“My mother used to call them ‘glass bugs,’ ” said Wieś, blowing the insect from his hand.
We would come across them from time to time over the summer. They possessed a beauty rare among the hymenopterans. Their transparent wings were a delicate yet at the same time vivid shade of green. Their eyes were not at all golden, despite their Polish name of złotook or “gold-eye.” Rather, they looked like flecks of copper, or the eyes of lizards. In full sunlight, the juxtaposition of the two colors created an impression of extraordinary purity: metal, precious stone, and light. The glare passed through them; they barely cast any shadow.
As they crawled across the table they tested the way with their curving feelers. Most of all they liked scattered sugar granules. Perhaps they were attracted to forms resembling their own.
As autumn progressed they began to gather in the house. At that time it turned out that, as well as belonging to the mineral realm, there was also something about them that linked them to the world of plants. As there was less and less sunlight, the green of their wings began to fade. By November they looked like a precision drawing made with the finest pencil.
In the evenings, when we lit candles, these scarcely visible sketches would flutter from dark corners, from crevices in the wooden walls, and speed toward the flames, till in a final flare even their outline was lost.