The History of Bees

Chapter 8 WILLIAM

“Edmund?”

“Good afternoon, Father.”

He stood alone beside my bed. I had no idea how long he’d been in the room. He had become somebody else, taller, and his nose… The last time I saw him, it was far too big. Noses often grow at their own pace in young people, leaping ahead of the rest of the body, but now it suited his face, his features had grown into place around it. He had become handsome, a beauty that had always lain latent in him, elegant, but dressed a bit rakishly, a bottle-green scarf hung loosely around his neck, his fringe just a bit too long, it was becoming, but made it difficult to see his eyes. On top of it all he was pale. Wasn’t he getting enough sleep?

Edmund, my only son. Thilda’s only son. It hadn’t been long before I understood that he was hers, wholly and completely. From the day we met, she let it be known that her greatest wish was to have a boy and when he arrived the following year, her vocation was fulfilled. Dorothea and Charlotte, and later the five other little girls, became mere shadows of him. In a sense I understood her. The seven girls gave me a constant headache. Their fierce and unceasing howling, shouting, whining, crying, giggling, running, coughing, sniffling, not to mention chattering—the way such young girls could chatter, they were relentless chatterboxes—all of these sounds surrounded me from the minute I got up until I went to bed, and not just that—they continued all through the night as well. There was always a child who cried over a dream, always one who came tiptoeing in wearing only a nightgown and had kicked off her stockings in her sleep, so that bare feet slapped lightly against the cold floorboards, and then crept up into the bed making some sound or other, some woebegone whimpers, or an almost aggressive demand to be allowed to squeeze in between us in our bed.

It seemed impossible for them to be quiet and it was therefore impossible for me to work, impossible to write. I had really tried, I had not given up right away, as Rahm believed. But it was no use. Even though I closed the door to my room after having clearly informed the entire family that Father had to work, they had to show consideration, even though I tied a scarf around my head to shut out the noise, or stuffed my ears full of wool, even then I could hear them. It was no use. Over the years there was increasingly less time for my own work, and soon I was no more than a simple merchant who struggled to feed the eternally voracious little-girl stomachs. They were bottomless. The promising naturalist had to step aside for a weary, middle-aged seed merchant, with tired feet from hours spent behind the counter, rusty vocal cords from the eternal small talk with the customers, and the fingers, endlessly counting the money that there was never quite enough of. All of it due to the noise made by the young girls.

Edmund stood completely still, frozen. Before his body had been like the sea by a peninsula, winds and waves met and collided with one another, chaotic, unruly. The restlessness was not only in his body, it was also in his soul. One minute he would show his good-natured side, and fetch a bucket of water just to be nice, the next minute he emptied the bucket across the floor in order, as he explained it himself, to create a lake. Reprimands had no impact on him. If we raised our voices, he just laughed and ran away. Always running, that was how I remembered him, the small feet, never at rest, always running away from some catastrophe or other that he had instigated, from the capsized bucket, a broken porcelain cup, knitting unraveled. When that happened, and it happened often, I had no choice but to catch him, and hold him tightly while I pulled the belt out of the loops on my trousers. I had come to despise the hissing sound of the leather against fabric and the jangling of the buckle as it struck the floorboards. The anguish over what was to come was almost worse than the actual blows. The sensation of the leather against my hand and the belt buckle, I clung to it—I never hit with that end, not like my father, who always slung the buckle through the air so it hit the back hard. I clutched it tightly, so it dug into my palm and left behind welts. The leather against the bare back, the red marks that blossomed out of the white skin, like twisting vines. In other children, these red welts helped to settle them down, and the memory of the punishment remained in the child’s consciousness, so the next time they would avoid making the same mistake. But it didn’t have that effect on Edmund. It was as if he didn’t understand that all of his impetuous actions led him back to the belt, that there was a connection between the lake on the kitchen floor and the subsequent blows. But it was nonetheless my responsibility to continue and I hoped that deep down he also noticed my love, understood that I had no choice. I disciplined him, therefore I was a father. I hit him as the tears swelled in my chest, while the sweat ran and my hands shook, I wanted to beat the restlessness out of him, but it never helped.

“Where are the others?” I asked, because the house was so oddly quiet.

I regretted it right away. I shouldn’t have asked about them. Not when he had finally come in to see me. Not when it was finally just him and me.

Edmund swayed slightly as he stood there, as if he were struggling to keep his balance, didn’t know on which leg he should rest his weight.

“In church.” So it was Sunday.

I tried to sit up in bed. I lifted the blanket a bit. The stench of my own body hit me. When had I last bathed?

But if he noticed anything, he didn’t show it.

“And you?” I said. “Why have you stayed home?”

It sounded like an accusation when it should have been a thank-you.

He didn’t look at me, stared into the wall above the headboard.

“I… I was hoping to have a chance to talk to you,” he said finally.

I nodded slowly, while I strove to keep my face from disclosing how exceedingly pleased I was about his visit.

“Good,” I said. “I appreciate seeing you very much… and have been hoping you would come for a long time.”

I tried to sit up, but it was as if my skeleton could no longer hold me upright, so I supported myself on a pillow. That in itself was an enormous effort. I resisted the urge to pull the blanket all the way up to my shoulders to shut in the odor. I could barely stand the smell of myself. How had I not noticed it before, how badly I needed a bath? I lifted my hand to my face. The stubble, which had never been especially thick, had now managed to grow into a shaggy beard several centimeters long. I must have looked like a caveman.

He stared at my toes, which were sticking out from under the blanket. The toenails were long and dirty. I quickly pulled my feet out of sight and sat up in bed.

“Edmund. Tell me. What’s on your mind?”

His eyes did not meet mine, but there was no shyness about him when he delivered his message.

“Perhaps Father can get out of bed soon?”

A blush of shame rose to my cheeks. Thilda had asked. The girls had asked. The doctor had asked. But Edmund had never come to my bedside before.

“I am so infinitely pleased about your coming,” I said in a voice that was on the verge of breaking. “I would like very much to explain.”

“Explain?” He pulled one hand through his fringe. “I don’t need any explanation. I just want you to get up.”

What was I supposed to say? What did he expect from me? I tapped my hand against the mattress, a small inviting gesture. “Sit down, Edmund. Let’s talk a bit. What have you been doing lately?”

He didn’t move.

“Tell me about your schoolwork. With the good head you have on your shoulders I assume it’s all smooth sailing?”

He was preparing for the autumn, when he would be attending school in the capital. We had scrimped and saved for his schooling and now he was finally almost ready. I felt a sudden stab in my chest. His tuition, could it be that Thilda was spending it, now that I was lying here like this?

“I presume that nothing has changed. The plans for school are as before?” I asked quickly.

He nodded without any evident enthusiasm. “I work when I find the inspiration.”

“Good. Inspiration is an important incentive.”

I reached out my hand to him. “Come and sit down. Let’s have a proper conversation now. It’s been such a long time.”

But he just stood there. “I… have to go downstairs.”

“Just a few minutes?” I tried to keep my voice light.

He tossed his fringe, did not look at me. “I’m going to study.”

I was glad he was working, but still, he could certainly sacrifice a little more time, now that he had finally come.

“I just want to hold you,” I said. “Just for a minute.”

An almost inaudible sigh escaped from his lips, but all the same he came over to me. Finally he sat down beside me, hesitated a moment and gave me his hand.

“Thank you,” I said softly.

His hand was warm and smooth. It radiated with life, became a bond between us, as if his healthy blood ran through me. I just wanted to sit like this, but there was no mistaking his ever present restlessness. He couldn’t manage to hold his arms still, changed position, his feet twitched.

“Sorry, Father.” He stood up abruptly.

“No,” I said. “You needn’t apologize. I understand. Of course you have to work.”

He nodded. His eyes were fixed on the door. He just wanted to get away, leave me lying here alone again.

He took a few steps, then stopped himself, as if he remembered something, and turned around again.

“But Father… can’t you at least try to find the will to get out of bed?”

I swallowed. I owed him a proper response.

“It’s not that I lack the will… it’s… the passion, Edmund.”

“The passion?” He lifted his head, the word had apparently stirred something inside him. “Then you have to find it once more,” he said quickly. “And allow it to move you.”

I had to smile. Such big words from that ungainly body.

“We are nothing without passion,” he concluded with a gravity I had never heard from him before.

He said nothing more. Just left the room—the last impression I had of him was the sound of his footsteps against the floorboards out there. They disappeared towards the stairway and then down and away. But I still felt I had never been so close to him before.

Rahm was right; I had forgotten my passion and allowed myself to be consumed by trivialities. I demonstrated no enthusiasm in my work, which is why I lost Rahm. But Edmund was still there, I could still show him, make him proud. That way we could grow closer. Through the honor I would bring to the family name, our relationship would blossom and bear fruit. That way I would perhaps also find my way back to Rahm, so it could be the three of us after all: father, son and mentor.

I rolled over onto my side. I threw the blanket off my foul-smelling body, and then I got out of bed. This time it was for good.