Death of a Butterfly

by Simon Brown

  We lay in each other’s arms crying. I was crying for life, love and salvation. Somehow, I knew he was crying for his mother, the father who abandoned him, the anger, frustration and rage that had become his life. With that realisation my own sobs strengthened. Slowly that natural tide of sadness washed up the beach and then back, leaving us feeling the warmth of each other.

  Mathew’s child moved so he lay beside me with his arm around my tummy. One of my arms was underneath his neck. His head rested on my shoulder. I bent my elbow so I could rest my hand on his long back. My other hand lay on the arm that embraced me. It could have looked as though we were a pair of lovers that had just finished an intense and satisfying afternoon of lovemaking. Except we weren’t. We had been on an extreme, emotional journey together.

  I felt paralysed. I could not move or speak. I felt myself tremble as ripples of shock echoed through my body, like the tremors after an earthquake. It was as though my blood sugar had crashed. My peripheral vision flickered. I tried breathing deeply. Time did not exist, I had no idea how much passed before I heard him speak.

  “I was not coming here.”

  “Mmm,” was all I could muster.

  “I want to hurt you but then think no, I must go home.”

  “Uh.”

  “I was watching the house from the bus stop. An old woman came and talked to me.”

  I felt my attention crystallise.

  “Oh.”

  “I throw my ball against the wall. She talk about the weather and ask me where I go. So I say Highgate. I am not sure but I think bus goes there. Then bus comes and she ask me to help her in so I must get on. She sit next to me. She talk very much. She say she get off and walk back across Hampstead Heath. Did I want to walk with her?

  I feel good with her, so I say yes.”

  I felt a spark of life returning.

  “Dorothy?”

  “Si, Dorothy. You know her?”

  “My aunt.”

  Mathew’s son shifted his position. He lifted his head from my shoulder and pulled a big cushion off the sofa and put it under my head. He lay next to me with his head on a second cushion. He looked at my chest.

  “Sorry, I put blood on you.”

  I smeared the blood away with the palm of my hand. I reached up to the sofa and pulled the blanket off so I could cover myself. He continued.

  “We are walking. She show me plants and talk about a magic hill. We look at her best tree. Then she tell me a long story about a friend, I think Margaret, who had a son. He is named William. The father left when he small. William grew up hating his father. Then he is very angry. His whole life is full of anger. He is so angry at his father when William marries and has a son, he is very angry with his wife and son. She say, William leaves them just like his father did. She ask me if I think William son will grow up to hate his father.”

  “Then what happened?” I asked softly.

  “I thought this is amazing. This old woman comes from nowhere and tell me a story that is me. It was like a message from heaven.

  So I think I must go back to Argentina. I want to have my own son one day and love him. She was very kind. When we go to Hampstead she buy me a tea and cake. I think she is like an angel.”

  “Why did you come back here?” I asked frowning.

  “I go to my room. Two friends of Ramon relatives are waiting. At first they are friendly. They give me whiskey. We drink together. They say I must leave UK and go to Spain or Argentina. They say they help me. I say why? I do not like these men. I hate Ramon and his family. I say no, I want to stay. They say they will hurt me if I stay. Now they are rude. I say I leave when I want. The men tell me they will kill me if don’t do what they say. We are drinking more and I get mad. They call my mother a peasant. I hit one and they beat me. They laugh and say go home. I am crazy. They say Ramon better with you. You make him happy. They are strong. I cannot get up. One rips my photo of my mother and throw pieces at me. They kick and hit me. Nothing hurts as much as ripping photo. After I get my gun but they gone. I so angry, I come back here and…” a tear tipped over his eyelid. “I very sorry now. I am a very bad person. I kill Ramon and now I hurt you very much, I think.”

  I turned onto my side to face him.

  “What is your name?”

  “Mateo.”

  “Did you send me the letters?”

  “Si.”

  I heard the sound of a key in the door. Mateo tensed. I recognised the sound of Dorothy entering the hall and the gentle closing of the front door. I instinctively covered his body with the blanket. I felt Mateo’s muscles tighten.

  “It’s Dorothy,” I tried to reassure him.

  Mateo looked mortified. Dorothy walked in.

  “Oh, I am sorry. Do you mind if I just go through to the kitchen? I didn’t think you would be back yet.”

  “This is not quite what it must seem. Dorothy, this is Mathew’s son, Mateo.” My voice sounded shaky.

  I noticed Mateo nudge his gun under the sofa.

  “Oh yes, we have already met. Would you like some tea?”

  All Mateo could say was “Sorry.” He kept repeating the word. Whilst Dorothy was in the kitchen we hurriedly dressed as though ashamed of our bodies. I ran over to the daffodils and put them into a third vase. Mateo picked up pieces of broken glass by the wall and put them into a waste paper basket. I felt irrationally guilty. I don’t think either of us wanted Dorothy to see the evidence of what had just happened. I don’t think we did either. I found the pieces of china from the broken vase and laid them in the bin with the glass shards.

  My hands and legs started shaking again. I looked at Mateo. The tension, fear and intensity were back on his face. For a split second I saw an impression of Mateo as a middle-aged man. The resemblance to Mathew was striking.

  “Sit here, Mateo.”

  “I must go.”

  “Please sit. My aunt is making you tea. You like her.”

  Mateo looked at me then back at the sofa. I assumed he was wondering whether to take his gun. Dorothy came back in.

  “Ah, that is better. Why don’t you sit here,” Dorothy ushered Mateo to a chair. “And Amanda and I can sit on the sofa.”

  I could see it was too late for Mateo to leave. His manners obliged him to sit down. He sat rigid on the edge of the chair. Dorothy poured out the tea. She passed the first cup to Mateo.

  “Would you like a slice of walnut and banana cake? I made it yesterday.”

  Mateo opened his mouth but no words came out. He gave a nod. Dorothy sliced the cake, laid it on a plate and passed it to him. Mateo placed in on the table beside him. She served me and then herself. Once the tea ritual was complete she looked Mateo in the eye.

  “Now, Mateo, how are you feeling?”

  “What you mean?” he said defensively.

  “Can you describe how you feel inside?”

  “No, I don’t feel.”

  “Are you feeling warm?”

  “Si, a little.”

  “Do you feel comfortable?”

  Mateo seemed to think Dorothy was talking about the chair and he sat back it bit.

  “Yes, it is nice.”

  Mateo reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a small yellow ball. He tossed it from one hand to another. It seemed to relax him.

  “Are you still feeling angry?”

  “Yes, no,” and then after a pause. “I not sure.”

  “How are you feeling about your father?”

  “He is a bad man. But same as your story, I am bad too.”

  “You feel guilty?”

  Mateo nodded.

  “I have sinned. I ashamed. I feel very much shame for my mother. I do not know if her spirit can forgive.”

  “She loved your father. Did she forgive him?”

  “Si. She always love and forgive. I think too much forgive.”

  “You liked her love?”

  “Si, very much.”

  “Better than if she had been angry and bitter and hate
ful?”

  “Si, of course.”

  “Why don’t you be loving too?”

  Mateo looked down.

  “Surely you don’t want to spend your life full of hate.”

  “How do I love?”

  “We will show you. For now tell me about the tea.”

  Dorothy helped Mateo experience the tea and then describe its smell and taste. When he finished his tea she suggested I move, so Mateo could lie on the sofa. She left the room and then came back with her first aid box. I watched her gently dress his wounds. After, she sat next to him and placed her hands on his heart and forehead. Dorothy encouraged him to feel each breath. She closed her eyes and I saw Mateo slowly let go. The tension in his face dissolved and he let his eyelids drop. I remembered Dorothy once saying that there were many ways we could bring about a healing when talking about the person sending me those threats. Although this was not at all the way I would have ever imagined, here she was slowly introducing that possibility to Mateo.

  After a while I felt I had to leave the room. I went out into the kitchen. Out of habit I opened the fridge and got out some ingredients for dinner. My mind was well aware of the absurdity of the situation. I had been assaulted and raped by a violent man, and here I was cooking supper for him, whilst he lay with his feet up on the sofa. A flash of anger and indignation inflamed me.

  During the attack, I oscillated between my head and heart, the external and internal; now something similar continued whilst I looked through the cupboards for culinary inspiration.

  My head told me this is all wrong, we were harbouring a murderer and rapist, his gun was lying under the sofa, I should call the police: in essence do the right thing. By not taking action I was letting my sex down. Men like Mateo, needed to be punished. I was entrenched in that dualistic state Henrique described. Right and wrong, good and bad, separation from Mateo.

  My heart felt an emotional bond between us. A bond through which I felt I shared some of the pain, sadness and rage he had lived with for so long. I felt I had touched him in a way that filled me with optimism. He could heal himself, just as I had done. Mateo was so young.

  Were my feelings confused by his black hair, deep brown eyes and long nose that so reminded me of Mathew? Was a tiny part of me hoping the man I loved all those years had been resurrected in the form of his son and that we could start with a clean sheet?

  Then my mind kicked in again and I thought of all the letters, the attack in Covent Garden, his enthusiasm for violence and I felt unsure. Perhaps it would be better to encourage him to leave and then call the police. Give him a chance to escape. Was my mind just playing out an abstract and taught morality? I heard Henrique reading Wilde’s prose. His sin, if there are such things as sins, are borrowed. Was I hearing an echo of all those utterances, voiced so definitely and absolutely, by people reading lines about subjects they had never experienced for themselves? What was left if I took all the words out? Right now, it felt like all that would be left, would be changing and confused feelings. What were those feelings? I felt sadness, insecurity and anxiety, mixed up with relief and an appreciation that I was still alive. I also sensed the ebb and flow of feelings of compassion and empathy. Muddled into all this were the subtle and distant hints of love and affection, delicately dyeing my water with their beautiful imprints.

  Dorothy walked in and closed the door quietly behind her.

  “He is sleeping. Are you alright, Amanda? What happened?”

  We sat on her wooden kitchen chairs. In my telling of the events, emotions returned and I started crying again. My body sagged. Dorothy comforted me whilst I rested and then I continued. When I finished Dorothy looked pale and shocked. I had not seen her like that before.

  “I just don’t understand it. When I left him in Hampstead, he seemed so peaceful. Today I went to have lunch with Henrique and then on impulse we went to the Royal Academy of Art. I wished I had come home straight away. How stupid of me.”

  “I think it was just as well you didn’t. He was so angry, so out of control, anything could have happened.”

  I told her how Mathew’s relatives attacked him and how their threats enraged him to defy them. I explained how, fuelled with alcohol, Mateo went back to his original plan. I noticed how my telling of it was almost apologetic for Mateo. I was giving him some kind of justification for what he did. Did I blame myself for going to Barcelona and getting Mathew’s relations involve?

  “What would you like to do?”

  I told Dorothy about the way my feelings kept changing. We agreed to wait and see how I felt after dinner.

  “You know, my dear, there might be an opportunity for you to find a much deeper healing for yourself here. You might find a new understanding of Mathew. You might free yourself of some of your feelings about your marriage.”

  Dorothy helped me for a while and then went back into the living room to sit with Mateo. When I went in to tell them dinner was ready, Dorothy was sitting in a chair knitting, whilst Mateo slept. Dorothy woke him gently. He looked startled and I could see him take some time to orientate himself.

  We sat around the kitchen table and ate our food. Dorothy complimented me on the meal. Mateo joined in awkwardly. After some small talk Dorothy turned to Mateo.

  “Why after all this time did you now decide to come to England to find your father?”

  “My mother die of cancer in the summer. I am very sad. I become very angry. I say she die of broken heart. She always missed Ramon. She say he will come back before she die. But no, he doesn’t. I say I will revenge her death. I will kill the man who did this. So I borrow money for ticket. When I arrive I meet a friend from my mother’s family. It take me a long time to find a gun. With my gun I go to Ramon and shoot him.”

  “And you wanted his watch and photographs as some kind of memento?” my aunt enquired.

  “Si, I want to take and put on mother’s grave, to bring him back to her. But when I look at photographs all I see is new wife. Every picture. Nothing of me, my mother, nothing.”

  “It was an album Mathew made especially for our wedding anniversary,” I mumbled. “But you are right, I never saw any pictures of you or your mother. He did not mention you and it was only when I went to Barcelona that I found out you existed.”

  Mateo winced slightly when I mentioned Barcelona.

  “You saw his family?”

  “Yes, we knew he met Veronica in Bar Fornos in Barcelona.”

  “And why did you send Amanda those letters?”

  Mateo looked up at me.

  “I am sorry now. I felt very angry. I see you happy with Ramon. I see you wearing nice dresses, going to expensive places, and laughing together. My poor mother died with nothing but debts. So now I could not hurt Ramon anymore, I want to hurt you.”

  With Dorothy’s questioning we discovered that Mateo worked at a stall in Camden Lock market and shared a room in Kentish town. After dinner we cleared up and took cups of camomile tea into the living room. We took up the same seats. Dorothy wanted to know why he stopped sending the threats.

  “I was sad for a time. Later I feel better. I have job and a room. I meet this girl. We have a good time together. I like her and I think she likes me. She is quite short and very funny. We laugh a lot. So I think I must stop following you.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “She left me.”

  “How did you follow me?”

  “I took one of your cards by the door. Then I try your email address at Hotmail. I knew Ramon changed his name to Mathew so I tried ‘mathew’ as the password and it worked first time. Easy. Then I check your emails.”

  “So that is how you knew Amanda would be in Covent Garden.”

  “Si.”

  “Why did you attack her?”

  “When I read the email it was nearly too late. I had to run to the station. I don’t know what I do but I want to be there. I want to see Edward. I think you are a…” Mateo looked down. “Is not important. I have a small bott
le of whiskey my friend give me in my pocket. I drink on train. I know you have cameras everywhere. So I put on black hat and sunglasses. I see big coat in pub and take it. Now camera does not see me.”

  “Why so violent?” Dorothy asked.

  Mateo turned to me.

  “I think I will make you very scared. I not mean to shoot. That is accident. Once I start I get crazy. I so sorry. After I worry my mother spirit will know and feel shame.”

  Dorothy put down her knitting and looked up.

  “Well, we must consider what to do next. You can leave and we may call the police or you can stay the night and we can explore this more tomorrow. I think it needs to be Amanda’s choice. She must feel comfortable with whatever we agree on.”

  They both looked at me. I could see fear in Mateo’s wide eyes. Dorothy’s eyes looked gentle and kind. I focussed on my senses for a moment. My thoughts receded.

  “I would be comfortable with you staying tonight, Mateo. You will have to sleep on the sofa. There is more I would like to know from you. When you are ready, I want to hear more about life in Argentina and what you can remember of your father before he left. You will need to give Dorothy your gun.”

  After a long shower, I lay in my bed, rested my head on my clean white cotton pillow and closed my eyes. I though how I did not want to be a victim. I wanted to continue my journey forwards in life. I could feel a pull towards helplessness; needing sympathy, compassion and condolences from the outside. It felt like an old addiction that might return. I wondered what it would be like going to court. How would I cope with a smart lawyer accusing me of enticing Mateo, of inviting him in, undressing in front of him or whatever his defence counsel would conjure up to discredit me.

  I considered Mathew. His own son had murdered him. The correct action would be to hand Mateo over to the law. What would Mathew want? Did Mathew feel any shame or responsibility for his actions?

  I noticed how analytical I became and meditated. After, I considered how a small part of me felt motherly towards Mateo. This led me to remember Oedipus, the Ancient Greek myth of a man who killed his father so he could make love to his mother. I hoped my scenario would play out to a happier ending. I sighed and said, “Hey ho, life’s a box of chocolates,” out loud. I smiled as I thought of the drama my mother would have made of my experiences. How easy it would be to slip back into the echo of her morality.