White Death (21 page)

I twisted the key in the ignition and headed back to the farm where I had left the swarm. By now the place was calmer. There were a few bees around the entrance to the skep, but the majority were quietly inside. I took away the brick and let the skep fall flush with the ground. I took the four corners of the sheet and threw them over the skep, tying them together so that the bees were closed inside and I could carry the whole bundle by the knotted corners. I put it in the boot of the car.

The farmer was watching me with curiosity. I went over to thank him for this new colony and promised to bring him a pot of honey at the end of the summer.

I drove over to Mauro’s place. He was coming out of his garage as I opened the boot. He watched me pulling out the sheet and must have heard the loud hum of the swarm inside.

‘That’s not what I think it is, is it?’ he said, walking towards me.

I nodded apologetically. ‘You’ve got room haven’t you?’

He shook his head, pretending to be dismayed, but I could see him smiling as I pulled on my veil and gloves. We walked to the far end of the garden where I had an old nucleus hive. I found a plank of plywood in the hedge and rested it up against the entrance. Mauro took a step back as I untied the knot. I upended the skep and beat the side of it hard against my hand so that most of the bees were thrown out onto the
plywood. Before long there was a river of them, a living, furry river flowing uphill towards the tiny slit at the base of the hive. It looked so beautiful, their dark, shiny, dangerous bodies all communicating to each other through pitch and position and scent. It was a magnificent ensemble. Some of them stood by the entrance, fanning their pheromones to tell the others that this was now home.

‘That girl you asked me to keep an eye on …’ Mauro said.

‘Gaia?’

‘She’s quite a woman. She realised I was keeping an eye on her and stormed up to the car and started banging on the window, insulting me and saying she wouldn’t be intimidated by criminals.’ He laughed at the memory. ‘I told her you had asked me to look out for her, just check she was OK.’

‘And?’

‘She told me to give you a message.’

I motioned for him to go on.

‘To go round there some time. Go and see her.’

I nodded. ‘Thanks.’

He looked at me with curiosity. ‘Allora? Will you?’

‘Yeah, maybe. Once this thing blows over.’

He looked at me for a second, like he was about to say something, but then turned back to the bees. They were still crawling up the ramp and into the hive. We watched them, both of us hypnotised by their busy industry.

Tobias Jones is the author of two travel books,
The Dark Heart of Italy
and
Utopian Dreams
. His novel,
The Salati Case,
was the first in a series featuring the Italian private detective Castagnetti. Jones has written and presented documentaries for the BBC and for RAI, and is a columnist for the
Observer
and
Internazionale.
He runs a small ‘woodland shelter’ in Somerset with his wife and three children.

THE DARK HEART OF ITALY
UTOPIAN DREAMS: IN SEARCH OF A GOOD LIFE

In the same series

THE SALATI CASE