By Jasmin Searle
The bees are swarming, flying around the heads of passers-by at the corner of the Conservatorium of Music. Everybody’s on their way to somewhere, humans and bees alike. Students clutch the straps of their Herschel backpacks, rushing toward to the corner then jolting to a stop upon noticing the swarm. They hurry on with heads down through invisible rain. Some swat the air or use binders as shields. Others stroll through without ever looking up from their phones. From inside the hall, the sound of a violin seems to attract the swarm.
‘Must have been playing Flight of the Bumblebee,’ Will grins at his own joke and I grin too. ‘Let’s watch.’ The bees buzz about our heads, circling and becoming a tighter unit with each pass.
‘It’s the pheromones,’ says a woman with an American accent who steps up beside us. She looks at the Conservatorium while she speaks and we look at it as we nod. ‘There’ll be a Queen in there somewhere.’
‘Does that mean all the rest are dudes?’ asks Will.
‘Has anyone called someone about this?’ She looks at us now and we shake our heads.
‘Someone really ought to call someone.’ We nod and continue to do nothing.
A student in jeans, white tee and rainbow suspenders dismounts his bike, still rolling and slots the front wheel into the bike rack directly under the bees. He takes off his helmet before noticing the insects. A number of them crawl about on the basket of the bike next to his. He looks at us. We look at him. Standing with his helmet still in his hands as though he’s forgotten ever riding here and he’s just woken up inside the swarm. He looks at his bike, his helmet, the bees, his bike. He hangs the helmet from the handlebars, tucks his thumbs in his suspenders and watches a bee moving across his bike seat. Then he turns abruptly and walks back the way he came.
‘I’d better call someone,’ says the woman, flipping open her phone and pushing buttons with one index finger. My mouth opens in wonder. Who could she possibly be calling? Some memorized bee hotline she has stored away for moments just such as this. A bee flies dangerously close to my open mouth.
‘They must have been attracted by the music,’ says Will to the woman. ‘Flight of the Bumblebee I reckon.’
‘No. They prefer Big Band,’ she deadpans, still prodding at her phone.
‘Ha!’ Will laughs, a syllable of delight.
‘Woah! What the heck?’ A guy in a grey UofA hoodie jerks to a stop.
‘Bees,’ I explain.
‘Ugh, I fuckin hate bees,’ he says.
I watch one crawl up the drawstring of his hoodie.
‘Yes, hello, I’m calling about some bees.’ We look from Hoodie to Flip-phone like a couple of swiveling clown heads watching a carnival go by. She relays the situation as though she’s calling to report a fire and finishes with, ‘I thought I had better call someone.’
Two men in blue collared shirts pull up behind her, hands on their hips.
‘Yeah mate, it’s a swarm of bees,’ says blue collar one.
‘Yep,’ blue collar two agrees.
‘Oh! Oh,’ Flip-phone turns, phone to her ear. ‘Are you gentlemen with the University?’
‘Yes Ma’am.’
‘Oh,’ she says into the phone. ‘The University has already sent someone down, all under control, you’ve been most helpful. Thank you. Bye bye.’ To the men she says, ‘I’ve just been on the phone. Now what are you going to do about this bee situation?’
‘Well, we’ll have to call someone.’
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Now, they won’t kill the bees will they?’
‘Well it’ll depend on who we can get down here. We have to go with whoever is faster and it looks like the pest control…’
‘Oh heavens, no! These bees need to be protected!’ We nod but no one is looking at us.
‘Well that may be Ma’am, but we can’t have a student getting stung and going into anaphylactic shock.’ He looks at us at this point and with a puff of his chest says, ‘I think you ought to move along now, there’s a swarm of bees.’
‘Yeah,’ we say.
Flip-phone tries again. ‘Now if this pest control man thinks it’s necessary to…’ Blue collar cuts her off.
‘Sorry Ma’am, I think you’d better move along too. In fact we’ll be cordoning off this whole area directly.’
A bee crawls up Will’s sock. The buzzing has died down and the bees all cluster together on the wall. The spectacle finished.
‘I reckon they like it because the bricks look like a giant honeycomb,’ says Will.
‘Makes sense,’ I say.
On either side of us orange plastic bunting and witches cones are being rolled out, a man at each station redirecting student traffic with outstretched arms.
‘Sorry Miss, I’ll have to ask you to go around, there are bees down here.’ People scatter as the swarm settles. ‘Everything is under control,’ he says to himself or to the crowd. To us he says, ‘You’ll have to leave this area folks. There’s a swarm of bees.’
‘Yeah,’ we nod.
HUM 