The History of Bees

Chapter 24 WILLIAM

I did as Thilda wished, as her gaze commanded, although every step towards the shop hurt. It was my Canossa. I was out early, already at the crack of dawn. A cock crowed hoarsely from a back garden. A metallic hammering could be heard from the saddler’s workshop, but I didn’t see anyone. All was still silent at the wainwright’s, the watchmaker’s and the dry goods shop. The tavern, a stuffy and stinking place in which I had never set foot, lay closed at the end of the road. An intoxicated guest, I recognized him as one of the most frequent regular patrons, had clearly not found his way home to his own bed, but was instead sleeping seated against the outside wall. I turned away; his fate awakened feelings of disgust in me. To lose control in that way, to let alcohol run one’s life, take over.

Only the bakery was open, and the aroma of freshly baked bread, buns and perhaps a Swammer pie or two seeped through every tiny crack in the building so it was virtually visible. Luckily the baker and his two sons were still deep inside beside the large, hot oven. There still wasn’t time for a break, to come out here onto the street and enjoy a pipe of tobacco as the first customers of the day dropped in at the shop. Or to discover me.

I usually didn’t open the shop for a few more hours yet, but I couldn’t bear to be seen. Couldn’t bear the questions of the audacious ones: Well, now, if it isn’t that chap. What do you know. So you’re still alive? Been ill, we’ve heard? But all better now? Back to stay?

The red, low brick building was dark and shut up, and the small stretch of the street in front covered with leaves from last year. I lifted a heavy arm and stuck the key in the lock. Metal against metal, the sound made me shudder. I didn’t want to go in, knew what was in store. A dusty, filthy shop, days and days of work to make it presentable.

I pushed at the door. It was stuck, was usually reluctant to open, but when I put my shoulder against it, it slid open silently on well-oiled hinges, not with the ancient creak I’d become accustomed to over the years. I reminded myself that the girl I’d hired in a moment of weakness, the bosomy, loud, tittering niece of Thilda’s, could have oiled the hinges. Alberta was a redundant pair of hands in a home a bit too full of children, and was at a long since marriageable, perhaps overripe, age, a pear just a bit too soft that would soon tumble to the ground under the weight of its own juices. Both her parents and Alberta herself were painfully aware of the precariousness of her situation, although it had not proven to be the simplest task to find a suitable and willing life companion for her. They hoped for something second-rate, but she came without a dowry and was not in possession of anything else that made her especially attractive, with the exception of said bosom. But she was to be commended for her efforts; she might just as easily have put herself in the display window. She was so ripe for the picking that she behaved as if every single person of the male persuasion that stepped into the shop was her intended. Apart from writhing invitingly along the counter and showing off the female-reeking, sweaty cleavage between her breasts to anyone who would look (and smell), she didn’t lift a finger. And I couldn’t imagine that she’d done much of anything except put on airs in the doorway of the shop after I fell ill and up until Thilda had been obliged to let her go. No matter what she did, she made a mess of it, and her constantly tittering presence rendered me half amused, half seething with irritation. Her desire, this lack of inhibition, that she could even permit herself to express it so blatantly…

The shop lay in semidarkness. I lit a few candles and was able to light a brass lamp. The interior was surprisingly clean and extremely tidy. The large counter was almost empty, with the exception of the inkwell, receipt pad and the heavy scale of brass situated neatly on the far end. The voluminous ceiling lamp had been polished till it shone, and the glass bulb was cleaned, it was full of oil and ready for use. Usually the floor was covered with a crunchy layer of peppercorns and grains of salt which made itself felt with every single step, but now it was scrubbed so clean that you could see all the scratches, the palest areas in the woodwork, where the floor was especially worn, like a path from the counter to the wall of drawers and out to the exit. Thilda had told me that she had allowed Alberta to take care of closing on the last day. She had not mentioned that anyone else had been in the shop since that time. Had somebody been here nonetheless?

I walked over to a window. The frame was free of dust. Not a single dead fly, as one would normally expect after all this time. And it was easy to breathe, not heavy and stuffy, but recently aired out. I moved towards the wall that was covered with small drawers, put my hand on a handle, pulled the drawer out and looked down into it. It was spotless.

I examined one more. This one turned out to be clean as well.

Somebody had dusted. Was it Alberta? To the best of my knowledge she’d been promoted to the fabrics department at the dry goods shop, and so I could not believe that she had either the time or the desire to assist me in the midst of all of her so-called important work over there.

Regardless of who it had been, all I could feel was relief. Everything was shining, the shop was not only prepared for opening—it was cleaner and tidier than ever before.

I went over to the storeroom, and that on the other hand was a sad story. It was about as abundant as the Sahara. We were out of wheat and seed corn, while the pepper, salt and spices were reduced by half. In the drawers for flower bulbs there were just a few odd leaves and solitary white roots. Alberta had closed when the first snow came. By that time she had clearly sold off everything we had in the way of autumn bulbs, even some rather dubious, dry narcissuses that had been lying there for many years. But there were still spring bulbs and tubers for greenhouse cultivation. In fact, the selection was not bad at all. It felt good holding them, like taking the hand of an old friend. But unfortunately, it was without a doubt too late in the year for these, too late for precultivation indoors, and if planted directly in the ground now, they would not have time to flower before the frost once again crept along the hill during the night hours.

Nonetheless I had to open and try to sell what little I had, show Thilda that at least I was trying and in that manner quell her incessant fretting, if only for a few days.

At exactly eight o’clock I opened the door and let the sunlight stretch into the shop.

I put two potted dahlias outside, which I had dug up from the bed at home. They nodded gently in the wind and lit up the entire stretch of street with red, pink and yellow.

I stood there, in the doorway. The shop lay bright and inviting behind me. I stood tall. I had been dreading so coming back here, to this shop which had been such a burden, had given me tense shoulders and dark circles under my eyes. But now it was clean and welcoming, scrubbed as clean as I felt. The shop was ready, I was ready, to once again meet the village, look the world in the eye.

A queue formed. The entire village had apparently discovered that I had returned from the dead and suddenly everyone wanted to buy my dusty spices and dried-up flower bulbs. I had taken care to send off a few orders already in the morning, but by the time the sun was at its zenith in the sky, it was impossible to get anything else done except wait on customers. Presumably it only took these few hours before everyone knew. It wasn’t the first time I’d been shocked by how quickly gossip spread in this little place—it was as if it had the help of a near-gale, at least when something really big had happened. And clearly something had now. My return was apparently on a level with the resurrection of Christ, judging from the crowd.

I heard people whisper about me, but it was surprising how little it bothered me. Because they did not greet me with mocking smiles and sharp comments like after my lecture about Swammerdam, but rather with open gazes, bowed heads, hands extended with respectful curiosity. A glimpse of myself in the windowpane reminded me of why. My new appearance was really doing its part. I no longer resembled a phlegmatic shopkeeper. The chubby feebleness had disappeared. This clean-cut, slender man inspired respect. He was exciting, special, not one of them. Very few people knew with certainty what had ailed me and if they had suspicions, it was perhaps awe rather than derision that filled them. Because I had stood face-to-face with death, but had fought back and risen again.

I was in my element. The money poured through my fingers. I counted and calculated at a furious pace, while I chatted with anyone and everyone, making sure to ask how things were going with each of them. Has the marriage of your daughter, Victoria, wasn’t it, been blessed with little ones? How about the farm? How many foals did you say? Fantastic! And the crops? What do you think, does it look like it could be a plentiful harvest? But little Benjamin, is he already ten years old, and still smart as a whip? He will become something important, that boy.

When I locked the door for the evening, it was with a light, precise movement. In my hand I held a bulging money purse. And although my feet were blessedly tired, it cost me nothing to walk the few miles home. My books awaited me there. I would work until midnight, because I wasn’t the least bit tired, had even more energy. I thought I had to choose, but I could manage both—both life and passion.