The History of Bees

Chapter 28 WILLIAM

“Edmund?” I knocked on the door to his room.

The past few days, while I was waiting for the new hive, I had spent outside getting to know the bees, first with trembling hands, then with more and more certainty. I had found the queen, she was larger than the workers and drones, and I marked her with a tiny spot of white paint on her carapace. I observed the queen cells that had been built, but destroyed them right away, couldn’t take the chance of swarming—the old queen taking parts of the colony with her to make room for a younger queen and her progeny. Beyond this the hive didn’t provide much knowledge. I opened it with great care and caution; the bees became agitated every single time. I still didn’t understand how it could be that the queen laid two types of eggs, both for worker bees and drones. But the working conditions for observations weren’t the best. I presumed that as soon as the new hive was in place, this would be much easier to study.

One thing was certain, at least: it was a hardworking bee colony I was dealing with. The hive was increasingly heavier, the bees brought in nectar and pollen, the honey was glistening in there already, dark golden, sugary-sweet and tempting.

Charlotte often kept me company. She observed the bees with great enthusiasm, picked up the hive in her hands, weighed it, made wagers on the amount of honey. She lifted it with skill, checked for queen cells, found the queen, took it out with her hand—yes, she dared to do it without gloves—and I saw how the bees swirled up, searching for her, as they always do with their queen. Charlotte had grown this summer, her ungainly body acquired curves, her pale cheeks color, her skirts became almost indecently short and had crept up to the middle of her shin. A new dress, I thought, she deserved that, but it would have to be later, because now other things were more important.

On some days I had to go in to the shop. Then she would help me there as well, cleared, washed, kept the stock organized, did figures so the nib of the pen scratched, added, subtracted, assessed profits.

But Edmund never participated. The preparations for his studies in the autumn were not going as they should. That was clear, even to me, although I seldom spent time with the family. The books he kept in a dark corner of the parlor were in the process of becoming just as dusty as mine had been. He was always so tired, off color, often shut himself in his room. The restlessness had been replaced by something sedate, something slow, a sluggishness one rarely saw in young people.

I hoped nonetheless that he would come along and sit with me, so I could explain to him about the straw hive and subsequently show him how much more brilliant my own invention was. I wanted to show him what he and his book had initiated in me, and hoped I could manage to awaken the same passion in him.

“Edmund?” I knocked again.

He didn’t answer.

“Edmund?”

Nothing happened.

I hesitated, then I carefully pushed down on the door handle.

Locked. Of course.

I bent over, peeked through the keyhole and glimpsed the key that was in the hole from the inside. He was not out, then; he had locked himself in.

I pounded on the door. “Edmund!”

Finally footsteps could be heard on the floor inside and the door was pulled open a tiny crack. He blinked at me and the light. His fringe was longer, he had grown a wispy moustache on his upper lip, and was dressed in a wrinkled shirt and nothing else. His feet were bare against the plank floor and above them were some astonishingly hairy legs.

“Father?”

“I’m sorry I had to wake you.”

He shrugged his shoulders, stifled a yawn.

“I was hoping you might come out with me,” I said. “There’s something I want to show you.”

He stared at me from slitted, drowsy eyes. Rubbed one of his feet against his shin, as if to warm himself, but didn’t respond.

“I’d very much like for you to understand the straw hive,” I continued, while I tried to keep my eagerness under control.

“The straw hive?” Still this urbane, somewhat listless tone of voice.

“Yes. You’ve seen it, furthest down in the garden.”

“Oh. That.” He swayed and swallowed.

“So that you understand the difference between it and the new hive. When it gets here.”

“All right.” He said it through pinched lips, and swallowed again, as if choking back vomit.

“And how much better-constructed the new one is.”

“Yes.”

His eyes were still as if drugged with sleep, not a hint of interest.

“Perhaps you’d like to get dressed?”

“Can we do it another day?”

“Now is a good time.” I noticed suddenly that I was standing there with my head ducked, as if I were begging. But he didn’t appear to have noticed.

“I’m so tired,” was all he said. “Maybe later.”

I straightened up then, tried to make my voice sound authoritative. “As your father I demand that you come with me now.”

Finally his gaze met mine. His eyes were bloodshot, but still oddly clear. He tossed his fringe back, raised his chin. “Or what?”

Or what? I was unable to reply, noticed that I was blinking rapidly.

“Or I’ll get a taste of the belt?” he continued. “Is that what you mean, Father? Or you’ll take out the belt and whip it across my back until I bleed and have no other choice but to say yes?”

This hadn’t gone the way I’d hoped, not at all.

He stared at me, I stared at him. Nobody said anything.

All of a sudden Thilda was there. She hurried towards me through the hallway, her skirt brushing against the floorboards.

“William?”

“It’s almost two o’clock,” I said.

Her voice rose. “He needs sleep. He’s not well. Go on and go to bed, Edmund.”

She stopped beside me, laying a hand on my elbow.

“You don’t do anything but sleep,” I said to Edmund. It came out loudly, sounded too desperate.

He didn’t answer, merely shrugged his shoulders. Thilda tried shoving me away, while she looked kindly at Edmund.

“Go to bed, my dear. You need rest.”

“Rest from what?” I asked.

“You’re not exactly one to talk,” Edmund said suddenly.

“What?!”

“You went to bed for several months.”

“Edmund,” Thilda said. “That has nothing to do with it.”

“Why?” he asked.

I could feel the desperation paralyze me. “I’m sorry, Edmund. I’m going to make things right. I’m in the process of making things right now. That’s why I would so like to show you…”

But Thilda shoved me away. “Poor Edmund,” she said in a sugary-sweet voice. “It’s too much for him. He must rest now, he needs it.”

Edmund stared at me without expression. Then he closed the door and left us standing there.

Thilda was still holding on to my arm, as if to hold me in place and her gaze was still just as insistent. I wanted to object, but suddenly it hit me. Was he ill? Was Edmund ill?

“Is there something you’re not telling me?” I asked Thilda.

Her gaze was like flint against my own and almost frightened me.

“I’m his mother and can see that he needs rest,” she said slowly and clearly, and had apparently no intention of explaining anything at all to me.

“And I’m his father and can see that he needs fresh air,” I said and heard immediately how foolish the words sounded.

She lifted the corners of her mouth in a mocking smile. Neither of us said anything more, we just stood like that facing each other. She offered neither answers nor compliance. Because he wasn’t sick, of course he wasn’t; she was just protecting him, from schoolwork and everything that demanded something of him. But she had no idea what had transpired between us, the fire he had lit inside me, how important it was that I had the chance to share it with him.

But I wasn’t up to the task of trying to explain; I knew how meaningless it was to fight with her, all logical arguments were just swept aside. She was a windmill.

Perhaps instead I would have to grab him before evening came, before he went out, as he often did. This indefinable “out.” I wished, hoped, that he was in the forest, doing his own observation studies, inspired by me, as I myself had been at his age. Yes, perhaps that was in fact the case.

And as far as I was concerned, he probably wanted to wait until I really had something to show him. But that increased my excitement. I would make him proud.