Sophie opens several more boxes and envelopes. In the sturdiest boxes, butterflies are pinned in rows, with labels etched onto tiny strips of paper below. A few of them have jagged tears in their wings. When she opens one of the boxes, only chunks and crumbs fall out, and she jumps up to brush her skirts off as half a body falls into them, the remains of its wings little more than tiny rags. But most of them are perfect: large butterflies and small ones, some of the most breathtaking, luminous primary colours, others with intricate markings like drawings — all perfectly symmetrical. If she didn’t know better she might think they had been manufactured by man, that Thomas made them himself from silk and oil colours. But no — these are a testament to the artistic flair of a benevolent God. She feels a surge of pride.
She opens another crate, and there, on top, is a small tin with her name inscribed on it. She stops for a moment, breathing hard. Should she open it? It has her name on it, but should she wait for Thomas to show her? Her hands itch and tremble, and she finds them pulling her towards the tin, fumbling with the lid, prising it off. Inside, on a bed of snow-white cotton wool, sits a deep blue butterfly, its wings rimmed with black. She stares at it; she feels it luring her in; it is as if she could fall into those wings. It is the most beautiful of them all. She looks for the inscription. On the inside of the lid there is a note. ‘Sophie. It reminds me of your eyes. Love, Thomas.’
Thomas, she thinks, as her vision blurs. My Thomas. What happened to you, my love?
She doesn’t think she will find any more clues in these boxes, just more butterflies, as lovely as they are. He told her in his letters that he was keeping a journal. Where would she find that? She closes her eyes for a moment and squeezes the last of the tears out of them. She sees a picture of Thomas on the day she met him at the station, standing on the platform, looking so frightened of her, trembling like a newborn calf. His thin arms wrapped around that Gladstone bag.
She carefully replaces all the lids and dusts herself off. Her hands have left black streaks on her skirts and as she passes the hallway mirror she startles herself: her eyes are wide, and tears have traced intricate patterns through the soot on her cheeks. Her hair, which she carefully set only that morning, is coming detached from its pins. She pauses to smooth it.
Upstairs, she hears Thomas’s even breathing and pushes his door open. The bag is where he left it, right by the doorway. With one eye on her sleeping husband, Sophie picks up the bag and closes the door softly. She crosses the landing to her own room and sets it down while she washes her hands and face at her basin. The water turns an inky black. The bed is too pristine and white to risk soiling, so she sits on the little chair she uses to drape her clothes on at night time. It gives a shudder under her weight — how long since she actually sat on it? — but holds fast.
The clasp on the bag releases stiffly, and deposits more grit into her hands; it appears that Thomas has not opened it for some time. On the top of the bag Sophie recognises her own handwriting — her letters, tied tightly with the blue velvet ribbon she sent him with the first one. She fingers them, and lifts the pile from the bag. Seeing them clumped together like that, she realises she had plenty to say to him while he was away — even after his letters stopped.
Underneath the letters, she knows she has found what she is looking for. She tips the bag out and four journals tumble to the floor, along with a few of his textbooks: British Museum Handbook of Instructions for Collectors, Butterflies of South America, A Naturalist on the River Amazons. She picks up the most battered-looking journal; the edges of its red cover have been worn white. It is tied with a band, and bulges thick and misshapen; shards of dried leaves poke out, and a fragrance emanates from its pages, from the flowers that are pressed inside. Sophie unties the band. The first page is headed On the Atlantic, May 1903 — his outgoing voyage.
She hesitates and closes the book. Does she really want to be doing this? What gives her the right to go through his private papers? But surely, she is helping him. He is unable to speak for himself, and these journals will speak for him. And they are, after all, married — isn’t that where her right comes from? But. There is a huge but. He would have shown them to her himself if he wanted her to see them. Her head is cloudy with the idea that she might not like what she finds, and that she would be better to leave the books untouched. But it is as if the books call to her, call for the words in them to be let out like caged insects. She can’t help herself. She adjusts a cushion behind her back, and, as the afternoon light drains from the room, opens the journal and begins to read.
Six
Santarém–Manaus, January 6th, 1904
Sophie,
I know I haven’t written for a long time, but I have not wanted to worry you with my complaints. Of course, there was no chance to post a letter while we were upriver. I will be brief, dear — I am too tired to write much right now, but I did just want to let you know I am well. I am not feeling as healthy as I have been, but now we are back in civilisation, I’m sure my strength will come back to me. Suffice to say we had a stimulating time up the Tapajós. We met some interesting characters along the way, but also came in contact with some of the more unpleasant aspects of life in the Amazon. Do not worry, my dear. I am unharmed. It has been a sad few days for me — a man we met on the Tapajós who entertained me one evening died not long after we left him. His house caught fire and he died trying to rescue his seven children, two of whom perished with him. We are trying to put it behind us as we move upriver to Manaus. Ernie is very excited about this city. I fear it is very expensive, and I understand collecting will be sparse in the area, but we have been summoned by our patron, Mr Santos, and, having stayed so long under his hospitality, we are obliged to go and stay with him for a time before moving on to the next camp that he has arranged for us, up the River Negro.
I will finish this now, as there is much to be seen from the deck, and I am feeling a little weak. Nothing that a sit-down in the fresh air won’t cure, I am sure. Thank you for your last letter. I am glad you are making new friends. The weather must be getting colder in England. I confess I am a little jealous, as there seems to be no respite from the sticky heat here.
Thomas
He slipped the single sheet of paper into its envelope. The thinness of the letter admonished him. Intending to go and find a steward to post it for him, he tucked it into his breast pocket, where it sat weightless and insubstantial. It was true he didn’t want to worry her — talk of fire ants and jaguars and diarrhoea was likely to do just that — but he was also unsettled after his last letter from her. It seemed she had been spending some time with her Captain Fale, who turned out not to be as old as Thomas had originally thought. Not only was she spending time with him, but she seemed to be entertaining him. She made a mention of the fact the captain had commented on the state of the drawing room, evidently inquiring as to whether Thomas intended to use the proceeds of his trip to redecorate. There was no mention of anybody else being present.
Thomas had suggested to her that she stay with her father, even though he knew it might make her miserable. When he thought of Mr Winterstone, an upright man, he remembered the disappointment he had radiated when Thomas declared his intention to marry his daughter. His brother Cameron was a much better suitor in Sophie’s father’s opinion — the elder brother, the man to inherit the bulk of his father’s wealth, while Thomas was to live on a more modest income. At the time, Thomas had felt the full force of his own indignation that this man — whose house was no bigger than the one Thomas intended to move into with Sophie once they were married — should question his ability to look after his daughter. He had made her a good husband, and would continue to do so. Most importantly, he loved her and cherished her more than he did any amount of money or status. Perhaps even more than he nursed his desire to become a great collector, more than his beloved butterflies.
Sophie had not wanted to stay with her father, and Thomas was secretly relieved. He did not want to give Mr Win
terstone the satisfaction of thinking Thomas had somehow abandoned his only daughter while the ink was still wet on their marriage licence. But how headstrong Sophie could be! She insisted on staying alone in the house, regardless of what people thought of them, and now this business of entertaining a man at home. Alone. What would people think? He wrinkled his eyebrows and shook his head, pushing the thought away to the back of his mind, locking a gate to stop it from slipping to the front again.
After giving the letter to the steward, Thomas found John up on deck, leaning over the side with his face to the breeze. His features were grave, with intense concentration, as if he were listening for something. When Thomas caught his eye, he melted into a languid smile, which was soon gone again.
‘We’re approaching the Rio Negro,’ said the plant-hunter. ‘I’ve something to show you.’
Thomas leaned out over the railing as John was doing, and turned his face upriver. The ship churned through the ochre waters. Ahead, a curled ribbon lay on the water, tapering forwards from a point until it became a thick stripe. At first it seemed to be an oil slick, twisting and shining on the surface of the river, but as the ship ploughed on, Thomas saw that it was simply a dark thread of water, which became thicker and bolder, until the steamer cut through the line where the two colours met, mixing them in its wake.
‘What a sight!’ said Thomas, and he felt his strength returning. ‘The waters of the River Negro, I presume? It certainly lives up to its name! How far is it to Manaus, do you think?’
‘About fifty miles, I’d say. That’s when they start to blend. Look.’ John faced the southern bank now, and pointed into the clouded water. A creature writhed in the liquid, and Thomas thought at first it was a naked man, but as the creature rose up and dived, he saw it was some other kind of mammal.
‘Is it a manatee?’
‘Dolphin,’ said John.
Thomas looked again. Surely not. Dolphins were sleek animals with shining graphite skin. This was pink and rubbery, with features that looked to be malleable, like raw clay. ‘The river dolphin?’ said Thomas. ‘What a strange creature!’ It had no fin, only a misshapen hump like a hunchback’s, with a fatty outcrop on his head above its eyes.
‘Yes, the bouto. It swims where the currents of two rivers meet, where it’s more likely to find fish to feed on. I saw some when I swam around the mouth of the Tapajós.’
They watched it in silence for a moment. Another joined it and together the cavorting dolphins rose out of the water with gasps and sighs.
‘What a melancholy animal,’ said Thomas. ‘It seems so sad with its sighs.’
‘The caboclos believe they are some kind of water spirit, that they cause all manner of mischief.’
‘Like what?’
‘It’s believed the male bouto takes on human form and comes to shore to have relations with village women. It accounts for many an unexplained pregnancy and disease, I’m sure.’
Thomas smiled.
‘And the female is said to take the form of a beautiful woman who lures men to their deaths in the river.’ John leaned further over the rail and his voice dropped to a murmur. ‘Not a bad way to go, drowned by a beautiful spirit.’
‘Is it only the caboclos who believe this?’
‘I think they are the most superstitious of the Brazilians. Perhaps they have inherited all the superstition from their various cultures. I don’t think the Indians believe any of it.’
The dolphins took a last leap and fell behind.
‘That’s not all they believe. Anyone who uses bouto oil to light a lamp will be blinded if he works by it. If a fisherman kills one, he will lose his ability to fish and will eventually starve.’
‘And how do you know all of this, John?’
John smiled. ‘It’s simple, really, Thomas, There’s no secret. I talk to people. You ought to try it. You can gain a lot of trust from people if you just listen to them. I met a man on one of my walks, a rubber tapper who had lost a hand in an accident. He told me about his brother, who killed a bouto that had stolen some fish from him. He had six children who eventually had to be put to work because the father could no longer catch any fish. He died of a fever. It sounded like malaria, if you ask me, but the man I met was convinced it was because of bad luck from killing the dolphin.’
It was true Thomas had made little effort to get to know the local people. This was partly because he could not speak the language very well, but also he had been shy of them. When he came upon an Indian, or one of the mixes, a mameluco or a caboclo, with their sun-baked skin, he felt a physical barrier between them that he could not bring himself to step over. It was different with the Europeans: the men and women of Belém and Santarém treasured pale skin above all else, and looked to Paris as the height of elegance. They spent all their days trying to imitate the unfortunate French who happened to stumble into their town. There were so few people he had met whom he felt he could relate to. Captain Arturo had been an exception. Although he had been a harsh, drunken man, there was something in his warmth, the way he tenderly held the faces of his children as he kissed them, that reached out to Thomas and made him believe he could begin to connect with the people of Brazil.
But Arturo was gone, burnt. Thomas hung his head, the dolphins forgotten. They had called on the village for Antonio to trade the last of the supplies and had found the people in shock, walking around the village with quiet steps and solemn faces. They had been taken to the charred bones of the house; the table they had sat at to get drunk was on its side in the remains, its legs all but burnt away. The door they had been ejected through was no longer there. A smell hung in the air — of woodsmoke, perhaps the sour smell of burnt flesh. Thomas had vomited at the thought. Unable to make it to a discreet place, he had been watched by a crowd of onlookers as he hiccupped and retched onto the ground. At least the tang of his guts smothered the stench of death.
They had all been quiet on the trip back to Santarém; alone with their thoughts, even Ernie. Upon their arrival, Antonio announced that there was word from Santos to meet him in Manaus.
The two halves of the river continued to vie for space as the ship churned through it. Manaus was drawing ever closer and, despite his apprehensions about the place, Thomas was glad to be finally making the acquaintance of Senhor Santos. Only then, he felt, would their journey seem complete, like the interlocking of the two rivers, black and yellow.
The last thing Thomas expected to be doing in the sweltering Amazon heat was standing in a shop trying on a dinner suit. But there was the tailor — a small, wiry man with wavy hair tamed by pomade and a thin moustache waxed into curlicues at its ends — in front of him, testing the tightness of the jacket by pulling at the lapels, his head cocked to one side and his lips pursed in disapproval.
‘Non, non,’ he tutted. ‘This will not do.’ As a Frenchman, he was, no doubt, the most expensive and sought-after tailor in Manaus. Antonio stood by, silently observing the proceedings. He had announced upon their arrival that the first thing he had been instructed to do was to take the men shopping to buy dinner suits, top hats and new boots, to be paid for by Mr Santos. Ernie and George had already been subjected to Monsieur Pompadour’s pinching and pulling, but had perhaps enjoyed it more than poor John Gitchens, who stooped and glowered at his reflection beside Thomas, while the tailor’s assistant squeaked in despair.
After an hour of taking trousers on and off and shrugging themselves into ten different jackets with tails — Thomas glimpsed the price tags, which, once he had converted the currency in his head, were ten times higher than in London — the men emerged from the shop and were directed into a waiting carriage. Thomas wondered as he settled into its cushioned seats how the horses had come to be in Manaus, as there were no roads in and out and everything had to be brought in by boat. Then again, a horse was a minuscule concern compared with the lavish building materials and the tramlines, not to mention the trams themselves, which must all have arrived by water as well. Manaus was an amu
sement park, built in the middle of the jungle, which he half expected would turn out to be a cardboard set at a theatre; if he looked behind its façade, he would find flat boards held up with beams.
Senhor Santos’s house stood with a vast lawn at the front and dense forest behind. Thomas had come across impossible rose gardens in Santarém, but this was the first time he had seen such a well-manicured expanse of grass in Brazil. Hoops of a croquet set marched across the lawn like the humps of a tiny sea-serpent.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Ernie, leaning over the open side of the carriage. ‘It’s like visiting my Aunt Ethel. Where are the peacocks?’ In answer, the caterwaul of a peacock cut across the lawn, and a peacock strutted into view, trailing its tail feathers behind it. Ernie collapsed back into his seat, laughing.
Sound of Butterflies, The Page 14
