Day of the Bees

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 pSanchez, Thomas is the author of 'Day of the Bees' with ISBN 9780375401626 and ISBN 0375401628.