whole nest of wasps but somehow that
doesn't count. He imagines a row of hives at the end of the lime
trees. “You'll be fascinated when you look in the hive,” he says.
“When it's hot, dozens of workers stationed at the door whir their
wings to cool the queen.” I've noticed that he has collected lots
of local honeys. Frequently there's a pot of hot water on the
stove with a jar of waxy, stiff honey softening in it. The acacia
is pale and lemony; the dark chestnut is so thick a spoon will
stand up straight in it. He has a jar of
timo,
thyme
honey, and, of course, the
tiglio.
The wildest is
macchia,
from the salty coastal shrubs of Tuscany.
“The queen bee's life is totally overrated. All she does is lay
eggs, lay eggs. She takes
one
nuptial flight. That
one stuns her with enough fertile power to be trapped in the hive
forever. The workers—the sexually undeveloped
females—have the best life. They have fields of flowers
to roll in. Imagine turning over and over inside a rose.” I
can tell he's carried away with the idea. I'm getting interested
myself.
“What do they eat inside the hive all winter?”
“Beebread.”
“Beebread? Are you serious?”
“It's a mixture of pollen and honey. And the worker excretes
gold wax from her stomach for the comb. Those neat hexagons!”
I try to imagine the size of a worker bee's intestinal
system, how many times she must fly from the hive to the
tiglio
to make even a tablespoon of honey. A thousand
times? A jar must represent a million flights of bees carrying a
heavy cargo of honeydew, their legs sticky with pollen. In
The Georgics,
which is sort of an ancient farmer's
almanac, Vergil writes that bees lift small stones to ballast
themselves as they fly through boisterous east winds. He is wise
on the subject of bees but not entirely to be trusted; he thought
they would generate spontaneously from the decayed carcass of a
cow. I like the image of a bee clutching a small stone, like a
football player holding the ball to his chest as he barrels down
the field. “Yes, I can see four hives painted green. I like the
beekeeper's gear, that medieval-looking veil, lifting the dark
combs—we could roll our own candles from the wax.” Now
I'm drawn into this idea.
But he stands up and leans out into the dizzying fragrance.
Practicality has left him. “The wasps are anarchistic, whereas
the bees . . .”
I gather up the coffee cups. “Maybe we should wait until the
house is done.”
FIGS REVEAL WATER. ON THE TERRACES THEY GROW NEAR THE stone chutes
we discovered. The natural well has webby roots crawling down into
it from the fig above. I'm mixed on figs. The fleshy quality feels
spooky. In Italian,
il fico,
fig, has a slangy turn
into
la fica,
meaning vulva. Possibly because of the
famous fig leaf exodus from Eden, it seems like the most
ancient of fruits. Oddest, too—the fig flower is inside
the fruit. To pull one open is to look into a complex, primitive,
infinitely sophisticated life cycle tableau. Fig pollination takes
place through an interaction with a particular kind of wasp about
one eighth of an inch long. The female bores into the developing
flower inside the fig. Once in, she delves with her oviposter, a
curved needle nose, into the female flower's ovary, depositing her
own eggs. If her oviposter can't reach the ovary (some of the
flowers have long styles), she still fertilizes the fig flower
with the pollen she collected from her travels. Either way, one
half of this symbiotic system is served—the wasp larvae
develop if she has left her eggs or the pollinated fig flower
produces seed. If reincarnation is true, let me not come back as
a fig wasp. If the female can't find a suitable nest for her eggs,
she usually dies of exhaustion inside the fig. If she can, the
wasps hatch inside the fig and all the males are born without
wings. Their sole, brief function is sex. They get up and fertilize
the females, then
doesn't count. He imagines a row of hives at the end of the lime
trees. “You'll be fascinated when you look in the hive,” he says.
“When it's hot, dozens of workers stationed at the door whir their
wings to cool the queen.” I've noticed that he has collected lots
of local honeys. Frequently there's a pot of hot water on the
stove with a jar of waxy, stiff honey softening in it. The acacia
is pale and lemony; the dark chestnut is so thick a spoon will
stand up straight in it. He has a jar of
timo,
thyme
honey, and, of course, the
tiglio.
The wildest is
macchia,
from the salty coastal shrubs of Tuscany.
“The queen bee's life is totally overrated. All she does is lay
eggs, lay eggs. She takes
one
nuptial flight. That
one stuns her with enough fertile power to be trapped in the hive
forever. The workers—the sexually undeveloped
females—have the best life. They have fields of flowers
to roll in. Imagine turning over and over inside a rose.” I
can tell he's carried away with the idea. I'm getting interested
myself.
“What do they eat inside the hive all winter?”
“Beebread.”
“Beebread? Are you serious?”
“It's a mixture of pollen and honey. And the worker excretes
gold wax from her stomach for the comb. Those neat hexagons!”
I try to imagine the size of a worker bee's intestinal
system, how many times she must fly from the hive to the
tiglio
to make even a tablespoon of honey. A thousand
times? A jar must represent a million flights of bees carrying a
heavy cargo of honeydew, their legs sticky with pollen. In
The Georgics,
which is sort of an ancient farmer's
almanac, Vergil writes that bees lift small stones to ballast
themselves as they fly through boisterous east winds. He is wise
on the subject of bees but not entirely to be trusted; he thought
they would generate spontaneously from the decayed carcass of a
cow. I like the image of a bee clutching a small stone, like a
football player holding the ball to his chest as he barrels down
the field. “Yes, I can see four hives painted green. I like the
beekeeper's gear, that medieval-looking veil, lifting the dark
combs—we could roll our own candles from the wax.” Now
I'm drawn into this idea.
But he stands up and leans out into the dizzying fragrance.
Practicality has left him. “The wasps are anarchistic, whereas
the bees . . .”
I gather up the coffee cups. “Maybe we should wait until the
house is done.”
FIGS REVEAL WATER. ON THE TERRACES THEY GROW NEAR THE stone chutes
we discovered. The natural well has webby roots crawling down into
it from the fig above. I'm mixed on figs. The fleshy quality feels
spooky. In Italian,
il fico,
fig, has a slangy turn
into
la fica,
meaning vulva. Possibly because of the
famous fig leaf exodus from Eden, it seems like the most
ancient of fruits. Oddest, too—the fig flower is inside
the fruit. To pull one open is to look into a complex, primitive,
infinitely sophisticated life cycle tableau. Fig pollination takes
place through an interaction with a particular kind of wasp about
one eighth of an inch long. The female bores into the developing
flower inside the fig. Once in, she delves with her oviposter, a
curved needle nose, into the female flower's ovary, depositing her
own eggs. If her oviposter can't reach the ovary (some of the
flowers have long styles), she still fertilizes the fig flower
with the pollen she collected from her travels. Either way, one
half of this symbiotic system is served—the wasp larvae
develop if she has left her eggs or the pollinated fig flower
produces seed. If reincarnation is true, let me not come back as
a fig wasp. If the female can't find a suitable nest for her eggs,
she usually dies of exhaustion inside the fig. If she can, the
wasps hatch inside the fig and all the males are born without
wings. Their sole, brief function is sex. They get up and fertilize
the females, then
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