The Day of the Bees (First Edition)

Thomas Sanchez

ISBN 10: 0375401628 / ISBN 13: 9780375401626

Edité par Knopf, New York, 2000

A propos de cet article

Knopf (New York), 2000. First edition. First -printing. Hardbound. As New in an as-new dust jacket. A perfect unread copy. Novel. CLS.

N° de réf. du vendeur 7083

Détails bibliographiques

• Titre: The Day of the Bees (First Edition)
• Éditeur: Knopf, New York
• Date de parution: 2000
• Langue: anglais
• ISBN à 10 chiffres: 0375401628
• ISBN à 13 chiffres: 9780375401626
• Reliure: Hardcover
• Édition: 1st Edition
• État de l'article: As New
• État de la jaquette: As New

A propos de ce titre

Synopsis

Book by Sanchez Thomas

Extrait

From Day of the Bees
The train continues to rattle. Is it an even louder chattering of teeth, or a ticking in the basket balanced on my knees? Do the uniformed men around me hear the ticking? Is that why they avoid looking at me, afraid I will blow up their compartment if they approach? The train lurches to a squealing stop in the Nice station. I still hear the ticking. My heart? The soldiers must hear it too. They stay where they are, not moving, letting me make my way down the narrow aisle between them. I feel like a little girl walking in a forest of tall trees with a picnic basket of poisoned food. Red Riding Hood carrying a bomb?

I am not prepared for what I encounter after I manage to push my way through the crowd in the train station. This is no longer the Nice I remember. No longer the glittering Baie des Anges, with its broad sandy beach and hotels frosted with pink stucco. In winter light a grey film coats everything. Windows are painted blackout blue, walls are covered with thick camouflage netting, coils of barbed wire block the seaside promenade. Menacing concrete and steel struts line the shore, and spoked black balls of surface mines float in the sea.

The city streets are not filled with fashionable summer visitors, but with the homeless seeking shelter, a restless mob with everything they own tied in pitiful rag bundles or suitcases held together with rope. The air echoes with accents from all over Europe. Begging hands are held out everywhere, dirty hands with deeply creased palms. Men, women, and children cough and shiver in the cold. The scent of summer perfumes and suntan creams has given way to the stench of the unwashed, the stale sweat of defeat. Following the gaze of downcast eyes I see shoes worn through with holes, exposing festering feet. How far have these people journeyed, walking with blood in their shoes? Did they flee here from other countries or from a house just around the corner? It makes no difference now. I have been instructed not to stop nor reach out a comforting hand, not even to a small girl, slumped alone before a high stone wall with a boarded-up mansion behind. The girl's whimpering cannot be drowned out by the shouted pleas of others around me. I continue, still seeing the stain of urine on the dirty sidewalk beneath the girl, feeling her shivering body in my own bones.

I look at the address on the slip of paper Royer gave me. Can this be right? There are nothing but fancy hotels here, protected by banks of sandbags and patrolling soldiers. Two soldiers stop me; one asks for my identity papers. I hand them over. He reads them carefully, then hands them to the other soldier, who quickly walks away with them.

"What's wrong?" I ask, trying to keep the alarm out of my voice.

The soldier does not answer. He looks down at my basket as he puts his hand on the holstered gun at his hip.
The other soldier returns with a tall blond man. The man wears a leather trench coat and expensive dress shoes shined to a high gloss; he is not a soldier. When he speaks I am relieved that his language is not foreign, but French.

"Madame has a reason for traveling so far from home?"

"Aren't my papers in order?"

"Travel in this area is restricted."

"My mother is ill. I've brought her a present."

"A present? May I see it?"

"I have nothing to hide. Nothing at all."

"I'm certain you don't."

"Look." I pull the cloth cover off the basket.

The two soldiers draw their revolvers and point them at me.

My hand stops, but I cannot prevent my fingers from trembling.

"Madame is nervous?"

"No . . . no." I continue to pull the cover back, exposing the loaf of bread.

"Ah, Madame has only bread! She has saved her coupons to get enough flour to make her sick mother a present. How quaint."

"It's only bread. I assure you of that."

"May I," the blond man bends over and touches the crust of the loaf, "just have a closer look?"

"Yes, of course."

He pulls the loaf from its basket and holds it above his head, looking underneath as if expecting to see dangling wires. Could he hear a ticking from the loaf, or was it the pounding of my heart? He spins the loaf around, assaying it from every angle, verifying its shape and weight like a judge in a baking contest.
He hurls the loaf onto the sidewalk. It hits with a hollow thud and smashes into crumbs at my feet. I am surprised the loaf contains nothing inside, that he has taken such a chance. But was it a chance? He must have known the loaf was harmless. He hands back my papers.

"Madame should be aware that she has only one hour before her permission to travel through this area expires. She must be on the last train leaving today."

"Yes . . . I'm aware."

He turns and walks rapidly away with the two soldiers on his heels.

Surrounding me is a sudden clatter of grey wings and deep-throated gurgles as hungry pigeons descend in a rush to the crumbs on the sidewalk, pecking and jostling. Then, just as quickly, they fly up as children gather around, stomping their feet to scare off the birds. The children fight one another for the crumbs, snatching bits of bread and shoving them into their dirty mouths. Among them is the girl I passed earlier, the little rag doll slumped in her own urine. I want to reach down and stroke her matted hair, to soothe her pain, but my time is short. I am not to call attention to myself, even though my loaf has been lost; I have instructions to follow and a rendezvous to keep.

I glance again at the address written by Royer. I am surprised to see the number is the same as the gilded gold number above the ornate entrance of a hotel. Can this be right? It seems a mistake. But I am to follow instructions. The hotel attendants swing open the heavy doors, bowing solicitously as I pass.

I feel I have entered the grand salon of a luxury ocean liner at sea, so far removed is this world from the one outside. I am transported into another reality as I step onto the plush carpeting. Glistening marble walls soar upward; the crystal brilliance of chandeliers high overhead casts an expensive glow onto a shadowless realm. I become lost among the velvet-flocked pillars of the vast lobby. I search for a way out. Royer must have given me the wrong address. Or is this another test?

"I can assist you."

The words float toward me through the forest of pillars. I try to adjust my eyes to the rich light. Then I see a man dressed in a black tuxedo and white shirt. He stands on the far side of a granite counter; behind him rises a wall of message boxes holding silver room keys. How can he assist me? I see him looking at my basket. My basket! I carry no luggage; I must be someone to be quickly ushered out.

He comes from behind the counter and beckons me to follow: "Right this way." He leads me down a broad hallway lined with potted palms and stops at the entrance to a formal dining room.

An imperious maître d'hôtel, standing guard at a desk with an open reservation book before him, glances at me skeptically. "Is this she?"

"Yes." The man in the tuxedo nods and walks away.

"Your table is ready." The maître d'hôtel picks up a leather-bound menu and starts into the dining room.

"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."