Sound of Butterflies, The

by King, Rachael

  He expected Cameron to pinch him and tell him to hurry up, or, worse, to wrestle his net from him and run off with it. Instead, he watched his brother find the butterfly with his eyes. A curious look fell over Cameron’s face, like a man who has made a scientific discovery. As the emperor swooped above them, his stance changed. Every new muscle went rigid in his body, like a big cat, and his eyes darted about with it. Finally, as the unsuspecting butterfly came tauntingly close, Cameron, quick as a spider, snapped his towel into the air and winged it. The butterfly fell to the ground, stunned.

  Thomas gasped and fell on it. Thinking no, no, expecting its wings to be torn and its body mangled. He was ready to finally hate his brother.

  But the butterfly was still perfect. He was able to scoop it up in disbelief and put it in a jar. He looked up from where he crouched on the ground, and Cameron, with the sun behind him, looked down with the kindest expression Thomas had ever seen: pride mingled with sympathy. Thomas knew that from then on things would be different between them, but at school the following autumn, Cameron pushed him into the freezing pond to entertain Bertie Whitehead, the school bully.

  Santos announced one morning that he was travelling back to Manaus to conduct business.

  ‘I have spent too much time in the forest,’ he said. ‘I have enjoyed your company immensely, but duty calls. I have spoken to my wife, and she is reluctant to leave while she is learning so much. I hope you do not mind, sirs, if I leave her to your protection. Just for a few days, in which time I will return to collect her.’

  Santos left with Antonio and the pilot of the boat, with Antonio promising to return immediately with fresh supplies. They had already been forced to eat agouti, a sort of guinea pig, which was dry and chewy, and the cook was threatening to serve them sloth.

  Clara disappeared with John for the remainder of the day.

  ‘Maybe our John is teaching her about biology as well as botany,’ suggested Ernie as they rested in the afternoon.

  ‘Shut up, Harris,’ said Thomas as he slapped at a line of ants crawling up his boot.

  ‘Yes, shut up,’ said George. ‘Even John’s got better manners than to fool about with the host’s things.’ Thomas had felt a momentary flutter of camaraderie with him, but it evaporated quickly. His face grew hot, so he stood and busied himself looking in his bag, his back to his companions.

  Clara took her supper in her hut. Thomas wished he could make her feel more welcome to join them, but knew that Ernie and George would make little effort with her. Ernie had let slip when they were out collecting that he found her particularly unattractive, and Thomas had come to realise that this was as good a reason as any for Ernie to not speak to her, as he had no desire to flirt with her. George, on the other hand, showed her the same complacency that he showed all women. Actually, Thomas was more than a little relieved that she didn’t join them, and that he could blame his companions; in the absence of her husband he was worried she would start paying him attention and he could not predict how he would behave. Even an accidental touch from her under the table was likely to make his face burn and his skin tingle.

  After supper, Ernie produced a bottle of brandy Santos had given him, and some cards. The men played rummy into the night, perched on crates in Ernie’s hut, while insects hurled themselves at the lamp. Even John joined them to make a fourth and they huddled in the small room under a cloud of cigarette smoke.

  ‘So what do you make of our esteemed host?’ asked Ernie as he shuffled the deck expertly. Thomas was starting to have trouble focusing on the numbers and the suits.

  ‘A very intelligent man,’ volunteered George. ‘It was as I suspected earlier — he is an educated man. In fact he studied in England, which explains his love for all things English, I suppose.’ He accepted the cards Ernie dealt him and began to fan them out. ‘I can’t make out whether he’s well bred or not. I suspect he is of the nouveau riche. As are most of the rubber barons. Baron is a bit misleading, I suppose.’

  ‘Well, where did he get the money from to start the business?’ asked Ernie.

  George shook his head and Thomas shrugged as he arranged his cards into neat suits.

  ‘His wife,’ said John. He had taken to smoking a pipe in the forest, and he sucked on it thoughtfully before speaking, while the others looked at him in surprise. Even in games, he was a silent presence, seemingly there out of politeness to make up the numbers rather than for the social occasion.

  ‘She told you this?’ asked George.

  ‘Yes. We have to talk about something while we’re wandering around the jungle, don’t we?’

  Ernie snorted and John shot him a lethal look, which shut him up completely.

  ‘He really was a hat merchant for a while,’ said John. ‘Just like he said he was that day up the Tapajós. He went to Portugal to make his fortune and he insinuated himself with Senhora Santos’s father in Oporto. The old man died soon after he married her and she inherited the family port wine business. It sold for a mint to an Englishman, and Santos used the money to buy his land.’

  ‘Rags to riches, eh?’ said Ernie.

  ‘Not quite. I think he comes from a comfortably middle-class home. As does Mrs Santos. They just got lucky in business, both port and rubber.’

  ‘Well, I for one find him quite charming,’ said George. ‘So nice to find someone in a colony with whom to discuss the important things in life. I don’t care what class he is.’

  Thomas couldn’t help himself. ‘That’s a first.’

  George looked at him in surprise and Ernie began to laugh.

  ‘But I suppose he’s got money,’ Thomas continued, ‘so he’s all right?’

  ‘And he is an educated man,’ said George. ‘That counts for something.’

  Thomas wished he’d kept his mouth shut. John dropped his cards on the table and strode off, banging his head on the low doorframe as he left.

  ‘Steady on, you two,’ said Ernie. ‘Play nice. Bugger if we haven’t lost our fourth.’

  Thomas couldn’t sleep and lay on his hammock with his clothes still on. Every time he closed his eyes, the room spun mildly, but at least he didn’t feel sick. He needed something to focus on, so he rose and sat in his doorway, where he could look at the lamp they kept lit at all times in the middle of the yard. It flickered with the shifting haze of night insects driven to a frenzy by the light. He rolled himself a cigarette with fingers dulled by alcohol. For the first time in days he was able to use his wounded index finger, whether because it was healing, which meant he had managed to keep his thoughts in control, or because it was anaesthetised, he couldn’t be sure.

  The usual chattering filled the night. It’s a wonder we can ever get to sleep, he thought, with that racket. The air was oppressively moist; even now, after all these months, he wasn’t used to it.

  He didn’t see her until she was almost upon him. He heard his name, whispered as if by a ghost, and then she appeared in front of him, a figure in white.

  ‘Thomas,’ she said again, not to get his attention, but more as a confirmation that this was his name.

  ‘Yes,’ he said miserably, for he knew the inevitable had arrived.

  Her arms were crossed in front of her, as if she were cold, and her bare feet peeped out from under her nightdress.

  ‘Mrs Santos, I—’

  ‘Clara,’ she said. ‘You must call me Clara.’

  He drew deeply on his cigarette and looked at the ground in front of her. Then he wobbled to his feet.

  ‘I don’t think we should be talking like this,’ he said.

  ‘But I must speak with you,’ she whispered. ‘We have not spoken to each other at all.’

  ‘No.’ He felt deflated, and he grasped the doorframe to stop himself buckling towards the ground once more. Get it over with, he told himself. What did she want?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said at last. ‘For what happened. I wasn’t myself …’ He trailed away and still could not look at her.

  ‘You have
nothing to apologise for. My husband told me that he gave you one of his cigarettes.’

  ‘Yes?’ Had they discussed him?

  ‘Do not look so alarmed.’ Her voice was light, amused. ‘He only mentioned it in passing. Did you feel strange that night?’

  ‘Strange, yes. I saw … things.’

  ‘It was caapi. A drug. From the ayahuasca root. The Indians use it to commune with gods. Usually they mix it with saliva and make a drink from the paste, but it can also be dried and smoked. My husband uses it for recreation.’

  He let her words sink in, turning over his memories of the night.

  ‘I expect you were not yourself. You mustn’t blame yourself.’

  ‘I see.’ A layer of guilt peeled, then lifted away. He had not been himself.

  ‘May I have a cigarette?’ She startled him by moving forward and sitting in the doorway at his feet. He had no choice but to join her. He gave her the tobacco, but she turned the pouch over in her hands and gave it back to him; he must roll one for her.

  He rolled two, then watched her hair, loose and falling over her shoulders, as she bent her head to touch her cigarette to the match he held. He lit his own. The tension was leaving him now. Thank goodness for the brandy.

  The back of one small hand faced him as she held the cigarette and exhaled a stream of smoke over his head. They were close now, almost touching, but he didn’t move away.

  ‘Your friends don’t like me, I think.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘That, is, you’re wrong. I’m sure they do.’

  She shrugged. ‘I do not care. Senhor Gitchens is very kind to me. You have avoided me, but I do not feel the same scorn as I do from the other two.’

  Thomas didn’t know what to say. She was right.

  ‘That Dr Harris, he is nothing more than a drunken idiot.’

  He had to smile. Right again.

  ‘And that Senhor Sebel. Well, it is clear, isn’t it?’

  ‘What is clear?’

  ‘He doesn’t like women.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure that is not true. He has funny ideas about people, that’s all. He’s a snob, I will give you that.’

  ‘No, I mean, he doesn’t like women. Women are too old for him. And the wrong sex.’

  Thomas was too shocked to speak.

  She laughed. ‘You look so offended. Surely you have noticed it. Do you not see the way he looks at the servant boy? I’m surprised he has not made it known to you.’

  He knew she was right, but he had tried not to think about it. George’s relationship with the young boys in Belém, which Thomas had thought fatherly at first. The night on the Tapajós when he had seen a figure leaving George’s room. Paulo, of course, who had been so upset when they left Santarém; he had begged them to let him accompany them, but Antonio had forbidden it. George had given him a bag of money.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ he said finally.

  ‘I’ve made you uncomfortable.’ She laid a hand on his arm, and he did not move away. Warmth pulsated from it.

  ‘Does your husband know?’ He meant about George but she misunderstood.

  ‘Of course not! That first night, at dinner, you and I agreed, did we not, to keep it a secret?’

  ‘Your poor husband. My poor wife.’

  ‘My poor husband!’ she spat. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Edgar. I do not know your wife, but my husband does not deserve your pity. What do you think he has gone back to Manaus for?’

  ‘I thought it was to engage in some business.’

  ‘Yes, business. Business with one of the many brothels there. Did you know, Thomas, that every third house in Manaus is a brothel?’

  ‘I didn’t, no.’

  ‘All these women who have arrived from Europe to make their fortunes. And they do make fortunes, believe me. All a girl has to do is make herself more expensive than the next, and she becomes instantly more desirable. Those men, they try to outdo each other at every turn.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Santos. Clara. If I was your husband, I don’t think I could …’

  ‘No, perhaps you couldn’t. But he has lost interest in me. He has not touched me for months. I’m afraid when you found me on that night … well, I also was not myself. And I did not expect to see you again.’

  Why was she opening herself up to him like this? He had neither solicited nor desired it. And yet he found himself wanting to listen further. ‘But why has your husband not touched you?’ The question came out like a belch, unexpectedly.

  ‘Have you not guessed? Have you not heard him speaking all the time about family, about the importance of family? We cannot have any children. I cannot give him any children. He does not find me desirable, and to him there is no reason to share a bed with me.’

  ‘But he seems to respect you, worship you, even.’

  ‘Oh, he tolerates me. Family is sacred to him. It was my father’s wish that we should be married. My husband promised him he would take over my father’s business when he died, but he didn’t. He sold it at the first opportunity.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I have accepted it. Manaus is not so bad.’

  ‘You’re lying. I can hear it in your voice.’

  She bit her lip and looked down at her cigarette, which had burnt out. She turned it over, as if surprised to see it there, before tossing it away. Then she covered her face with her hands and began to cry.

  She leaned into his shoulder and he felt his arm move to accommodate her; he had little control over it as it wrapped around her shoulder and pulled her in to comfort her.

  Her hair smelt of berries and a warmth emanated from it. He laid his cheek against it, then kissed the top of her head. Her sobs turned to soft hiccups and her shoulders stopped shaking. She put her arms around his waist and squeezed. How long had it been since he’d shared any kind of affection? He swallowed to stop his own tears and coughed. She pulled away and turned her face to his. Teardrops lined her dark lashes like dew and her cheeks were flushed. Her small lips quivered and her eyes searched his mouth.

  He couldn’t help himself, as he had known he would not be able to. As he kissed her, his free hand found his pocket and he dug the pin deep into his palm until he felt the blood run.

  Discretion countered the guilt somehow. Thomas made excuses for his behaviour: loneliness; that he had lived for so many months out of the sight of God that he was forgotten; that everybody knew adultery was mildly acceptable in today’s society — not that he had ever approved — so long as it was kept private and not flaunted. And he did not flaunt it.

  There was something else: the longer he went without a letter from his wife, the more he was sure he was right about Captain Fale. He imagined the captain striding through Thomas’s drawing room, tall and strong, a sheathed sword at his hip, sweeping Sophie into his arms before laying her gently on the floor and taking her in front of the fire. He saw the rapturous expression on her face as he entered her, the firelight dancing in her eyes, her absent husband forgotten.

  He still began to hate himself, his lack of willpower. But mostly he hated his body. It disgusted him. How his cock stirred whenever Clara approached him. Even his normal bodily functions made him sick — the way he had to bury his own shit, and how it smelled: worse out here for some reason among the loamy scent of the forest. His sweat smelled acrid to him, too, and his face sprouted coarse hair where it had previously been soft and downy.

  Clara discovered the pin in his pocket when he pulled his hand out and blood dripped onto her skirt. She made him throw it away, convinced him with a soft word in his ear and sweet breath that he was entitled to some pleasure, that to go without was both unhealthy and unwise. He began to believe her. After all, he had already done it once and had felt terrible about it; the damage was already done. The idea that what he was doing was wrong only aroused him more, as did the prospect of being caught.

  They made love like animals — no, not love, for he certainly didn’t love her, but the scent of her body, under her
skirts, drove him wild. Clara liked it rough and coaxed him into ramming himself hard into her, which he did with his eyes closed, or fixed on the path to make sure nobody was approaching. He hadn’t known he had it in him, this animal lust. With Sophie, it was tender, an expression of his love for her, and he hadn’t realised there was any other way until now. The fact that he didn’t love Clara made it easier, for he was only betraying Sophie physically, not with his whole being. This had nothing to do with her at all. It was about Thomas, about his time in the rainforest, a time he would never go back to again. She could have her captain, he would have his Clara, and they would never speak of it.

  One afternoon, when out collecting together, he took Clara from behind while she bent in front of him. She grunted like a sow and he was forced to put his hand over her mouth when a cracking sound alerted him to someone’s approach. He had just managed to pull his trousers up when Ernie lumbered towards them, swinging his prize catch — an umbrella bird.

  ‘I’ve found a friend,’ he said, oblivious to what he had interrupted, scarcely even noticing that Thomas wasn’t alone.

  A bird walked behind him, following him like a lost dog. Its body was about the size of a pheasant’s, but with its long legs and neck, it resembled a crane.

  ‘Trumpeter bird,’ said Ernie. ‘They call it an agami. Bloody thing won’t leave me alone. Didn’t have the heart to shoot it. Gave it some fruit and now I can’t get rid of it.’

  ‘What will you do?’ Thomas was sweating hard; he didn’t care in the least what Ernie was going to do with it, but he was trying his hardest to feign nonchalance. He glanced at Clara. Her cheeks were flushed and her lips plumped with blood.

  ‘Well, the locals keep them as pets. Senhor Santos thinks I don’t give a hoot about animals. I’ll prove him wrong. Think I’ll keep him.’ He bent down and tried to pick up the bird, but it stepped away from him and arched its wings.

  ‘Bugger off, then.’ Ernie aimed a kick at the bird, which it dodged. ‘I’m off to deal with this beauty,’ he said, holding up the umbrella bird. ‘See you back there.’ He strode away, and the agami ran after him, making a sound that was less like a trumpet and more like a rumble from deep within its body.