The Day of the Bees Page 17

“Wait.” I grab him by the sleeve. “Who do you think I am? I can’t possibly afford to eat here.” I look around at the linen-covered tables where people in fancy clothes speak in hushed tones, pretending not to notice my shabby appearance. The perfume of flowers in Chinese vases makes me feel even more light-headed.

  The maître d’hôtel pushes my hand away, whispering, “Follow me and don’t ask questions.” He glides off among the tables and stops at one with a silver stand on it. The stand holds a card: RESERVED. He slides out a silk-covered chair and motions for me to sit.

  “I told you, I can’t afford—”

  “You have the right address. Sit.” I sink into the silk chair with embarrassment, like an impostor queen being seated on a throne.

  The maître d’hôtel bows and glides off. A waiter appears with a bottle of champagne in an ice-filled silver bucket. He pops the cork and pours champagne into two crystal glasses, then hurries away.

  No one at the surrounding tables makes eye contact; only the murmur of low voices comes to me. I am afraid to drink the champagne. Maybe I am expected to pay for it! I push the chair back to leave, but a stern-looking man wearing a brown suit and wire-rim glasses sits down opposite me. He picks up his champagne glass and raises it in salutation.

  “To your health.” He smiles.

  I don’t touch my glass.

  “Are you afraid it’s poisoned?” He sips his champagne and licks his lips. “So, you are the woman men write operas about.”

  I wanted to say no, that I was a school teacher from a small village. I say nothing, because he knows who I am. How? I remember my instructions from Royer: not to speak unless I hear the right words, not to engage in conversation because the enemy might discover my identity. But this man may not be the enemy. How am I to know? I finger the stem of my champagne glass.

  “Have you met the Fly?” he asks.

  I do not answer. I pick up my glass and drink.

  “The Fly hunts the Eagle,” he continues.

  I swallow hard. Now I can speak. “Flies don’t hunt eagles.”

  He refills our glasses. “And eagles don’t hunt flies.”

  “Not in a normal world.”

  “This is not a normal world. What’s in the basket?”

  I look around, afraid to be overheard.

  “Don’t worry about them; they are busy with their own conversations. They are all butter-and-egg men.”

  “Butter-and-egg men?”

  “Black marketeers. Who else do you think could afford to eat in this mausoleum?”

  “And you? Who are you?”

  “I work here. Now, what’s in the basket?”

  “Nothing,” I whisper. “They took the bread.”

  He slides a silver room key across the table. “I want you to meet me in this room in five minutes.”

  “I told you, they took it. There is nothing left. I have no reason to meet you in your room.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “Why?”

  “Because your name is Lucretia.”

  I PACE the Persian carpet in the hall before the room of the man I am to meet. Each time I pass his door I listen for sounds inside, but there are none. A DO NOT DISTURB sign hangs on the doorknob. On the door itself is a bronze plate engraved with the words HOTEL DOCTOR. Finally I knock.

  The door cracks open. The man in the brown suit pokes his head out, looking up and down the hall. He sees no one else and pulls me into the room, locking the door behind us.

  There is dull blue light in the room. What am I doing here? He takes the basket from me. I tell him again, “They destroyed the loaf. There is nothing for you! My trip was a waste. I must get to the train before my right to travel expires. If they catch me without proper papers I can be arrested.”

  “If you are arrested we will have to kill you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “We don’t know what you would tell them if you were tortured.”

  “So what good is it to kill me after I’ve told them?”

  “Because you might make a deal with them that leads them to us.”

  “I wouldn’t.”

  “You could.”

  “So could you.”

  “No. I would not wait for them to torture me. I will kill myself first.”

  I see now the room is blue because of blackout paint on the windows. His skin is blue. He keeps talking, like a blue ghost.

  “I’m a doctor. Do you want me to give you something to swallow if you are captured? That way you’ll be dead before they get a word from you.”

  “No, I’m not going to do that.”

  “As long as you know the rules. They are the same for you as for the rest of us. No exceptions.” He flicks on an overhead light and sets the basket on the table.

  “I told you it’s destroyed! Let me go to the station while there’s still time.”

  “It’s not destroyed—on the contrary, it’s here.”

  From the basket he takes the rumpled cloth that covered the bread. He holds it up to the light, pulling both sides tightly until the material is stretched like a screen. Within the red-and-white checked pattern another pattern can be discerned, sewn into the fabric in delicate black stitches. It is a grid; within its lines numbers and letters stand out against the light.

  He peers closely at the coded pattern. “You did a good job. You got it past them.”

  “I did?”

  “You did indeed.”

  “Then I must go.”

  “That’s right. We don’t want you to be captured.”

  I turn to leave but he grabs my arm.

  “Wait one moment.”

  “I haven’t much time.”

  “No, you don’t. That’s why I want to examine you. You’re pregnant—you can’t hide it from me, I’m a doctor.”

  “I’m in a hurry, I’m leaving.”

  “Do you want to jeopardize your child’s life?”

  “Of course I don’t!”

  “Then let me examine you and make certain you’re all right. Have you seen a doctor since you’ve become pregnant?”

  “No.”

  “Then for the sake of your child this must be done. You don’t want any complications.”

  “Complications? I just learned that if I’m captured I’ll be killed! And you are talking about complications!”

  “If I had known beforehand of your condition I wouldn’t have used you. I can tell you are pregnant from the way you walk and the pupils of your eyes.”

  “What else do you see in my eyes?”

  I stare at him angrily. Can he see the tears I have not shed? Can he see the fear I’ve tried to hide? Can he see that I have no reason to trust him? But if he really is a doctor, I should let him examine me.

  “I see a woman who needs to trust someone.”

  “No! I don’t need to trust. I need to know if my baby is healthy.”

  “You’ll let me examine you then?”

  “Yes. But now that you know I’m pregnant, and I understand the risk I’m running, I don’t want to be used any more. I want to protect my baby.”

  “You won’t be used any more. We can sympathize with your condition.”

  “Let’s do it; I must go.”

  “Take off your clothes and lie down on the bed.”

  “You don’t have an examining table?”

  “This is wartime. Everything I used to have here in my office has been confiscated. They left me nothing but this.” He snaps open a black leather doctor’s valise and starts pulling instruments from it.

  “I heard most of the doctors in the country have been forced into the military. How do I know you are not a veterinarian, a common cat surgeon?”

  “You don’t. But who better to examine you—a trained veterinarian, or no one?”

  I disrobe and lie on the bed, shivering from my exposure to a stranger. To be naked in front of a man is one thing; to be naked and pregnant is quite another. I feel misshapen and vulnerable. In the blue light my
blue skin makes me look like some marine creature tossed ashore by the tide and left abandoned in a tangle of seaweed. But it isn’t seaweed I am tangled in, it is the swollen blue veins of my belly and legs. I am just a big blue swollen thing, but inside is something beautiful, this I must believe.

  His hands touch my cheeks. He presses his thumbs beneath the bones of my jaw, feeling my lymph nodes. He puts the cold metal tip of a stethoscope beneath my breast, listening to my heart. It is quiet in the room, just his breathing, and then my own as he tells me to inhale and exhale deeply. He slides the stethoscope over the mound of my belly, listening even more intently.

  He drops the stethoscope back into the valise, takes out a rubber glove, and draws it tightly onto his right hand. “I’m going to have to ask you to pull your knees up and spread your legs.”

  Is he really a doctor? I am doing this for my baby. I spread my legs. A cold finger comes into me. Is he a cat surgeon? I shudder.

  “There, there,” he assures me as he prods. “It’s just a routine examination.”

  “Hurry. The train.”

  He removes his fingers from me and pulls the glove off with a loud snap. “I’m concerned about you down there.”

  Dread shoots through me. I feel impending death rattle every cell of my body. “Don’t tell me there’s something wrong with my baby!”

  He takes my hand between his and holds it sympathetically. “Your baby seems fine. But you are anemic and too thin. You must eat more.”

  “We all need to eat more.”

  “You especially. I’m going to give you some pills for the anemia. They are hard to get. You must take them.”

  “I will.”

  “And—”

  “What?”

  “You must have this baby in a hospital.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you are very small down there. I’m afraid there could be complications.”

  “Don’t treat me like a lamb. What are you saying?”

  “You have a narrow birth canal. Without proper medical care things could go very wrong.”

  “You mean I could lose my baby?”

  “And your life.”

  “It’s the baby I care about!”

  “That’s why you must deliver in a hospital.”

  “I will.”

  “Good. Now get dressed.”

  He turns away as I hurriedly put my clothes on. When I finish he is standing at the door with the basket. He hands it to me. It feels heavy and has a new cloth cover. He smiles. “I put another little something in it. I don’t want you to go away empty-handed. So many people have gone to so much trouble to get you here.”

  “I thought you weren’t going to use me any more.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. This just needs to go to the hotel entrance.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He looks at his watch. “In six minutes you will be at the entrance. A black Citroën will pull up. There will be a commotion. The Fly will hunt the Eagle. You will see him. Do not panic. Be firm. Set the basket behind the Citroën and walk quickly away. You will have just enough time to catch your train, the last one out before they seal the station off.”

  “Why will it be sealed off?”

  “Because of the commotion.”

  “But what about the basket? They will search it again at the entrance.”

  “No, they won’t. They have already searched it.” He taps his watch impatiently. “Now go.”

  Should I thank him? I don’t even know his name. Is what he says true, about my being small down there? Is he a quack or a double agent? I have one last question.

  “Who will be in the black Citroën?”

  “Don’t worry. Just a butter-and-egg man.”

  He smiles and opens the door. I step into the hall. Before I can turn around the door slams and locks behind me.

  WHEN I STOP outside the hotel entrance I glance at my watch. I want to keep going to the train station. Why should I wait for a black Citroën that might never appear and make me miss my train? The two soldiers who challenged me earlier spot me on the steps. They come directly to me, demanding to know why I am still in the area. I assure them I am going home. I show them my train ticket with its departure time just minutes away. I tell them I must run to catch my train. They insist that I stay. They want to search my basket again. The tall blond man in the trench coat approaches, shouting angrily at the soldiers that the basket has already been searched, that no one is to be in front of the hotel but authorized personnel.

  I thank the blond man and walk away. Around the corner in front of me comes a man on a motorcycle. He is dressed in black, his head completely covered by a leather helmet strapped under his chin. Bulging glass goggles hide his eyes. He looks like one of the insect men on motorbikes on the Day of the Bees. Is he coming for me? I turn back just as a black Citroën screeches to a stop in front of the hotel. The blond man in the trench coat stiffens to attention and salutes those in the Citroën. The two soldiers at his side also snap to attention.

  The man on the motorcycle roars by, pulling a gun from his black leather jacket and firing straight at the blond man, whose hand drops from his forehead as blood sprays from his face. The soldiers fall to their knees and take aim, shooting at the motorcyclist.

  I set the basket down on the curb beneath the back bumper of the Citroën and run, not knowing where the gunfire is coming from as its metallic cracking echoes along the street. As I reach the corner an explosion thunders above the gunfire. A concussive whoosh of air pushes at my back. I turn to see the Citroën in a twist of steel, windows blown out, flames engulfing the interior.

  I hurry to the train station. Everything is still normal. Word of the explosion and killings at the hotel has not yet reached here. I push through the crowd and climb into the train as it starts to roll away. The train whistle blows; in the distance police sirens wail. The train lurches. Is it going to stop? It picks up speed, rolling quickly out of the station. Through my window I see the streets fill with speeding truckloads of soldiers, their rifles pointed at those they pass.

  The world seems gray and cold with a dull frenzy at its center. My hands are clutched between my knees, trembling. Then I remember. The doctor forgot the pills for my baby. Maybe he was a cat surgeon. He never gave me the pills for my anemia. Instead he gave me a bomb in a basket. The train picks up speed, its iron wheels clatter on the track. I lay my head wearily against the glass window and fall asleep.

  How long do I sleep? Am I dreaming? Something jolts me awake. I rub foggy moisture from the window. A motorcycle is racing alongside the train. A man in black is crouched over the cycle’s handlebars, leaning into the wind, a leather helmet on his head, goggles obscuring his face. He looks like a fly. Is he now hunting me? The train goes into a tunnel. Everything in life or in a dream is blacked out. At my very center I hear the dull frenzy, and faintly, in the unseeable distance, the distinct beating of another heart.

  Village of Reigne

  Darling Francisco,

  So many things left unspoken. Even though I now feel we shall never see one another again, I must say these things before they are sealed within my wounded heart, locked away with the passing of time. You are still so real to me, so close. I place your hand between my legs, now as then. I give you the most precious object, love; this delicate threat, obsession. You can press your fingers into my skin, play all the notes of my joy and sorrow. In my soul, I never betrayed you. His heart belonged to his queen, my heart belonged to you. You must understand that before it is too late.

  “What,” you may ask, “are you thinking of?”

  The answer is what I fear most to tell you.

  “Speak up!” I hear you shouting. “Speak up in your little stone cottage so that I may hear you. Don’t be afraid. The object of love can be smashed, the heart broken, but the spirit cannot be destroyed.”

  But Francisco, how can I describe my naked feet bound at the ankles, wrapped by barbed wire and thorny roses? My lacerat
ed white skin bleeds. Can I ever tell you how this came to be on the Day of the Bees, during the storm in the lavender field with bees buzzing and lightning striking?

  “What are you talking about, Louise? There was no storm that day.”

  So you still do not see. You still do not recognize the lightning that electrified my heart, the storm that defiled my body.

  “I see that you do not write to me, though I write to you.”

  That is true. You cannot see these thoughts I put on the page because I hide them. When I write these letters I feel myself merging with you, my voice no longer mine, sounding like yours, uttered from the same tongue. That is why I can speak to you like this.

  “Then why can’t you tell me of the many things left unspoken?”

  Because if you promise to love someone until you die, and then you cannot, you die inside yourself.

  “I am alive, waiting for you.”

  Sometimes as I walk back from Ville Rouge I pass through a long lane of sycamore trees, their leaves dispersed by winter wind, the sun coming through the high branches and caressing the bare trunks. The smooth bark of the trees is so voluptuous, like the skin of a newborn baby’s bottom, and I allow myself to hope.

  “Why are you crying? If you would only let me hear these things from your own lips, you know I would take you in my arms. I would be your tree, your strong oak, my branches encircling you.”

  How do you know I am crying?

  “I can feel the dampness of your cheek in the darkness between us.”

  You could light a candle. You could come to me.

  “I did, but you were in hiding.”

  In mourning. That’s different.

  “I mourn for you, Louise. I will for the rest of my life.”

  That’s not good. It will kill us both.

  “You leave us no alternative.”

  No. I … I’m alone here and the wind howls.

  “The war?”

  The war was once inside me. Now I am empty. There is only echo. Footsteps going nowhere.

  “Think of something beautiful, Louise.”

  Do you remember the children of Château-Colline?

  “How could I ever forget them? How could I ever forget the way you came to me after?”