The History of Bees

Chapter 54 TAO

“Ma’am? We’re closing.”

The guard stood over me holding a heavy bunch of keys in her hand, which she rattled. “You are welcome to come back tomorrow. Or to borrow something.”

I stood up. “Thank you.”

In front of me was a long article about the death of bumblebees. The bumblebees and the wild bees disappeared at the same time as the honeybees, but their death wasn’t as evident or ominous, the species were depleted without anyone actually sounding the alarm. Wild bees were responsible for two-thirds of the pollination in the world. In the US the honeybee did most of the work, but on the other continents wild bee species were the most important. Here, however, the continuous species decline made it more difficult to gauge population numbers. But mites, viruses and unstable weather also affected the wild bees. And pesticides. They were in the soil, enough to poison future generations, both bees and humans.

Intensive research was carried out on other insects that could be suitable for effective pollination. The first ones they tried were the wild bees, but it was useless. The farming of different types of pollinating flies was subsequently attempted for this purpose, Ceriana conopsoides, Chrysotoxum octomaculatum and Cheilosia reniformis, but without success. Simultaneously the climate changes made the world a more inhospitable place to be. The rising sea levels and extreme weather led to the emigration of human population groups and the food shortage became acute. Whereas previously people had started wars for reasons of power, wars were now being fought over food.

This article stopped at the year 2045. One hundred years after the end of the Second World War, the earth, as modern human beings had known it, was no longer a place that could be populated by billions. In 2045 there were no bees left on the planet.

I went over to the bookshelves where I’d found many of the most recent books about The Collapse, wanting to put some of them back. I was about to shove a book into the shelf when I noticed a green spine a little further down. It wasn’t particularly thick or tall, not a big book, but my eyes were drawn to the green color all the same. And the yellow letters with the title: The History of Bees.

I grabbed it and tried to pull it out. But the book resisted; the plastic on the bookbinding was stuck to the books next to it and emitted a small sigh when I pulled them apart. I opened it; the covers were stiff, but the pages fell easily to the side, welcoming me in. The last time I had read this book was at my school’s simple library, and at that time it had been a shabby printout, a copy. This time I was holding a pristine edition between my hands. I looked at the title page: 2037. A first edition.

Then I opened to the first chapter and my eyes were met once again by the same familiar pictures. The queen and her brood, which were just larvae in cells and all the golden honey they surrounded themselves with. Swarming bees on a frame in a beehive, crowded together, each identical to the next, impossible to distinguish from one another. Striped bodies, black eyes, rainbow-colored wings that shone.

I continued turning the pages until I came to the passages about knowledge, the same sentences I had read as a child, but now the words made an even greater impression: “In order to live in nature, with nature, we must detach ourselves from the nature in ourselves… Education means to defy ourselves, to defy nature, our instincts…”

I was interrupted by the sound of footsteps. The guard came around a bookshelf and walked towards me. She didn’t say anything, but once again rattled the keys. Demonstratively now.

I nodded at her quickly to show that I was on my way out. “I would like to borrow this.” I held up the book. She shrugged her shoulders.

“Help yourself.”

When I got back to my room, still holding The History of Bees to my chest, I finally put it down on the bed along with a pile of other books. I’d borrowed as many as I could carry. Soon I’d continue reading. I just needed a shower first.

I peeled off my clothes while standing in the middle of the floor. I pulled off everything at once, my socks got stuck in the legs of my trousers. The clothes were left in a tangled heap on the floor.

I showered until the hot water ran out, washed my hair three times, scrubbed my scalp with my nails, to get out the dust from the dead city streets. Then I dried myself off for a long time. I couldn’t remove the dampness from my skin; the bathroom was foggy. Finally I brushed my teeth for a long time, feeling how plaque and bacteria disappeared, wrapped the towel around me and walked into the room again.

The first thing I saw was that my clothes had been picked up. The floor was empty. I turned towards the bed. A woman was sitting there. She was younger than me. Her skin was soft, no dirt under her fingernails. Her clothes were clean and sleek, snug, like a uniform. This was a woman whose occupation was something completely different from working outdoors among the trees.

In her hand she held one of the books. I couldn’t see which one.

She raised her head and looked at me, serious, dispassionate. I was unable to say anything, my brain was working intensely to make something fall into place. Should I know her?

She calmly stood up, put the book down, then handed me my clothes, which were now neatly folded and placed into a pile.

“I would ask that you please get dressed.”

I didn’t move. She behaved as if her presence here were a given. And maybe it was. I stared at her, searching her face to see if it stirred up any memories. But none emerged. I noticed that my towel was falling off, slipping down, about to leave me naked, and if possible, even more vulnerable. I pulled the towel up and squeezed my arms against it to hold it in place, feeling both awkward and exposed.

“How did you get in?” I asked and was surprised that my voice actually carried.

“I borrowed a key.” She said it smiling a tiny smile at nothing at all, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“What do you want? Who are you?” I stammered.

“You must get dressed and come with me.”

It wasn’t an answer, it was an order.

“Why? Who are you?”

“Here.” Once again she held out the pile of clothing.

“Do you want money? I only have a little.” I walked over to the bedside table where I still had a few coins in the drawer, turned around and held them out to her.

“I was sent by the Committee,” she said. “You must come with me.”