‘Of course,’ he said again. ‘I’m sorry.’ He didn’t know why he was apologising, but John didn’t answer, and by the light of the one lamp that was left, Thomas could see that his eyes were closed. Thomas was pleased to be sharing a room with John, if only for the fact he didn’t snore the way Ernie did. The new pairing was much more harmonious — Ernie had little consideration for others. Thomas had even woken one night to the sound of Ernie pleasuring himself. He was sure John would not be so indiscreet.
He removed the rest of his clothes and put on his nightshirt before kneeling on the mat by his hammock to pray. As he finished, he again remembered the scene on the ship when Lillie had leaned forward. He caught his breath at the vivid detail of her aureole, as soft as a moth’s wing. He shuddered.
And please, God, he finished, grant me the strength of my convictions. The closer they moved to Manaus and the more Thomas learned about the city, the more uneasy he was becoming.
In the week that followed, the four men explored together, rising at six to cloudless days, their breakfast prepared by the cook in the little hut that served as a scullery while they readied their equipment. Then they set off with Paulo and an Indian guide, once again arranged by Antonio, along seldom-used paths that took them across the bare campos, peppered with rocks and low shrubs, and into pockets of forest. Some days they wandered for miles along the riverbanks, where there was no shortage of lepidoptera. George’s hunt for beetles continued, but he found plenty of other varieties of insects to keep him occupied as well — wasps and mason bees of a kind; crickets and ants. He had also taken it upon himself to further his collection of snakes and lizards, finally using the gun he carried everywhere with him in shooting a jacuarú, a fat lizard that ran with little grace and much noise. Thomas didn’t fancy its chances of making it out of Brazil expertly stuffed, and he drew some satisfaction from the idea. George still barked orders at him if he thought Thomas was doing something wrong, if he thought he was being too rough with a butterfly, or too timid.
Often they would split up and go in different directions, then meet up for lunch in some shady wood, where they would sit out the hottest hours, smoking cigarettes and lying on their backs, while the creatures of the rainforest lived out their lives overhead. Blue and black morphos, some as big as blackbirds, patrolled the canopy, and Thomas was satisfied to lie on his back and watch them dipping and gliding, with no itch in his feet to try to chase them or lure them down. He had a prize to keep him satisfied for days — a rare Callithea sapphira, with a dusting of black spots on its grey lower wings, and brilliant orange bands on its upper. He had already captured a female, which flew lower than the male, but the male had required him to climb a tree, dodging stinging insects. With his makeshift pole net, he had managed to snare the beautiful creature, after waiting for nearly an hour for it to come into reach. If he didn’t catch another butterfly the whole time he was in Santarém he would still be happy.
Birds called to each other: glossy black anús, bright trogons of varying species. A toucan came dangerously close. Thomas marvelled at its heavy curved beak and was dismayed when Ernie picked up his gun and shot it. It wavered a moment, and Thomas swore that it looked at him just before it tipped back and lost its grip on the branch. A dreadful sadness slopped in his belly, spreading through his insides like ink on a tablecloth. The bird was dead when it hit the ground and Ernie bounded over to claim his prize. Thomas knew he was being hypocritical — after all, the first thing he did when he saw a beautiful specimen of lepidoptera was to catch it and kill it — but he felt that the process of setting the butterfly meant that it would live forever. There was something dreadfully forlorn about Ernie’s stuffed birds. He had opened up one of his drawers to have a look one day and the birds were lined up, stuffed, lying like bullets, their bodies fixed as if they were diving: wings tucked in, eyes closed, feet back. He remembered feeling shock at how dead they looked, not unlike his beautiful lepidoptera: cadavers, lying in a row, waiting to be studied. Which, he supposed, they were.
On their way home, they would bathe in the river again, and Thomas began to relax about the amount of time he spent in the water. Their guide and Paulo took off all of their clothes when they were away from the town, and when Ernie and John did the same, Thomas did too. The first time, he removed his clothes slowly while John threw his off and ran in, folding himself into a graceful dive before he swam out with strong strokes. Ernie walked in and hesitated as the water reached his groin. His flat, white buttocks quivered a little, before Thomas saw him decide to push on. Ernie let out a sharp whistle. ‘Christ!’ He yelled, then turned, grinning. He hunched his shoulders and stroked the surface of the water with one hand, a cigarette in the other. ‘Sorry, Thomas! Didn’t mean to do the name-in-vain thing, but you should try getting river water on your bare cannonballs!’
‘Coming in, George?’ asked Thomas as he ran towards the water. Paulo already stood by him, naked, trying to pull him to his feet by the hand.
‘Not me, Thomas! You know me! Can’t stand the stuff!’ He waved Paulo away, laughing. His tone was more jovial than Thomas had heard for a long time. Santarém was obviously agreeing with George.
Thomas hit the water running, and felt his legs slow as the liquid engulfed them and dragged them back. The touch of the water on his uncovered genitals made him gasp before he relaxed into the freedom of weightlessness it gave him.
He slid into a slow breaststroke, taking in the pleasant scene around him — John off in the distance, while Ernie smoked and picked stray tobacco from his tongue, peering into the water. Paulo and the guide floated on their backs, calling to each other. Paulo waved at George, who waved back. A cluster of butterflies gathered on the shore downriver, appearing as a bed of dandelions, which broke apart and rose into the air at some disturbance. They were the same butterflies he had seen from the ship, migrating from north to south in buttery wafts. One of the swarms had crossed the ship, and men and women were suddenly picking the lepidoptera from their hats, from inside their drinks; a chaotic moment of butterfly-induced madness crowded the passengers and Thomas lay back on his deckchair and watched with a smile.
A pleasant tightness fell across the skin of Thomas’s shoulders from the hot sun. He dropped under the surface. He had forgotten the sound of silence. Even in the forest, which he had come to think of as a quiet place, there was always the screeching of a bird or the distant roar of a howler monkey. Wind rustled branches and fruit thudded as it fell, ripe and bursting, to the forest floor. But under the water, Thomas was stunned by the lack of sound. He opened his eyes, but the water was murky, with detritus from the forest drifting before his face. He stopped moving his limbs and hung in the warmth and stillness of the water until his chest ached.
An abundance of good food was at their disposal in Santarém — there were good breadmakers, meat was in steady supply, and they feasted on watermelon every evening when they returned from their day’s work, waving to their neighbours who gathered outside their own houses to smoke and gossip and play chequers. Always men, Thomas noticed, for the women seemed to be kept indoors in this town.
When the time came for them to leave on their journey up the Tapajós, Thomas felt a momentary hunger pang; he was sure his stomach would not be as well catered for deep in the rainforest away from a town. Antonio arranged to accompany them — he knew the area well. He brought with him the silent Indian cook they had employed in the house, and two others: João, a small but tough and strong man of about thirty who spoke English and had been their guide around Santarém; and Paulo, who threw himself enthusiastically into his role as the men’s right-hand man — carrying supplies and taking on hunting and fishing duties. Thomas overheard Paulo ordering João about, and the other man’s terse replies, which in Thomas’s limited Portuguese translated to something like ‘When did you become my father, boy?’ With any luck, and with the skill of the natives, they would not starve. Ernie took precautions by stocking up his medical supplies, particula
rly quinine. George had already scared everyone when he woke up with a slight fever one morning, but by the end of the day he was well again — a passing ague only. They began to take a small dose of quinine every day as an insurance.
Their mode of transportation was finally the rustic affair that Thomas had been expecting all along. They took two large canoes, each of which had a small cabin for shelter, where hammocks were strung and equipment and supplies stored. Antonio arrived on the morning of their departure with crates of salt and tools.
‘I say,’ said Ernie, ‘do we need that much salt? Won’t it weigh us down?’
‘For trade,’ growled Antonio. ‘You will thank me when you have fresh chicken to eat.’
‘I was rather looking forward to sampling the meats of the jungle,’ replied Ernie. He nudged Thomas. ‘Sloth and monkey, Thomas. I’ve heard they’re delicious.’
Thomas grimaced and even George raised a smile.
‘I bet John’s tried all of those, haven’t you, John?’ said George.
John paused from helping Paulo load crates onto the canoes. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve.
‘Well, I’ve never had sloth, but I’ve eaten monkey, all right, and snake. There’s no need to starve in a place like this.’
‘Yes,’ said George, ‘I expect you’d be used to scavenging for what you can find.’ He waved his handkerchief in John’s direction before flattening it on the back of his neck. John turned away and continued in his work, but Thomas saw Ernie shoot George an amused look, and the two men shared a moment that Thomas had no wish to be a part of.
‘Here,’ he said, and bent to help John with a large crate of books. George’s, he noticed, and he tightened his grip as they passed it over the strip of river between the dock and the boat, in case John decided to drop it. Their eyes met for a moment and Thomas saw in John’s that the solid man was letting the comments go. His shirt was open and sweat rolled freely from his neck into the tangle of dark hair on his chest, where it gathered to be washed off later in the river. Suddenly Thomas thought he understood what lay behind John’s vigorous swimming action: that it was how he cleansed himself of ill feeling, and how he could arise fresh each morning and work alongside two men who did not respect him.
‘Thank you, Thomas,’ said John as the last of the crates disappeared into the cabins. They both glanced at the other two, who stood on the dock talking. George waved his hand at a mason bee that was bothering them and Ernie, as always, was smoking. Ernie glanced up as Thomas approached them.
‘Have they finished, then? Ah, good. I think that’s us, then, isn’t it? Time to go?’ He dropped his cigarette butt into the river and produced his silver hip flask from his pocket. ‘Swig to see us off?’ He took a nip, then passed the bottle to George, who handed it to Thomas without taking any.
The flask held a potent new smell, not unlike paraffin, and when Thomas knocked it back it burnt his throat and left a bitter taste in his mouth. He screwed up his face. ‘What is that?’
Ernie chuckled and took the flask without offering it to John, who stood a little apart, staring up the river. ‘It’s cachaça, some local spirit. Made from sugar. It’ll strip your stomach lining, I’m sure, but it’s all I could get hold of. The Indians are addicted to it — give them this and they’ll do anything for you.’ John made a low sound in his throat and stalked away. Ernie watched him go, then said, almost wistfully, ‘I’ve enough to last us until Manaus, when we can get the finest brandy Europe has to offer.’
The laden canoes listed dangerously once they came to a gusty expanse of river that crooked south. Only the skill of the men saved them from tipping over and losing their precious collecting and preserving equipment. Thomas tried to sit still, but every time the canoe lurched to one side he cried out and grabbed hold of the edge with one hand and his Gladstone bag, which contained his journals and his letters from Sophie, with the other.
They did not intend to travel too far into the interior — Antonio had pinpointed a site where a disused rubber settlement would be at their disposal. It was less than a two-day journey from Santarém, and they would be there by the afternoon of the next day, all going well. They planned to stay only two weeks, depending on their success. They were within easy travelling distance of Santarém should something go wrong or should their collecting prove fruitless. Every tributary of the Amazon yielded different plants and wildlife, and the men were grateful for the variety offered to them — had they gone straight to Manaus in the Rio Negro, their collections would have been limited.
Once past the worst of the wind, they put in at a small village to gather their nerve and to rid themselves of some of their heavy cargo. Thomas suspected that Antonio had overloaded them in order to make some kind of profit from the goods they were carrying, but he kept his thoughts to himself, telling himself that the man merely hadn’t expected the collecting equipment to be quite as weighty.
They were received with interest by the villagers, a mixture of Indians and mamelucos, who were those of both Indian and European blood. The settlement was presided over by Captain Arturo, a Portuguese seaman who had arrived some ten years earlier and had never left. He invited the Englishmen to dinner, cooked by his Indian wife. Thomas watched with interest as a parade of golden-skinned children came in to say goodnight to their father, who lifted the little ones high over his head before planting a kiss on each of their cheeks. The older ones contented themselves with a kiss on the forehead and stared silently at their visitors. After dinner the captain produced a bottle of local spirits, made from mandioca root, and George and John excused themselves to return to the canoes and their hammocks.
‘I am glad there are some real men to join me,’ the captain joked. ‘Although you …’ He squinted down a pointed finger at Thomas as though aiming at him with a rifle. ‘You look like you need a good drink and a bit of fun! Look at you, so young and untouched. Like life is yet to show its face to you, heh? So delicate, you are!’ He laughed at this, and Ernie joined in. Thomas smiled and shifted in his seat. The captain went on. ‘What has the forest thrown at you so far? Have you been sick yet? You look like you would get sick easily.’
‘No,’ said Thomas. ‘None of us has been.’
‘Hmph,’ said Arturo. ‘Yet. And you will be the first man down, I think!’ At this he slapped Thomas on the back, spilling drink onto the table and his hands. Thomas pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his hands while the captain poured him more.
When his glass was full, Thomas raised it, shaking off the captain’s comments. They were meant in jest, he knew, but he could have let them eat at him. ‘To the Amazon!’ he said in what he hoped was a robust voice. The three men banged their glasses together and knocked their drinks back. Thomas’s trickled down into his stomach and caressed him there, promising things to come.
The drunker Arturo got, the more his already limited English slipped into slurred Portuguese. Thomas understood some of what he said, but the more drunk he got the less his comprehension. Finally, he had to lay his hand on top of his glass and his head on the table as gibberish whirlpooled around him.
Ernie nudged Thomas. ‘Don’t you just hope that our Senhor Santos is as hospitable as the captain here?’
‘What did you say?’ said Arturo. ‘Santos? The rubber man?’ Thomas heard this reaction, but he could not focus on Arturo’s face.
‘Yes,’ said Ernie. ‘He’s the reason we are in your gorgeous country, my man.’
Thomas didn’t hear what was said next, because Arturo banged his fist on the table so hard that Thomas’s ear, which had been resting quietly near his glass, was now roaring. The shock of the noise had propelled his head upwards, and he was momentarily sobered enough that he could see Arturo’s bulbous nose pulsing as his nostrils flared in and out.
Ernie was staring at the captain in disbelief. He raised both palms and started to nod. ‘Time for us to go, Edgar.’ He stood unsteadily and pulled Thomas to his feet also.
‘Yes, go to the dev
il!’ yelled Arturo, then some more in Portuguese.
The door of the house banged behind them and they were left standing in the sandy street, the night sounds enclosing them.
‘Did you get that?’ Ernie leaned heavily against Thomas in an effort to keep them both steady as they walked.
Thomas’s tongue was as fat and heavy as a piece of old ham. He struggled to produce pictures in his mind to coincide with the words in his head, and slowly tested his words around his alien tongue. ‘I dunno, Ernie. Don’ walk so fast.’
The following morning the rays of the sun pierced Thomas’s eyelids. His head ached and he couldn’t close his mouth; his lips had dried and cracked and his tongue had been drained of all moisture.
‘Bloody hell,’ he croaked, knowing that he had picked up the habit of swearing from Ernie, and that he was too ill to feel ashamed.
The canoe had already started to move away from the shore, and his ears were filled with the sound of the paddles on the water and the calling of the brightly coloured birds that perched in the trees overlooking the river. He had come to recognise the breeds he saw, but at that moment he couldn’t think, and didn’t want to think. He just wanted them to be silent.
On the shore nearby, a monkey screamed; the cry was that of a woman in distress.
His headache subsided when he drank a quantity of water, and the others left him alone, after giving him a few pokes and jibes, to sleep off his hangover. Ernie, in the other canoe, seemed unaffected; in between fuggy sleep, Thomas heard him singing at the top of his voice.
Sound of Butterflies, The Page 9
