The History of Bees

Chapter 34 TAO

I found a hotel that was open right by the railway station. Run-down and empty, but cheap. Across the street there was a restaurant that served simple, inexpensive food. I went in and treated myself to a hot meal today, knew that I couldn’t afford one every day, at least not if the money was going to last for more than a week. And I had no idea how long I would have to stay here. Until I found him. I wasn’t leaving until I found him.

A young boy put a plate down in front of me. Fried rice—that was all they had at this family-run place. It was the father who did the cooking, the boy told me while serving me. Nobody but the two of them worked here.

I was the only customer in the large restaurant. I hadn’t seen many people on the street, either. Everything was different from what I remembered. The noisy, intense city was gone. Most of the houses were vacated now, the roads quiet. There was no basis for survival here anymore. I knew that many had been forced to move away to other parts of the country, where more hands were needed for agriculture, but the complete silence surprised me all the same. The city had grown and developed to a certain point, then everything had come to a halt, and was now deteriorating. Like an old person approaching death. More and more alone, more and more quiet, at a pace that slowed with every passing day. The only place with the lights on was the little restaurant right across the street from the hotel; otherwise the street was deserted.

I pulled the chair closer to the table. The sound of the legs against the floor sounded hollow and strident in the empty establishment. The waiter stood by the table waiting as I ate. He was young, no more than eighteen, and skinny. His hair was longish; it looked as if it had been a long time since his last haircut. He wore his uniform with a youthful negligence, and moved lightly and casually. In a schoolyard he would have been someone you’d want to be seen with. Someone who didn’t need to try, someone whom nature had given that little something extra. He was the kind of adolescent who should have had a group of friends around him.

He noticed that I was observing him. Suddenly he didn’t know what to do with his hands, and he stuck them quickly behind his back.

“Is the food to your liking?” he asked.

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Sorry we don’t have any of the dishes on the menu.”

“That’s fine. I wouldn’t be able to afford them anyway,” I said, smiling. He smiled back and seemed relieved; perhaps he understood that we were in the same situation.

“Is it usually so empty here?” I asked.

He nodded. “The past few years that’s how it’s been.”

“What do you live on?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Some people come in from time to time. And we’ve sold some of the utensils and equipment.” He nodded towards the kitchen, where his father was doing the dishes. “All of the good knives, a meat grinder, some pots, the big stove. That will do for a while. We have worked out that we have enough money to manage until November.”

He fell silent, thinking no doubt the same thing I was. What would they do after that?

“Why are you still here?” I said.

He started to wipe invisible dust off a table.

“When everyone we knew was forced to leave, we were allowed to stay because we run a restaurant with a long history. Father struggled for months to get permission.” He rolled up the rag, squeezed it. “I remember how happy he was when he came home and had finally gotten confirmation that we didn’t have to move. And wouldn’t have to leave our home.”

“But what about now?”

He looked away.

“Now it’s too late. Now we’re here.”

He tugged a little at his bristly hair. Reminded me suddenly of Wei-Wen. He was so young, this boy, perhaps even younger that I’d first thought, just fourteen or fifteen years old. At the growing age.

I pushed the plate towards him.

“You take the rest. I’ve had enough.”

“No.” He looked at me in confusion. “You’ve paid for it.”

“I’m full.”

I handed him the chopsticks.

“Go ahead. Sit down.”

He stole a glance at his father in the kitchen, but he wasn’t paying attention to us out here. Then the boy quickly pulled out the chair, sat down and grabbed the chopsticks. As quickly as a dog, he ate the rice, like Wei-Wen when he had wolfed down the plums. But all of a sudden he stopped and looked up, as if embarrassed by my attention. I smiled at him in encouragement. He began eating again, clearly trying to slow down. I stood up to leave, wanting to leave him alone.

But then he stood up as well.

“Just sit,” I said and walked towards the door.

“Yes.” He stood there, hesitating. “No.”

He came towards me.

I put my hand on the door handle and was about to open it. I looked at him, didn’t quite understand.

“Where are you staying?” he asked.

“There.” I pointed across the street at the hotel.

He came over to me, looked out at the street. Not a vehicle in sight, no people, no life of any kind.

“I’ll stand here until you’re inside.”

“What?”

“I’ll stand here, the whole time.”

He spoke with a conscientious gravity on his young face.

“Thank you.”

I opened the door and left. The street was deserted. There was a smell of damp brick, dust and something slightly spoiled. A husk of a city. Dilapidated facades. There was a battered information screen hanging on a wall. The first ten seconds of a film played over and over. Li Xiara, the leader of the Committee, intoning about community and moderation, perhaps. The message was gone because the soundtrack had stopped working long ago but her moderated voice was ingrained in my head after all of these years. The shops were all closed and had bars in front of the doors. Broken windows. Only shades of brown and gray. No colors left, as if everything was covered by fog. And a huge, heavy silence.

I turned around when I’d crossed the street. Yes, he was still standing there. He nodded towards the hotel, as if he wanted me to hurry inside.