It was still quiet.
Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen.
I dared to speed up my pace as I approached the station, which was closed with a chain and padlock. Only then did I turn around.
They were still standing there, in the same place and looking at me. All three of them equally expressionless. No sign of movement.
I walked towards the corner, keeping my eyes on them at all times. Then I walked around the corner of the house. I could no longer hear them. In front of me was yet another deserted street. I had the subway track on my right-hand side, a dead row of houses on the left. There was not a soul in sight.
I ran.
Chapter 42
WILLIAM
The package arrived in the mail ten days later. The writings of Dzierzon. I brought it upstairs with me and closed the door to the room on the second floor, which was now wholly and fully mine. Thilda didn’t sleep there anymore, not even now that my health was restored. Perhaps she wanted me to ask her to return to the conjugal bed, maybe she wouldn’t come until I begged and so it would never happen.
The bed loomed, soft and safe before me. How easy it was, just to go to bed, let the blankets swaddle me, make everything dark and warm.
No.
Instead I sat down by the window with the package in my lap. I caught a glimpse of Charlotte’s white-clad back at the bottom of the garden, bent over the hive. She spent hours down there. She had carried down a table and a chair for herself, sat with papers and an inkwell. I saw her constantly observing and taking notes in a little leather-bound book, with enthusiasm and lightness in her movements. She was like me, worked the way I had previously worked, though it felt like a long time ago now. I hadn’t been to the hive myself since my conversation with Rahm. I had turned my back on it, wanted mostly to break it into pieces, jump on it, to see the pieces of board fly in all directions, splintered and destroyed. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it—the bees prevented me; the thought that thousands of desperate and homeless bees would rise up and attack me.
I undid the twine, broke the seals and folded the paper to one side, and with a German dictionary at my side I started reading. Until the end I kept hoping that Rahm’s claims were wrong, that he had misunderstood something, that Dzierzon had absolutely not produced such an advanced hive. But even though my German was shaky and I only understood a fraction of the texts, one thing was clear: his hive was very much like mine; the doors were positioned somewhat differently and the roof pitch was at less of a slant, but the principles were identical and the method of use the same. Furthermore, he had carried out a series of in-depth observational studies of the bees in their hives and a lot of the research entailed precisely this. The underlying philosophy was rock solid and testified to an infinite patience; everything was scrupulously documented and with an exemplary presentation of the argument. Dzierzon’s work was world class.
I put the writings away and once again turned my attention towards the window. Charlotte put the lid on the hive out there, walked a few steps away and took off her hat. She smiled to herself before setting out towards the house.
I opened the door. I could hear her footsteps below. I moved over to the landing. From here I could see her. She walked into the hall. There she sat down by the sideboard, took out her notebook and opened it in front of her. She reconsidered, her gaze suspended for a second in space, before she bowed her head and wrote. I walked down the stairs. She lifted her head and smiled when she saw me.
“Father. How nice that you’ve come,” she said. “Here—you have to see this.”
She wanted to show me the book, held it out to me.
But I didn’t look at it, simply walked to the coat stand, found my hat and jacket and quickly dressed.
“Father?”
She beamed at me. I looked away.
“Not now,” I said.
The passionate enthusiasm in her eyes, I couldn’t bear to be in the same room with her. I walked quickly towards the door.
“But it won’t take long. You have to see what I’ve been thinking.”
“Later.”
She didn’t say anything more, just had this gaze, so determined and assertive, as if she didn’t accept the rejection.
I didn’t even have the energy to be curious. She hadn’t found out or thought of anything that had not already been thought and I couldn’t bear to explain this to her, disappoint her, tell her that all the time she’d spent down there by the hive only resulted in things that were obvious, that all of her thoughts had already been thought a thousand times before. I opened the door slowly, registered how something indolent had once again descended upon my body and a sigh was released from my diaphragm. I prepared myself for many more in the time ahead. In my hand I squeezed the key to the shop, to my simple, country seed shop. That’s where I belonged.
The Swammer pie left behind a coating of grease on the roof of my mouth, but I was still unable to refrain from eating. I had already shoved two down in the course of the morning hours. The scent of them poured out of the bakery and was intrusively present also in my shop. It penetrated through all the cracks, even when I closed the door, a constant reminder of how simple it would be to buy one more, or several. The baker even gave me a discount; he thought I was too thin, but that wouldn’t last for long. It felt as if my body had already begun to expand, as if it were in the process of recovering its former sloppy constitution.
No near-gale howled any longer through the streets driving customers to the shop. The novelty had definitively worn off and half the day had already passed without anyone coming by. The large orders of seed corn were long since completed, now it was mostly spices and seeds for fast-growing plants, such as lettuce and radishes.
I ate a few more bites, although the pie was too salty. I drank lukewarm water from a dipper to alleviate it, but it didn’t help much.
Then I walked to the door. The afternoon carriage from the capital drove down the street. The diligence stopped at the end and people streamed outside, but nobody came in my direction.
I nodded to the saddler who was standing outside in the sun greasing a saddle, smiled politely at the wheelwright who rolled a new wheel out of the workshop, briefly greeted my former employee Alberta, who was carrying two large rolls of cloth into the dry-goods shop, all of them hardworking ants, with their hands full. Even Alberta was clearly managing to make herself a little useful, with rolling hips and rapid feet, saying hello right and left, while she stepped lightly up the stairway.
“Mr. Savage.” She smiled in my direction.
Then she hesitated for a second; evidently something had occurred to her. “I have something you have to taste! Wait a minute.”
She disappeared quickly into the shop with the rolls of fabric. Shortly afterwards she came out again with a bundle in one hand.
She stood in front of me. I could smell the scent of her. It made me unwell.
“What’s this about? I have a great deal to do.”
“I hear that you’ve begun with bees,” she said and smiled with crooked teeth behind lips a little too moist.
I was suddenly reminded of Swammerdam’s sea monster, but pushed the thought away.
“My father also keeps bees. He has five hives. Look here.” She held up the bundle. “You can have a taste. It’s the very best.”
Without waiting for an invitation she walked into the shop. She laid the bundle down on the counter and undid the knot. It contained a loaf of bread and a small pot of honey. She held it up, looked at it and smacked her lips loudly. “Come.” She waved for me to come closer.
Her skin was rough, spotty, on her chin two pimples were pushing their way to the surface. How old was she now? Well over twenty at least. Both her hands and face showed that she had already spent too many working hours in the sun.