‘I trust you are recovering well?’
‘I am feeling better, yes. I do get tired, though.’
‘Yes, you will. I too have had malaria. It never really leaves you, you know.’
‘No?’ Thomas felt aged suddenly. He had stepped over a threshold and could not come back.
‘Don’t look so crestfallen, Mr Edgar! It will make you stronger in the long run. A brush with death is good for the character.’
‘I’m afraid my character may be deserting me.’ He mumbled this, half hoping Santos wouldn’t hear him. Was he pushing him? Waiting to see if he knew that he had acted dishonourably?
‘Nonsense, my dear sir. I have been watching you …’
At this Thomas’s stomach jolted.
‘… and I have seen you grow. You feel tired now, I know, and perhaps a little useless.’ He tilted his head and looked at Thomas as he might look at a sulky child. ‘Am I right? I think I am right. But I have seen your confidence in the jungle grow. Perhaps you have not noticed it yourself. You are becoming a true scientist.’
‘Scientist?’ Thomas clicked his tongue and could not keep the scorn from his voice. Was the man blind? ‘I’m no scientist, Mr Santos. I’m nothing but an amateur. I don’t even know what I’m doing here half the time. No — most of the time.’ He ran a hand through his hair and found knots, grit. He shook his fingers. ‘You know that I am completely unqualified? I’m surprised they even let me come here. Butterflies have been nothing but a hobby to me.’
‘No, Mr Edgar, you sell yourself short. You may not have made a career from the study of insects, but you have something much more important. You have passion. I see a fire inside you. It went dim for a time, when you were ill, but it came back a thousandfold the day I played my little trick on you.’
‘You did that on purpose?’
‘Mm, yes and no. It is all right to get angry, Mr Edgar. I suppose in my own way I was testing you. And you passed, I can tell you that.’
‘I did find the butterfly, you know. Right before John found me passed out.’
‘Oh, I think not. You were very ill. You probably just thought you saw it. It’s not uncommon to see things with malaria. Why, I saw my first wife once when I was ill, a baby in her arms. She told me it was my son and when I awoke they were both gone.’
‘You are probably right. I did so want to believe in it, though.’ He studied Santos’s face. The man had been too quick to dismiss his claim. Could he be lying? Could he know Thomas to be telling the truth?
‘I saw the photograph you have of your wife. What is her name?’
‘Sophie.’
‘Yes, Sophie.’ He seemed to be turning the name over, feeling the shape of it on his tongue. ‘She is very beautiful, isn’t she? And so young.’
Where was this going? He didn’t want to discuss Sophie with him. It tainted her somehow.
‘What is she like?’ Santos continued.
‘Like? Well, I don’t know, I suppose she’s …’ He trailed off, trying to conjure up an image of her standing in the garden, smiling at him. Then he saw her beneath him, in the park as he tried to make love to her. He shuddered.
‘Come now, Mr Edgar, surely you know your own wife?’
‘Yes, of course. She is wonderful. Quite wonderful.’ His voice had become a murmur. If he spoke quietly, she would remain pristine, not sullied by the jungle as he was. ‘I couldn’t wish for a better companion.’
‘And children? Does she want children?’
‘Yes, she does.’ He realised with a jolt that they had not discussed children for a long time, and he worried that this was his fault. Had he discouraged her?
‘Excellent. I am very pleased for you. She is so young; I’m sure she has many years of child-bearing ahead of her. Not like my wife. I fear her days are over. She is thirty-four years old and has had no children. I envy you. There is nothing I want more in this life than to father many children, for my name to continue for generations.’
Thomas, at the mention of Clara, felt himself begin to blush. He willed himself to stop, but this only made him burn harder. He prayed Santos wouldn’t notice.
‘I’ve embarrassed you, sir. I apologise. I am always doing this — talking about people’s private business.’
‘Not … not at all,’ said Thomas, relief cooling his cheeks again.
‘Anyway, I’m sure you will have a fine big family. You must not stay away for too long, I think. You are not like the other men — they have no family, no ties. They are married only to themselves and their work. It is selfish of them. There is nothing to stop them disappearing into the jungle — who would miss them? But you, Thomas, you must go back to your pretty wife.’
‘I will, in time.’ Was Santos trying to get rid of him?
‘But I do admire you, Mr Edgar. You have passion, and with passion you can succeed at anything. It was always my intention to fund individuals such as yourself, those who might never have an opportunity such as this.’
‘And the others?’
‘Dr Harris is an amateur like yourself. But he is a skilled taxidermist, even I can see that. His passions are worn on the outside, and spill over into less, shall we say, virtuous pursuits.’
Thomas smiled. The skin on his face felt as if it might crack from the newness of the expression.
‘And Mr Sebel,’ continued Santos. ‘He did not need my assistance to come here. He has every opportunity in life. Some he will take advantage of, some he will not. He may be educated, Mr Edgar, but don’t for a moment think him superior to you in any way. I have great faith in you.’
‘Thank you, sir, though I wish I could say the same for myself. And what of Mr Gitchens? Where does he fit in?’
‘Ah, Mr Gitchens, yes. A fascinating man. Very difficult to get to know. I couldn’t even begin to try to understand him. I can only be certain of one thing.’
Santos gazed at Thomas, who did what was expected of him. ‘And what is that?’
‘That he is in love with my wife. Ah, our tea.’
Thomas had not noticed Manuel slip away as they spoke, and the servant now returned with the tray of tea things. Thomas was grateful for the distraction because Santos’s casual accusation of John had made him blush furiously, and he was able to concentrate on watching Manuel’s hands while taking calming deep breaths to try to dispel the blood from his cheeks.
As Manuel finished pouring the tea into its tiny cups, an insect landed on his neck, startling him. He swatted at it while attempting to put the teapot back on the tray, his arms crossing as he did so and his elbows clashing. Thomas saw what was about to happen but could not react quickly enough to stop it. The teapot left Manuel’s hands, spun slightly as it landed partially on the tray, teetered and fell to the ground, striking the leg of the table on its way down.
‘Look out!’ said Thomas, but it could not be saved. The teapot shattered, and hot tea sprayed over the legs of Santos’s pale linen suit.
Manuel froze, but Santos sat with his eyes closed, breathing through his nose. Thomas held out his handkerchief and it dangled from his hand, waving in the slight breeze, while he waited for either the servant to take it or the master to open his eyes and see it. Finally, Santos opened his eyes and Thomas saw a cold anger at work in them. He lowered the handkerchief.
‘Antonio!’ Santos called.
Manuel began to make a sound from his tongueless mouth; it was as if he were trying to speak, to apologise, but it came out only as the low of a calf. He was shaking his head slowly back and forth, staring at Santos, who would not meet his eyes. Antonio strode into the yard, took one look at the teapot and grabbed Manuel by the arm. Manuel fell silent as he allowed himself to be led away.
‘What’s he going to do with him?’ asked Thomas, suddenly fearful.
Santos smiled and took his own handkerchief from his pocket. ‘You needn’t concern yourself,’ he said as he dabbed at his leg. The anger had retreated, dried out like laundry on a hot day. ‘Sugar?’
&n
bsp; Thomas was haunted by the sound Manuel had made, by the look in his eye as he was led away. He didn’t see him for the rest of the day, and Santos — who no longer had a pot for his beloved tea — did not call on him.
Reluctant to raise the incident with the others when they returned from collecting, Thomas approached the only other person he could speak to about it.
‘I don’t know what happened to him,’ said Pedro in Portuguese. After only a week, Thomas was already able to understand him better, helped by the fact that Pedro spoke slowly and deliberately, with simple words. Thomas could tell he was lying. He sweated more than usual, and his hands shook as he stirred the pot of stew he was cooking. ‘But Mr Santos was very angry. He cannot drink tea without his teapot.’ He lifted the pot off the flames, but dropped it again when he burned his hands, and cried out. He eyeballed the stew, but though it slopped into the flames with a hiss, it did not spill too much. His relief was palpable. He turned his back on Thomas when he tried to look at his hands. ‘Não foi nada,’ he said.
‘Pedro …’ Thomas laid a hand on his shoulder.
‘I know nothing,’ the cook said in English, as if he had rehearsed the phrase over and over.
The rain abated in the early evening and Thomas took a walk to mull over the situation. He kept an eye out for the path that had taken him to the valley where he had seen the butterflies, but it eluded him. Pedro seemed terrified of Santos, that much was certain, and knew what had become of Manuel but would not tell Thomas. He couldn’t ask Clara about it, not yet. He would have to wait until Santos was gone again; at the moment he still couldn’t be near her. Thomas didn’t dare risk exposing his feelings for her, especially after the incident with Manuel and the glimpse of his rage — cleverly contained, but certainly there.
As he walked, he was struck by the absence of butterflies. Where once they had criss-crossed his path, even landing on his shoulder if he stood still enough, the rain had driven them away — where to, he could not say.
And what of John? Santos had spoken so clearly of the planthunter’s fascination with his wife. Though Thomas had not wanted to believe it, there was no denying it in the looks that John directed at her: looks, he noticed, that were not returned with quite the same intensity. He must warn him. But he did not want to lay himself open for suspicion from John or from anybody. No, best to keep it to himself.
The path was growing dim so Thomas turned back towards camp, to be home before it was too dark to see. He had not gone far when he saw a movement off the track, and could make out in the fading light the back of George disappearing into the forest, followed by — leading by the hand — the young boy Joaquim, easy to spot in his white short-sleeved shirt. Thomas didn’t know why he did not call out to them; instead he followed, slowly enough that he might lose them. He would call out to them soon, when he was sure he had really lost them.
But he didn’t lose them. Instead he came upon them behind a tree. George was kneeling before the boy, whose shorts were down around his ankles. Joaquim’s face was sad more than scared; his eyes were closed and his bottom lip quivered, as if he were enduring something bravely that he knew would be over soon. George had both hands on the boy’s buttocks, kneading them, while he had the boy’s penis in his mouth. A noise arose from his throat, such as one might make to a baby bird to reassure it.
Thomas had no control over his reaction, but he reacted as he had failed to do many years earlier. He ran forward and pulled George off the boy, twisting his hand inside his collar. George uttered a strangled cry as his collar dug into his throat. Thomas had never hit anybody before, but his fist contracted and he planted a punch squarely on the George’s nose before dropping him on the ground.
‘You evil bastard!’ he shouted at George, who sat snivelling on the ground. Joaquim had pulled up his pants, and now turned and ran in the direction of the camp. ‘He’s just a boy!’
‘Don’t, Thomas.’ George wiped a trickle of blood from his nose, looked at it on his hand and tried to shake it off.
Thomas aimed a kick at his side, but didn’t put his full force into it; he had the overwhelming urge to scare him, not injure him. George leapt to his feet, fumbling in his pocket for a handkerchief.
‘Don’t tell anyone,’ he whined. ‘Please, Thomas, I’ll do anything.’
‘Just leave him alone,’ Thomas said. ‘And for God’s sake, see a doctor.’
George wiped at his bloodied face. ‘A doctor? Yes, you’re right. I’m sick. I need help. Help me, Thomas.’ He started to laugh, uneasily.
Thomas took a step towards him and George stopped laughing. ‘Do you want me to tell Harris for you? Or Santos?’
‘Shh.’ George held out his hands. His handkerchief dangled from one like a white flag stained by war. ‘It’s just our secret. Please, Thomas. I won’t do it again.’
‘You’re pathetic,’ said Thomas. He spat on the ground in front of him. He could tell from George’s face that he knew Thomas wouldn’t tell. He didn’t have the guts.
He left George standing as the darkness fell around him and turned back for camp. A sob rose inside him, knocking the breath out of him. Then the tears came with the evening’s rain.
Thomas had been just a boy, really, although at the time he felt on the edge of manhood. Since then, any sound of a collection of shoes on wooden floors brought back the echo of boys’ voices bouncing down the corridor, which was always cold and smelt of beeswax. Later, when he reached college, the sound came back to him, but the voices that carried above it were deeper, more contained, and therefore quieter. More careful.
It was his Latin master, Mr Lafferty, who introduced him to sugaring. The first night he had permission from the headmaster to keep four of his boys from their beds, and he chose only his favourite boys. Except Thomas. Thomas had not been particularly good at Latin, did not sit at the front of the class with the other three, but Sir knew Thomas was fond of butterflies, from the drawings etched all over his exercise books, and he invited him along.
First they came to Sir’s rooms, which smelled sweet, like toffee, and the other boys — Marcus, with knees constantly grazed and scabbed; Henry, the brainbox, whose gift for Latin had it pouring from his tongue like nectar; and David, who was so shy Thomas had never heard him speak a word to anybody outside of class — stood together, shuffling in a group like calves, chests puffed out at being allowed between the hallowed walls. The inner sanctum.
‘Come in, boys,’ said Sir. ‘First, a drink.’ Four glasses of lemonade were laid out on the coffee table and the boys fell on them, their eyes huge and alive as they drank, taking in their surroundings.
‘And now the magic potion.’ Sir led them into the cramped alcove with a small stove, where they had to stand single file, Thomas at the end, as Sir busied himself and commentated ‘for those at the back’.
A flame woofed as the fire was lit and a pot clanged down.
‘Black treacle first.’
Thomas stood on tiptoe and waved his head about to catch a glimpse of the treacle being poured into the pot, hissing as it hit the heated bottom. Marcus, directly in front of him, did the same. A large pimple bloomed on the back of the boy’s neck, and it kept appearing in Thomas’s line of vision, red and inflamed, with a tiny white eye in the middle, looking back at him.
‘Brown Barbados sugar. All the way from Jamaica. Now we stir it.’ Henry, who stood at the front, was given the wooden spoon, and the line crowded jealously behind him.
‘That’s it,’ said Sir. ‘Just keep stirring until all the sugar crystals are melted. I’ll turn it down a bit, so it’s not boiling. Don’t want you all to be splattered by hot sugar.’ His eye caught Thomas’s then, and he winked at him. Mr Lafferty had a pleasant face, with a broad, soft nose and large eyes that moistened when he recited a particularly poetic line of Latin. His face had seemed strangely familiar at first, until Thomas realised it was because he resembled his cocker spaniel, Goldie. Mr Lafferty even had wavy copper hair.
Th
e sugary smell of the flat intensified and Thomas closed his eyes to breathe it in, felt it coat the back of his throat. He poked his tongue out, just a tiny bit, to see if he could taste it in the air.
‘That’s it, Henry, I’ll take it. Now we pour it …’ Sir paused as he completed the action, ‘… into the tin, and quickly …’ The sound of the pot, banging down into the sink, ‘… add two drops of Old Jamaica rum. Perfect. Just give that another little stir, Henry. That’s right.’
The rum permeated the sweet smell and for a moment Thomas remembered his father’s study in the evening. The smell was not the same, but the burning sensation in his nostrils was.
‘And that’s it. About face, men!’
Grinning, the boys turned and Thomas found himself staring at the three of them.
‘Come on, Edgar,’ said Marcus, who Thomas knew didn’t like him. The boy’s sour breath settled on his face, and Thomas turned quickly and marched out of the alcove.
It was a warm spring evening, with no wind at all as they kept marching, all the way down past the playing fields and into the woods at the bottom. They swung lanterns, not yet lit, and carried a net and a killing bottle each. Thomas knew he was the only one of the boys experienced in collecting; the others were there only as Latin scholars, trying to please their teacher, and this knowledge kept his head up as he walked.
The sky was not yet dark but a deep indigo, and every tree gave off a mauve light. Rabbits scampered away from them as they approached and a bat squeaked as it flapped past them.
Mr Lafferty stopped by a larch tree. ‘This will do,’ he said. ‘Quiet now, everyone.’
The boys, who had been silent anyway, pushed their fists onto their lips, just to be sure.
Sound of Butterflies, The Page 26
