Майя Лунде - The History of Bees

The proximity of another human being caused the paralysis to release its grasp. Or perhaps it released its grasp precisely because it was her. She was all I had now.

I laid the drawings on her lap.

“Destroy them for me,” I said softly. “I can’t do it.”

She just sat there. I tried to meet her gaze, but she looked away.

“Help me,” I begged.

She put a hand on the drawings. For a moment she was silent.

“No,” she said.

“But they are rubbish, don’t you understand?” My voice broke, but it didn’t unsettle her.

She just shook her head slowly. “It’s too soon, Father, perhaps they may still be of value.”

I drew a breath, managed to speak calmly, tried to sound rational.

“They’re useless. I really just want you to destroy them, because I’m incapable of doing it myself. Take them away, put them somewhere I can’t see them and can’t stop you. Burn them! A huge fire, flames reaching up to the heavens.”

I wanted the words to provoke a reaction, get her to stand up and obey my earnest appeal, as she usually obeyed all my requests. But she just sat there, leafing through the pages, with one finger lightly tracing the lines I had done my best to draw straight, the details with which I had struggled so. “No, Father. No.”

“But that’s all that I want!” All of a sudden there was again a tightening in my chest. I had my father’s hand around my neck, his scornful laughter in my ears, dirt on my knees and a belt waiting. She was the adult and I was the child, ten years old again, with the heavy weight of shame on my shoulders, because yet again I had failed. “Burn them, please.”

It was only then that I noticed the tears in her eyes. Her tears. When had I last seen them? Not when she sat beside me during all those hours last winter, not when she came home with a dead-drunk Edmund, not when she found me almost swallowed up by the earth.

And then I understood. These were her drawings, too, her work. She’d been there the entire time, but I’d only seen myself, my research, my drawings, my bees. Only now did I really absorb how there had been two of us from the first day. They were hers, too, the bees were hers, too.

“Charlotte.” I swallowed. “Oh, Charlotte. Who have I really been for you?”

She looked up in astonishment. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… you should have had something more.”

She drew her hand over her eyes; there was only amazement in her gaze now.

“Something more? No.”

I wanted to say so many things to her, that she deserved a better father, one who also thought of her, that I’d been an idiot, only concerned about my own affairs, while her support was completely unshakable, regardless of the nature of my undertakings. But the words grew too large, I wasn’t equal to the task.

All I could do was to take her hand. She let me do it, but hastened to lay the other one protectively over the drawings so the wind wouldn’t take them.

We sat there in silence.

She inhaled several times, as if she wanted to say something, but no words came.

“You mustn’t think like that,” she said finally. Then she turned her head and looked at me with her clear, gray eyes. “I’ve received more than any girl could expect. More than any other girl I know. Everything you have shown me, told me, let me participate in. All the time we’ve spent together, all the conversations, everything you’ve taught me. For me you are… I…”

She didn’t finish the sentence, just sat there, and finally she came out with it:

“I couldn’t have had a better father.”

A sob escaped from me. I stared out into space, focusing blindly on nothing, while fighting back the urge to cry.

We remained seated there; time passed, nature surrounded us with all of its sounds, the birdsong, the whistling of the wind, a frog croaking. And the bees. Their subdued buzzing calmed me.

Carefully Charlotte wriggled her hand out of mine and nodded gently.

“You won’t have to see them anymore.”

She stood up, took the drawings with her, carried them with both hands as if they were still something valuable and disappeared in the direction of the house.

A deep sigh escaped me, of thankfulness and relief, but also with a certainty that it was finally over. I remained seated, sitting and looking at the bees, at their perseverance, back and forth, never resting.

Not until their wings were torn.

Once again, I was unable to fall asleep. Everything was in place to ensure a good night’s rest. The room was suitably cool, it was quiet. And dark. Why was it so dark lately? Much darker than before. Then I remembered the light. That was why. I’d never gotten around to repairing it. The cables were still crawling up there on the wall, like worms with heads of electrical tape. I passed by them every day, saw them every time, and they always put me in a bad mood. One of the many things I never got around to. It wasn’t important, I knew that. I didn’t need that light, none of us did. Emma didn’t nag me about it, either. I don’t even think she thought about it. But the crawling cables were a part of everything that wasn’t the way it was supposed to be, everything that didn’t work.

I needed seven hours of sleep. At least. I’ve always envied those who don’t need much sleep. Those who wake up after five hours and are ready to perform at their best. They’re the ones who really go far in life, I’ve heard.

I turned towards the alarm clock—12:32 a.m. I’d been lying here since 11:08 p.m. Emma had fallen asleep right away and I dozed off, too, pretty quickly. But then I woke up again, my head clear, alert. And my body was running, unable to lie still, unable to make contact with the mattress. No matter what position I was in, it was wrong, lumpy, poking.

I had to get some sleep. I wouldn’t be able to function tomorrow if I couldn’t sleep now. Maybe a drink would help.

We didn’t have any hard liquor, rarely drank it. But I found a beer in the refrigerator. And a glass in the cupboard. Then there was the opener. It wasn’t hanging on the wall, in its place, a hook over the sink, the fourth hook from the right, between the scissors and a spatula. Where was it? I opened the silverware drawer. Found the corkscrew along with some rotten rubber bands in a separate part of the drawer furthest in. But the opener wasn’t there. I opened another drawer. Nothing. Had she rearranged the system? Put things in new places? If so, it wouldn’t be the first time.

I kept looking in drawer after drawer. Had to put down the beer, use both hands, couldn’t be bothered to be quiet now. Since she’d gone and started rearranging everything, she’d have to put up with that much. Dammit, there were so many drawers in this kitchen and so much junk. So-called useful utensils gathering dust. An egg cooker, an electric pepper grinder, a gadget that divided an apple into six pieces. Things that had accumulated over the course of half a lifetime. Emma was the culprit behind the majority of the things. I got the urge to find a bag, start throwing things out, at long last. Clean up.

But then it appeared. It was lying in the big drawer with the ladles, scoops and whisks. In the very back. At the very bottom. Yup, had clearly been given a new place. I opened the beer quickly. Mostly I had the urge to go and wake her up, tell her she could give a damn about changing things. But instead I took a large swig of beer. The cool liquid ran down my throat.

My stomach rumbled, but I didn’t feel like finding anything to eat. Nothing appealed to me. Beer was nutritious, too. I wasn’t tired at all, just restless. I paced back and forth, went into the living room, grabbed the remote. But I froze midmovement, because suddenly I noticed something on the wall in the dining room.