Tabula Rasa

It's left wing was broken so I haggled the man down to 3 kopeks. He looked bored during the conversation and a bead of sweat trickled from his sideburns, down the side of his face and dripped onto my hand as I handed over my money. He placed the bee into a small matchbox and I walked back to my lodgings. The boarding house was dark and the air felt greasy and stuffy. I shared my room with an old sailor who didn't speak. He sat in his bed all day smoking a pipe of cheap tobacco. A thin light filtered through the filthy windows and struggled to puncture the coils of swirling fumes. I nodded at the sailor as I entered and took the matchbox out of my pocket, throwing my jacket onto the bed, sweat already forming on my brow. I picked up a stale crust from the remains of my meagre dinner, chewing it to distract my gnawing stomach. Counting the days in my head I thought I should have enough time to mend it's wing and my heart glowed. Sitting on the thin mattress I hunched over the matchbox and slid it open. Inside lay the bedraggled bee, sluggish in the warmth of the room. I arranged a few drops of water on my dinner plate and scraped across some remnants of jam, before tipping the bee carefully beside them. It stumbled drowsily towards the water and began to drink. I smiled. --- Over the next few days, with it's wing braced and a leash made of some spare thread, the bee began to recover. From small faltering jumps to clumsy hovers it progressed each day, my heart soaring with every inch it climbed into the air. By the end of the week it was flying confidently pulling at the leash which restrained it's meagre body. On the Sunday I placed the bee back it in it's small matchbox, returning it to my jacket pocket. I shaved in the smeared mirror and tried my best to comb my hair with my fingers. All the while I could feel the impatient buzz of wings against my quivering heart. I walked from my lodgings across the river to the tree lined streets of the Primorsky District. Their cool shade was a welcome relief from the oppressive heat of the narrow alleys I had come from. I entered Neva park and sat on a bench, my foot tapping impatiently - then I saw him. My son. He entered the park with his mother, chubby face glowing. I stood and hurried to intercept them, fishing the matchbox out of my pocket and secreting it into my palm. His eyes caught mine, then hers. Pity shined but I beamed, my heart bursting, anticipating my redemption. He turned and I saw his pudgy fingers grasped a single silken thread pulled taught by a vigorous, plump bumblebee. My fist tightened and I felt the last flutterings of my hopeful heart.