but the connection falters.

  “Oh dear, I can’t hear you,” Nana Alice says, the sound of her voice suddenly intermittent and far away. Then there’s a click and she’s gone.

  I sit for a moment, picturing them dressed to the nines, Nana Alice in an A-line dress with a sweetheart neckline, Albert in a bow tie. The two of them sitting at a table as the entire room slowly spins above the glow of Seattle, Nana Alice and Albert sparkling as bright as any city lights below. I’m glad one love story seems to be going well.

  * * *

  “Lars wants to talk to all of us this morning,” Rosie announces, reading a text on her phone as we get ready to go down to breakfast. It’s just a few minutes after my call with Nana Alice, and I am distracted, still thinking about her and Albert at their romantic dinner atop the Space Needle.

  “Lars is texting you?” I mumble, a toothbrush in my mouth. I reach for the bottled water to rinse. The water in Mumbai isn’t safe even for brushing our teeth.

  “Yes, I gave him my number when we were in Florida, and he’s been checking in now and then.” Rosie is still staring at the text, her expression avid.

  “Really?” This is new information. “What does he want to talk to us about?”

  “I’ve no idea.” Rosie shrugs and texts Lars back to let him know that we’ll await his call. Before we go to breakfast she pauses to apply some lipstick and smooth her hair. I pause for a moment and do the same, applying a pea-sized amount of hair balm to my wild mane and flicking on a coat of mascara, since Jake will be coming with us today and presumably filming.

  Down in the restaurant we eat our breakfast quickly, keeping an eye on Milo’s iPad propped on the edge of the table. We are about to head to another slum. The thought of doing another program seems pointless now that I see what a waste of time and money this trip is.

  Just as I swallow the last of my chai, Lars calls. Only one other table in the café is occupied, two older Indian men sipping chai and talking in low tones. When they hear the call come in, they turn and stare at us wordlessly.

  “Hello, Team Caritas?” On the iPad Lars leans forward and peers into the camera so that we get a wide-angle view of just his forehead.

  “Hey, Lars, we’re here,” Milo says, chewing the last bite of Parsi akuri, Mumbai’s flavorful version of scrambled eggs.

  Bryant and Stella are sitting to Lars’ left. They appear to be in the formal parlor of the Lindquist mansion. I recognize the white baby grand piano and palm trees out the french doors behind them.

  “How’s India? Hotter than blazes?” Bryant asks cheerfully. He’s holding a glass of some fruity-looking beverage complete with bobbing maraschino cherries.

  “We don’t want to delay your work,” Lars says, moving back so we can see his whole face and torso. He’s wearing a pale blue polo shirt and a pink cashmere sweater draped across his shoulders; he looks like he’s in a yacht commercial. I glance at Rosie, who is leaning toward the iPad in glad anticipation, eyes bright.

  “I’m calling because an opportunity has presented itself,” Lars says, choosing his words carefully. “I know that you are scheduled to leave for Thailand next week, but I am calling to ask you to consider a change of plans.”

  “Big change of plans,” Bryant echoes, sipping his fruity drink. I exchange a curious glance with Kai across the table.

  “Have you been following the breaking news in Europe?” Stella asks, chiming in for the first time. I shake my head. I’ve been too preoccupied to focus on anythin
g outside of Mumbai.

  “The refugee crisis?” Abel says, his face grave.

  “I read about it on the BBC news site, yeah,” Winnie pipes up suddenly.

  I stare at her in surprise. I assume Abel knows about global current events from his Amnesty contacts, but I had no idea Winnie followed international news.

  “That’s right,” Bryant says, nodding enthusiastically. “Big problem right now, thousands of people coming from conflict zones—Syria, Iraq, Afghanistan, driven out by Islamic State militants. And they’re all coming to Europe, most in rubber boats from Turkey to Greece. Lots of children. Lots of drownings.” He shakes his head, sobering. “Terrible stuff.”

  Taken aback, I glance around the table at Rosie, Milo, and Kai, who look as stunned as I feel. I had no idea this was happening.

  “How awful!” Rosie says.

  Lars nods. “These refugees are coming across the borders into Europe, thousands a day, seeking asylum.” He pauses. “Right now there is a shortage of volunteers to help the refugees once they reach Europe. Many are arriving with nothing more than the clothes on their backs. They need everything—food, clothing, transportation, information, medical care—and they need it urgently.”

  “That’s where you come in,” Stella interjects. “We want to send you to Europe, to one of the border zones, to help the refugees.”

  Rosie and I exchange a surprised look. Go to Europe?

  “Dude, but what about Thailand and Mexico?” Milo asks.

  “If you are willing we will divert Team Caritas and its resources to Europe for the remainder of the trip,” Lars explains. “This situation is very dire. Europe is facing a humanitarian crisis unprecedented since World War II. I feel very strongly that we should assist these people in whatever way we can.”

  “Why choose our team and not one of the others?” Winnie interrupts, crossing her arms with a hard stare.

  A brief look of discomfort flashes across Lars’ face, and Stella leans in, replying with a firm smile. “Teams Veritas and Fortis are having some . . . interpersonal conflict that would make them unsuitable choices to send at this time,” she says crisply. “And Fidelis has been exposed to measles and is currently in quarantine. So your team is the only viable option.”

  Lars nods. “It’s all very unfortunate and unforeseen.” He frowns. “You don’t have to decide immediately. Discuss it among yourselves. We will not force you to go, of course; this is not the trip you agreed to participate in. But I ask you to consider it very carefully.” He looks at us soberly. “These people are in desperate need. We can help. Please let us know your decision as soon as possible.”

  After he hangs up, we are silent for a moment.

  “Goodness.” Rosie clasps her hands on the table and looks around at the group, assuming the role of moderator. “Well, we all heard Lars’ request. What do we do?”

  Kai is looking at something on his phone. He turns the screen toward us, scrolling through a series of photos—clusters of people crammed into small, inflatable rafts. Children without life vests held by mothers in head scarves. Exhaustion, fear, and worry etched into the lines of the women’s faces. One man with a thick mustache like a bottle brush is crying as he lifts a young boy out of a raft onto land.

  “He’s crying because they didn’t capsize,” Kai says quietly, pointing to the caption on the bottom of the photo. “Because he and his family made it to Europe alive.”

  We are all quiet, looking at the photo. These are obviously desperate people in great need.

  “Lars has asked for an answer as soon as possible. I think we should take a vote,” Rosie says. “Go to Europe or continue on our normal route? Kai?”

  “Europe,” Kai says instantly. “I vote we go where we can help the most.”

  Rosie nods and ticks off his vote on her fingers. “One for Europe. Mia, what about you? Europe or our scheduled itinerary?”

  I hesitate. On the one hand I’m disappointed to not be going to Thailand and Mexico, both countries I was looking forward to seeing. I think of riding elephants through lush jungles, slurping down plates of authentic pad thai, visiting Buddhist temples with spires of gold. But on the other hand, we can actually help people in crisis. The thought makes my pulse quicken. No more making pancakes for schoolchildren.

  I think of the photo Kai just showed us, the desperate look of the man holding his son, the tears streaming into the deeply etched grooves of his face. Thousands of refugees a day, Stella said. Thousands of people who need our help. Perhaps it’s not too late to redeem this trip.

  “Yes,” I say firmly. “I vote we go to Europe.”

  Milo glances at the photo on Kai’s phone and shakes his head. “Man, that looks rough. I guess if we can be any help, we should do it.”

  Abel nods. “I agree,” he says.

  Now it is just down to Winnie.

  She shrugs. “Anything beats trying to teach those kids to play the recorder,” she says.

  And just like that, we are going to Europe.

  Part 4

  Hungary

  Chapter 27

  A scant two days after our call with Stella and Bryant, I lean my head against the airplane window and stare down at the vast glittering swath of Mumbai as it grows smaller and smaller. Next to me, Rosie is trying to sleep, her head tilted back and a silk eye mask covering her eyes. It’s so early in the morning, it’s still pitch black. We are heading to Budapest now, a continent away.

  “You okay, sugar?” Rosie turns to me and peeks out from under the eye mask.

  I nod. “Just thinking about our time in Mumbai.”

  I sift back through the last two weeks, trying to embed Mumbai into my memory. I see it in snippets, snapshots, sensations—heat undulating from the buckled pavement as we alight from an auto rickshaw at the edge of yet another slum. A man passing our taxi balancing a twin mattress on the handlebars of his bicycle. The salty, crumbly flavor of dried bombil. The vivid black sheen of Shreya’s braid as she walks in front of me down the alley toward one of the classrooms. The gap-toothed grin of a little girl in a soiled pink dress as I hand her a pancake drizzled with syrup. The scalding sweetness of cutting chai, burning my tongue, warming my throat with ginger and cardamom.

  It is all Mumbai, and yet I know it is just a fraction of the whole. I caught a passing glimpse of the city, pulsing with millions of individual lives, a city of contradictions and juxtapositions. My Mumbai is just a sliver, a glimmer, a scanty sip.

  “Do you think we did any good there at all?” I ask softly. A bell dings, indicating we are at cruising altitude, and the seat belt sign winks off.

  Rosie yawns. “Maybe not,” she says. “But at least we tried. That’s something, right?”

  I shake my head. I’m not sure that’s enough. What have I left in Mumbai? A stack of pancakes to fill hungry tummies and make sticky syrup rings around little mouths. My naïveté in believing that somehow what I was doing would really matter. A savior complex that took only days to dissolve. What did I really do? I’m afraid the answer is almost nothing. As we fly away, life carries on in Mumbai, equally untouched by our presence or our absence.

  “You should sleep,” Rosie advises, slipping her eye mask back on and nestling down in her seat. “We’ll be in Hungary before you know it.”

  She’s right, but I can’t.

  Hungary. I roll the name on my tongue like a hard candy. It is unfamiliar and full of possibilities. When Bryant and Stella called back to confirm the location, I had to look it up on a map of Europe. The photos show a flat, agrarian land of red-roofed villages and placid farmland and vineyards.

  I don’t know what awaits us there, but whatever it is, I want to be ready. This time I will seek out opportunities to make a lasting difference. This time I will truly be Saint Mia.

  * * *

  “Szia, szia. Welcome to Budapest.” Our handler, Laszlo, finds us as soon as we enter the airport arrivals hall and shakes hands enthusiastically. “How was your trip? Everything okay
?”

  “They’ve lost my suitcase!” Rosie exclaims, looking distraught. When we collected our luggage at baggage claim, her suitcase never came down the belt.

  “Nem jo.” Laszlo shakes his head. “Don’t worry. We will find it.” An upbeat, sandy-haired man in his thirties, he has a neat mustache and an honest face. According to Stella, he is a coordinator for Migration Aid, an informal network of volunteers across Hungary who are helping refugees as they cross the border from Serbia on their journey through Europe.

  “Wait here. I will see about the suitcase.” He heads in the direction of the Emirates Airlines desk. Fifteen minutes later he returns looking disappointed.

  “It is missing in Dubai airport,” he says. “They are trying to track it down now, but they are not hopeful.” He claps Rosie on the back sympathetically. “Don’t worry. We have everything here in Budapest. We will get you the things you need.”

  With that promise, he ushers a dismayed Rosie and the rest of us out the door and into a white passenger van waiting in the parking lot.

  On the drive into the city, he gives us a brief orientation. “You will stay in Budapest in a hotel for tonight. Tomorrow we go to the Hungarian/Serbian border. There are many migrants there now, and more come every day. Most are from areas of war and conflict—Syria, Afghanistan, Iraq. Some others come from other countries, even poorer countries in Europe, for economic reasons. They see an easy way to get into Western Europe. They think the life and the money will be good, but most of the people who cross the border are refugees, fleeing violence and unrest.” He shakes his head and glances at us in the rearview mirror. “The governments, they cannot stop these people and cannot do enough to help them either. It is up to us, the citizens of Europe, to do something. That is why you are here. We are doing what we can, but it is not enough. We need your help.”