Of Insects, Life, and Death

My office being in the D wing, and the nearest washroom in the E wing, the trek there is always a little adventure. I follow the winding corridor in the D wing westbound, then cross the corridors leading to the G and H wings, then turn right into the corridor leading to the A and B wings, then turn left into the E wing, and the washroom is right there, on the right. The other day, as I was washing my hands, I saw a ladybug wobbling clumsily on the sink. Since all the windows are hermetically sealed, she must have gotten a ride on somebody's clothes, and was now stuck, her faded orange tailcoat fading even more. I dried my hands thoroughly, cupped one, and as gently as possible pushed her off the sink and into my palm. She faked she was dead, but I knew better. Not feeling her weight, but my palm beginning to sweat nevertheless, I started the trek back to the office. Halfway there I caught up with Sally, the 80-year-old legend of the Department, sailing slowly down the hall. I explained I was on a mission to transport the lost ladybug into one of the bushy plants in my office; her eyes glimmered for a second, as if she had unexpectedly remembered her best childhood friend, then she whole-heartedly approved of my plan, and wished us good luck. In the office, I deposited the ladybug onto the Spider Plant I had bought at the flower shop in the mall across the street, and as it was sliding down from my hand to the new greenness of the day offered generously by the long leaves, I thought of the hot summer day when I accidentally killed a bee.

It was 10 years ago. Late morning on a sizzling summer day in Bosnia. I must have been at home in Banja Luka for the summer vacation. Those summers I loved the best: lush and carefree, like the perfumed air after the whimsical June shower, or the tanned kids running barefoot around the neighbourhood. Late working-day mornings were my favourites: everyone else at work, and me lounging in the sun-washed kitchen and living-room, taking time. My inescapable morning ritual was the Turkish coffee, which I still drank at that time; I savoured the few minutes it took to prepare it, relaxed with the first faint whiff of that irreplaceable smell, and dived into the zen zone of well-being, casting benevolent looks onto the world underneath our third-floor balcony, whose door was permanently ajar in the summer. On sweltering days like that one, there was hardly anyone outside at that hour, the school-yard, the playground, and the trimmed green lawn (nowadays a small shopping centre) all reflecting the sunlight and the heat evaporating tremblingly above the ground in the distance. That morning, then, I was going through the small motions of preparing coffee, making each one last a tad longer than necessary: I measured a cup of water, poured it into our red boiling pot, and boiled it on the smallest hot plate for a minute. But even the smallest plate was too big for the little red pot, and its outer rim would turn burning orange within seconds. Separately, I measured two hefty teaspoonfuls of coffee, and put them in the cofee pot with a long handle, together with one teaspoon of sugar. I removed the red pot with boiling water from the plate, poured half of it into the coffee pot, and put it on the edge of the plate without turning my gaze from it (this was the tricky part -- the coffee would bubble up suddenly and swiftly, and if you weren't watching, it would boil over, hissing angrily). I waited until it rose precariously close to the brim of the coffee pot, then in one sweeping motion removed the pot to the side, to fill it up with the remaining boiling water before I put it back on the plate briefly, which would mark the end of the whole procedure. Just about then, however, a heat-heavy fumbling bee buzzed lazily in through the balcony door, by mistake, or perhaps attracted by the sweet coffee fumes. And before I could do anything, it landed on the momentarily empty, burning-hot plate, instantly getting stuck to it. As in a sped-up sequence after a skipped frame, I turned off the plate, took the bee by the wing between my thumb and finger, and put it on the side, letting go of the wing. It had died instantly. The melted blackened side of the bee's body contrasted sharply and irrevocably against the white enamel of the stove. I just stared at it for a little while, thinking, how stupid; then deposited it into the garbage, along with my morning, and never forgot about it.

And here is a story of a fly, with a more ambiguous ending, but the cleanest and most human-free of the three.