Death of a Butterfly

by Simon Brown

  “I am sure she does a much better job looking after you than Mathew.”

  There was no reply and we sat in silence for a while. Claudia came in and sat on the chaise longue and held Veronica’s hand. I stood up to leave. Claudia accompanied me to the door.

  “When I left last night, someone followed me and then chased me.”

  I thought I saw Claudia’s cheeks flush.

  “You should be careful. Perhaps it is time to go back to London.”

  Claudia shut the door before I could reply.

  I walked back out into the cold air and darkness. I had a small hand mirror in my bag and I placed it in the palm of my hand. I had also packed a vegetable knife from the kitchen, although I could not imagine using it.

  As I walked through the streets I checked in the mirror to see behind me. I saw people in colourful masks. They were laughing, holding hands, and apparently on their way to a party. I noticed a lone figure in their midst, wearing a black leather coat, black shoes and a silver mask. I swallowed and pulled my coat around me. This time I was determined to stay focussed. I walked on, keeping to busier passages. I suspected he or she must follow me from Veronica’s house. I had planned to disguise myself after, so I could emerge in my new skin and merge chameleon-like into a crowd. When I saw the silver masked man was out of sight, I turned quickly into a crowded shop. I put my mask on, removed my hat and reversed my coat. I hurried out of the shop and blended back into a herd of people wandering the street.

  I saw the same man ahead of me walking away looking in shops. I turned off the street and sped up towards another bridge. It felt like a game of cat and mouse or hide and seek. I began to hope I had lost him and explored a new route home. As I crossed the bridge I stood and took in the view to calm myself. A long stretch of still water, crumbling walls of cream and pink plaster, street lamps creating pools of light and long shadows. I could see a curved red brick and stone bridge next to mine. As I watched I saw a figure walk onto the bridge opposite with a black hat, silver mask and leather coat. He looked away from me and then slowly turned to me. He looked straight at me. I panicked and ran. Tears welled up and I started to drown in fear. My street led to another bridge and as I clambered across I looked to my right and saw him jogging over the parallel bridge. I staggered, panting hard, into a busy square. I cursed that my fear had given away my disguise.

  I hid behind a stall and watched as he entered the square he stopped looked around, walked across to the opposite street and loped out of sight. I crossed the square and walked alongside the canal on a different path. I began to catch my breath again. It seemed like a long tortuous walk home. I walked passed my gate and turned into the following street. I waited for nearly a minute before looking round. I could not see anyone in black or acting suspiciously so I ran back and let myself in quickly.

  Back in the relative safety of my apartment I called Dorothy. I explained what had happened.

  “Would it put you at ease if Henry came to stay with you?”

  I hesitated. There was only one bedroom, although the living room had a sofa bed. I liked my solitude here and I did not feel like having to entertain Henry, but it would be so much better to be able to enjoy Venice without being on the run.

  “Yes, I would feel more secure.”

  “Good, I will call you shortly.”

  Dorothy phoned an hour later to tell me that Henry would arrive tomorrow in the early afternoon and that I was to wait for him at the apartment. I told my aunt that I felt a bit disappointed that Veronica had not revealed anything helpful.

  “Oh, but she has, my dear. Small steps. The link to Barcelona may prove invaluable and now we know to look in Argentina for his past, not Spain. Next time, do ask Veronica for the name of that bar in Barcelona.”

  “She said she hated Mathew and I when we married.”

  “‘Mathew and me,’ dear. Just as you would say ‘hated me’ if you were not including Mathew. Well, that’s understandable. Perhaps she felt hurt and rejected.”

  “Claudia asks such strange questions about the police.”

  “Well, you might do a little research. See if you can find out more about her. Try to obtain her last name.”

  “How can I do that? I can’t just ask her.”

  “I think I would look for a letter or envelop. Is there a haberdashery near you? I found the most delightful wool on my first visit to Venice.”

  “No, it’s mostly tourist shops. Masks, clothes, art, convenience items, that sort of thing.”

  When we finished talking my paranoia subsided. I drank a cup of camomile tea making a point of listening to the sound of pouring the tea, watching the steam mix with the air currents of the room, feeling the warmth of the cup, smelling the aroma and tasting the tea to keep me in the moment and in my senses. Once I finished the tea I closed my eyes and as Dorothy had taught me felt the impression of the tea in my sinuses, throat and stomach. I felt complete.

  I took out my knitting and sat by the window feeling the wool with my fingers and listening to the clickety click of the needles. I had knitted enough to begin to see the mix of colours that reminded Dorothy of the Scottish highlands.

  During the night I woke from a bizarre dream. A masked man found me in a dark street. Instead of running from him I stood and let him come up to me. He led me by the hand into a deserted warehouse. I knew he was going to kill me but I did not care. I felt almost serene as he took me to a barred window. I stood looking out over the murky water. The room was dark, damp and musky. There was sand on the ground. I stood looking out over the water feeling quite content to leave my body and move on. I became aware that I was standing naked, feeling the grains under my feet and a cool breeze across my back and legs. As I became absorbed in the sensation of living, I forgot the masked man and he ceased to exist. The sun came out and I felt the warmth on my abdomen. I was in a field, feeling the long grass brush against the bare skin of my legs. I fell and looked up to see a single purple flower in front of my nose. The grass tickled my back. I surrendered and my emptiness filled with beauty.

  I got up for a glass of water. I drank it looking out of my bedroom window. The thought occurred to me that if I faced the worst possibility, what was there left to fear? If death held no great threat for me and I was prepared to die, then every new day would be a blessing. I wondered how I would live each day if it was my last. What would I do tomorrow?

  After some thought I realised it was not so much about what I would do and the content of the day but more how I wanted to be. Could I create those loving feelings, might I unwrap my soul a bit more, would I be able to connect with the world around me? I snuggled back into the warmth of my bed, pulling the duvet around tight. In a way it was the interplay between fear and trust that seemed to define how I stood in this world.

  CHAPTER 18

  Henry arrived early afternoon, travelling with a black backpack. He gave me a hug and kiss on each cheek. I smelt lemon.

  “Mrs H sent me over, said you’re in trouble.”

  “Dorothy Hope asked me to fly to Venice. She said you were frightened,” I corrected him, imitating my aunt.

  We both laughed. I prepared some soup for us, whilst Henry unpacked. I wanted to take Henry out and show him some of the places I had enjoyed most. After we ate, I showed Henry my trick with the hand mirror and put on my mask for him to see. I suddenly felt bouncy, energised and enthusiastic.

  We strode out into the street and walked round to St Mark’s Square.

  “Your aunt insisted I take you for tea at this place she recommended. She even gave me the euros.”

  We sat in sumptuous chairs listening to musicians playing “Spring” from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, as we looked out over the square. Our teas and cakes arrived on a silver tray.

  I told Henry about Veronica, Claudia and the chases. Henry seemed preoccupied with his pastries and made inane comments like “wow,” “scary” and “cool” before taking another bite of his cake. When I finished, I felt a rus
h of anger. I gripped the arms of my chair and stared at Henry.

  “Wow, this is some cool place. Just look at the mirror behind you. Looks hundreds of years old. Isn’t it neat how they put the trays on the table, and then to clear up they just take the tray away again.”

  “Don’t you care?”

  Henry looked up from pouring his tea with surprise.

  “I could have been killed by that masked madman.”

  Henry pointed to his mouth. He was still chewing. I took the opportunity to talk at him.

  “I’m sorry, Henry, but after all I have been through I just wanted a little more than half-hearted, one-word expressions.”

  I felt my anger rise again. But what did I expect? I wanted more sympathy and at the very least to be heard. Henry wiped chocolate from his lips with a napkin.

  “No problem, I understand. Sorry, I’m just a bit overwhelmed by Venice. You’re safe now. This cake is something. How’s yours?”

  Dorothy’s voice interrupted. Expectations, my dear, expectations. Enjoy Henry as he is.

  “Fiddlesticks,” I mumbled under my breath.

  Henry broke my thoughts.

  “You know in Chinese medicine, fear is associated with the kidneys, so you may be deficient there. I brought some needles and can give you a treatment later. You also seem a bit angry since we came here. Could be an excess of liver chi.”

  He paused and looked at me with concern before adding.

  “Don’t worry. When he sees us together, he’ll back off.”

  Having my feelings summed up in terms of the energetic state of my organs did not really help but I was now calm enough to realise that I was reacting to something from within me. Why was I expecting so much of Henry?

  We walked through the narrow streets until evening and found a small restaurant for our dinner. I realised I knew very little about Henry.

  “So, tell me all about yourself, young man.”

  Henry paused from dipping his bread in olive oil.

  “What’s to tell? I grew up in southeast London. Mum and Dad were kind of ordinary, nurse and teacher. I went to the local school and did okay but nothing special. Then I bummed around working on building sites and a golf course. I saved some money and went travelling with a friend to Thailand. I liked all the massage and healing. I found I could go to China and study acupuncture, so I signed up. Back in London I did some more studies and started working in a natural health clinic.”

  I was intrigued at the way Henry managed to flatten his life out into a dull trudge along an inevitable path.

  “And what about romance, love and excitement?”

  “Oh, I’ve been in a couple of long-term relationships. Just finished with Vanessa. She’s moved back to Scotland. That was a bit of a gut churner, but I’m better now.”

  “And what organ did that relate to?” I said smiling.

  Henry put down his wine and laughed.

  “That would be the lungs. I suffered lots of grief over her. Don’t worry I’m over it.”

  I felt Henry was not over it. Her name still seemed to be an emotional trigger for him.

  “Did acupuncture help?”

  Henry had moved on to his spaghetti and his face reddened slightly as he wound another mouthful onto his fork.

  “I tried some therapy and your aunt helped some too.”

  Now I became more interested and looked up from my green salad.

  “Really? How did Dorothy help?”

  “She helped me see life more as a journey along a path. Vanessa was a friend who travelled with me for a while and then went off on another path. I sat down feeling sad and lonely for a while, but now I am walking again and exploring new territories and enjoying the process. Kind of got me out of so much thinking and letting it build up in my head. She got me to be in the moment more and showed me this cool meditation.”

  We took a detour home so that Henry could see more sights. When we got home I felt a slight anxiety about where each of us would sleep. I told Henry I would sleep on the sofa bed.

  “No way, you stay in your bed. I’ll be fine here.”

  After sorting out his sheets and duvet, I went into the bathroom to get ready for bed. When I came out Henry was lying on the sofa bed listening to his iPod. He was reading a novel. I hovered for a moment wanting to say goodnight.

  Henry looked up. He put his book down and took off his headphones. Henry stood up and gave me a hug. I felt slightly exposed in my pyjamas.

  “Thank you for a great day, Amanda. I really enjoyed it.”

  Then Henry kissed me on each cheek before giving me a brief squeeze. I wished him a good sleep and went to my bed. I lay down and thought of Henry for a while. He seemed goofy and superficial, but generally kind. I caught myself being judgemental and reminded myself to be curious and interested. Just describe, Amanda.

  In the morning I phoned Claudia and arranged to see Veronica again. Henry was keen to go out. We walked through the narrow streets, Henry bought a mask, we stopped for coffees, ate lunch, went to an art exhibition and then arrived at Veronica’s. Henry said he would wait in the café down the road and read his book.

  Claudia let me in and this time I looked for post on the hall side table. I saw a magazine in a clear plastic envelop with a white address sticker across the front. Claudia ushered me forward. I met Veronica in the sunny lounge room. She seemed lighter today. Veronica asked if she could put on some music. Claudia played “Nefeli” by Ludovico Einaudi, a hypnotic piano piece. She put it on repeat so I heard it about ten times. Veronica lay down as though we had developed a familiar routine. I found it easier to get into my meditative state this time and Veronica seemed more at ease. There were moments when I experienced an incredible stillness. After, I sat quietly in the chair opposite. Veronica slowly opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling. After a few minutes she spoke very slowly.

  “Did Mathew like healing?”

  “I never tried it with him. I only discovered it after his death. My aunt has been helping me.”

  We fell into silence. Then I remembered the bar.

  “Veronica, do you remember the name of the bar Mathew worked in?”

  “Bar Fornos, old part.”

  “Do you want me to come tomorrow?”

  Veronica nodded and shut her eyes.

  Claudia escorted me to the door.

  As we passed the hall table I picked up the magazine.

  “Oh, is this any good? I am always interested in Italian fashion,” I said staring at the name on the label.

  My voice sounded contrived and false. I felt sure Claudia would see through my clumsy manoeuvre. She snatched the magazine from my hand and held it behind her back as she opened the entrance door.

  “Take good care.” I felt a hint of menace in her tone.

  I walked out into the cold air. I found Henry in the café. I found a pen and wrote Tagliabue on a napkin. If Claudia really knew my discovery I felt sure she would plan some kind of revenge.

  I walked through the now familiar streets with Henry at my side. Sometimes Henry’s legs would seem too long for him and he would sway slightly, bumping into me or brushing against my shoulder. I checked a few times but could not see any suspicious characters dressed in black following us. I convinced myself there was nothing to worry about.

  Over dinner we chatted about Dorothy for a while. I told Henry about the various conversations at the meetings.

  “I understand the bit about having an open mind, Amanda, but surely it’s going too far to say nothing exists. I mean what about this table, the plate, my spaghetti?”

  “I think they would say that we all experience them differently and therefore we interpret them differently, even if we agree on their labels.”

  I touched the table and said “table”, touched Henry’s hand and said “hand” and pointed at his spaghetti and said “spaghetti”, in a childlike voice.

  Henry laughed.

  “Okay, I get the point, but I still think we agree on the colou
rs, shapes and textures even if we might see them differently in very subtle ways.”

  I paused, wishing Herr Huber was here. Then a thought occurred to me.

  “Could it be that by accepting that we might subtly perceive things differently, we give other people greater freedom to view life how they want, without imposing our view on them?”

  I liked that thought and considered what I had just said whilst Henry finished chewing a large mouthful of spaghetti and pesto sauce. Then another thought came to my mind.

  “Perhaps it is not so much the content of what is or is not, but more the way we experience our world. Rather than me getting caught up in arguments over whether this is a table or not I can take a more open, accepting approach, and if it is something else to you then that is fine, and maybe it will be something else for me one day. What do you think?”

  Henry nodded and wiped his mouth. I was surprised by my own words. Suddenly they seemed so philosophical and inspiring. I was feeling a high. Was I connecting to my universe, or was I regurgitating ideas from Dorothy’s meetings?

  “Yeah, it would reduce the number of arguments.”

  Henry smiled thinking about it.

  “And what about people, Henry? If we could find a way to stop judging people, making assumptions about them, analysing them and maybe just train ourselves to love them as they are, what then?”

  Henry laughed whilst winding another large portion of spaghetti onto his fork.

  “What are you on tonight, Amanda? I guess we would have a great, big hippie movement, where everybody loves each other.”

  “Sounds like more fun than a bunch of people competing, criticising, stereotyping each other, pushing each other out of the way to get their heads in the trough.”

  Henry held up his fork.

  “Yeah, especially when the trough is full of cheap, processed, junk food.”

  Henry dropped his fork. The spaghetti he carefully loaded ready for an open mouth fell across his lap.

  “Oh no, look at that. I’ve got pesto all over my trousers.”

  I laughed.

  “Remember it is all in your head. Just your perception, Henry.”