BEES ON THE TAP

The empty ampoule trembled on the edge of the sink, touched by the wind coming in from the back kitchen. Divina held the tube with two fingers, waiting for the water to run from the open tap. The line had gone dry before nightfall. The isolation band glowed on the floor, drawn back to the pipe. A low hum came from the yard. She thought it was the cut refrigerator. Then she saw the first bees come in through the gap above the louvred shutter, three, eight, a whole cloud thickening before the whitewashed wall. They came loaded with yellow dust. The buriti behind the bar had lost half its leaves since the pit advanced, and the bees had left the holes in the trunk to look for shade wherever moisture remained. Divina lowered the ampoule. The bees covered the tap. One landed on the blade of water, another went into the tube. Divina stepped back to the fibre curtain. The sampling needed the sink, but the sink was theirs now. Antônio was in the outside corridor with the thermal bag on his shoulder. The authorisation to visit his son ran that night, six hours that fit between the road and the door of a house where he no longer knew whether he was expected. He heard the hum and came back. Don't come close, said Divina. He stopped by the band. The bees had made a living mass over the metal of the tap. The warmth of the pipe gave them shelter. The water, drawn from the basin the mining operation shared with the houses and had promised to the future datacenter, sustained that small choice of the insects. Intelligence servers would ask for the same water in order to rise as vapour. The bees needed only a crack. Antônio left the bag on the floor. He had a dish cloth behind the stove, used to cover the third bowl. He took it without touching the food. Divina opened the high cupboard and took out a deep bowl, one of those that used to receive flour for the hostel's travellers. The two of them stood looking at the sink. She had come to take a sample to those who had refused the cameras. He needed to leave without dropping the kitchen into her hands like someone abandoning a bill. The water in the washing basin kept rippling. Divina set the bowl on the floor, away from the amber light. Antônio wet the cloth in the washing basin and wrung it once over the window ledge. The smell of old corn rose with the moisture. The bees began to detach themselves from the tap, first a few, then in threads. They followed the cloth to the porch. One stayed inside the ampoule. Divina tilted the glass and waited for it to come out. The bee struck the transparent wall, turned, found the opening. It flew to the soaked cloth. On the night profile, the tap closed the passage. The last drop hung from the spout, thick and motionless. He picked up the thermal bag. Divina had the ampoule clean again, but she did not fill it. She put the tube inside the deep bowl and carried both to the threshold. Antônio passed her first, carrying the bag against his chest.