Butterfly Winter

by W. P. Kinsella

  “One cannot eat titles, or praise, or adulation, as you must well know. For I recognize you now, one half of the The Battery, Courteguay’s most famous export. El Presidente used to say you and your brother were worth more to Courteguay’s economy than one million pounds of mangos. Is that true?”

  Julio smiled, trying to imagine one million pounds of mangos.

  “My father was murdered,” Quita continued. “Poisoned so he could be displayed forever in a crystal coffin at the Hall of Baseball Immortals. ‘A dead idol is much safer than a living one,’ Dr. Noir told my mother in a supposed note of condolence. ‘A dead hero can never disgrace himself in his old age, can never support unpopular political causes, disclose unacceptable sexual preferences, become falling-down drunk in public, or display an aging and ill-conditioned body.’ You should become familiar with such quotes. You should also know that if you become rich and famous through baseball Dr. Noir will see to it that you have a short life span. Has no one told you that?”

  But Julio was barely listening. He breathed in the sweetness of Quita Garza, though far in the back of his mind he recalled the fortune-teller who predicted his brother’s early death. No, no one had told him anything. But Julio was not very interested in death, or warnings of death. He was in love. The white sky made him dizzy.

  He took Quita Garza in his arms and the heat she radiated through her thin clothing disoriented him even more. Her lips were soft and easily parted, and as they kissed she clung to him with a ferocity he had not anticipated. He thought of easing her down onto the scorched grass of the hilltop, imagined the silhouette their bodies would make against the declining sun.

  BUT THEIR PASSION WAS INTERRUPTED by the softest of sounds: birds seemed to hush, the wind surrender. The sky darkened even more as the wild spiral of golden and black butterflies came into view, an onrushing endless train hurtling overhead, hundreds of feet in the air.

  “I want to follow them,” whispered Quita, staring up into the velvet movements of a million wings. And Julio, gazing with love into the girl’s long face and luminous eyes, could deny her nothing. She took his hand and they trooped along the spine of the hill. The river of butterflies soon arched from horizon to horizon.

  All the remainder of that day, and all the next, the conduit of butterflies flowed over Courteguay like an orangeade rainbow.

  On the ground, Julio and Quita followed along; they left the city behind, crossed the flatlands to the foothills, and began a slow climb toward the timberline, where the air was calm and sweet.

  When they arrived at the butterfly forest, millions of the silken-winged creatures were already covering the evergreens on the edge of the timberline. Millions more were arriving, seeking rejuvenation after their long flight over the ocean. There was such a profusion that their wing beats could be heard; the draft from these fluttering snippets tousled Quita’s long, reddish-brown hair.

  Julio and Quita watched, enthralled.

  “The wings of those on the trees are closed like hands at prayer,” said Quita.

  “Do not give them so much credit,” said Julio.

  “Can you fly home from America on your own wings?”

  “I cannot,” he admitted. “Can you find it in your heart to love a man who cannot fly?”

  When she didn’t answer, Julio took her hand, which was dry and cool, and pulling her close to him kissed her. She responded, her tongue sweet and warm, exploring his lips and teeth, like a butterfly itself.

  The arriving butterflies blotted out the sun as they hovered, searching for a place to land. Though it was midafternoon, their gentle shadows dispelled the violent heat of the day, and it became comfortable as evening. Julio undid the single button at the back of Quita’s dress, and she helped him pull her arms out. She unbuttoned Julio’s shirt, and suddenly her tiny breasts were against his chest, burning like hot coins. Julio bent his head and her nipples tasted salty; she smelled of new rope, of tanned leather, and of the dark nasturtiums.

  “I want you to know that I am not a virgin,” Quita said, as Julio pulled her down beside him in the sun-sweet grass beneath the butterfly trees.

  “Unimportant,” said Julio.

  “Whenever he feels it necessary, my stepfather sells me to his friends, or to strangers,” she insisted.

  Julio covered her mouth with his. Swallowing the last of her words, he fitted their bodies together, locking them in passion, two puzzles completed by a single action.

  “I have never made sex for love,” Quita whispered, much later, their bodies still deliciously entwined. “I never thought I would. Now I know why couples moan in the night.”

  “I am glad my father did not have daughters when he was very poor. He would have been tempted, I’m afraid,” said Julio. “But I am rich, and at home for four months, and I promise you will never be touched again, except in love.…”

  “Oh, look,” said Quita, for a butterfly had landed on her right arm near the elbow. Both her arms were locked about Julio’s neck. He was still inside her, their bodies sleek and sweet with their blended sweat, their mouths ripe with the tastes of each other.

  Then another, and another of the gentle butterflies landed on Quita’s arm. Wings closed, they were no thicker than two thin swatches of silk.

  “My back,” said Julio. “I can feel them on my back.”

  Quita raised her head and peeked over Julio’s shoulder.

  “They have woven us a blanket for the night,” she said. “There must be ten thousand of them on your back. Feel their warmth.”

  As she spoke, thousands more butterflies covered the couple with their gentle color.

  “Do they have hearts?” whispered Quita.

  “I feel them beating like a million pinpoints,” said Julio.

  All that evening the shimmering butterflies continued to arrive until they had covered every inch of the lovers; only the places where they were joined in passion and in love were not cloaked in black and gold. They looked like a burnt-orange sculpture in some erotic museum.

  “They will fall and die if we move,” said Quita.

  “Then we won’t distress them,” said Julio, as again he covered her mouth with his, and as he did, butterflies settled on their closed eyelids.

  And there they stayed, down all the long, silken days of their butterfly winter, Quita and Julio, entwined in love, secure under the sleek blanket of butterflies, waiting for spring.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THE GRINGO JOURNALIST

  Did Octavio Court actually exist? This was a question the Gringo Journalist asked himself many times. Courteguayans could be appallingly vague when asked questions they didn’t want to answer. “Ah, yes, Octavio Court,” they would say. “A great man.” Then, they would ramble off on some tangent or other and the Gringo Journalist would find himself being told the history of the mango, or how a mysterious American brought baseball to Courteguay.

  History books, he discovered, were less than helpful. The Gringo Journalist knew that history is written from many different perspectives, none telling the whole story, most imparting only biased half-truths at the best.

  Translated from the Encyclopedia of the Republic of Courteguay:

  COURT, OCTAVIO JUAREZ. Founder and First President of Courteguay. b. c. 1831 in Santo Domingo, D.R. Education not known. Joined the army of the Dominican Republic as a young man. Rose to the rank of General. He was in command of the Border Patrol, charged with keeping Haitians in Haiti. Court did not like the constant change of governments in the D.R. and with a vision of a more stable government planned, along with his comrade General Jose Maria Bravura, to overthrow the government. The coup was unsuccessful and Court and Bravura fled to the jungle. Through diplomacy, threats, and the wish of the government to be rid of him, Court persuaded both the Dominican and Haiti to grant him a number of acres of useless land, and the Country of Courteguay was formed. What had been General Court’s outpost became San Barnabas. Octavio Court is known as the Father of Courteguay.

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p; THERE FOLLOWED TWENTY PAGES of what the Gringo Journalist thought of as speculative fiction. He had once read a supposed biography of St. Ann, the supposed mother of the Virgin Mary, a 200+ page book that contained no facts, nothing to substantiate that such a person as St. Ann ever existed. The remainder of the information on Octavio Court was much the same. Octavio Court probably was a favorite way of beginning a sentence.

  The Gringo Journalist consulted other sources.

  Translated from the Encyclopedia of the Dominican Republic:

  COURT, OCTAVIO. First President of Courteguay. b. 1825 in Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic. Education unknown. A traitorous general in the Dominican army, Court and an accomplice attempted to overthrow the government of General Juan Garcia Melendez, and were soundly defeated. He fled to the jungle where he and his bloodthirsty followers began a campaign of intimidation and guerrilla warfare. Since they were so firmly entrenched in the jungle the governments of the Dominican Republic and Haiti agreed to cede to General Court a few sections of worthless land in return for an end to the attacks. Thus was the miserable little country of Courteguay born. Though General Court must be long dead there is no record of his death.

  From the Book of Haitian History and Religion:

  COURT, OCTAVIUS JUAREZ. Oppressor of Haiti. b. c. 1830 in the Dominican Republic. Court rose to the rank of general in the Dominican Army where he was assigned to persecute Haitians who accidentally strayed across the border into the Dominican. Court and another general attempted to overthrow the government of the Dominican and failed. While in exile they raided villages in both Haiti and the Dominican, leaving behind a trail of bloodshed. Emissaries of both counties agreed to give General Court a section of land in return for peace. Not surprisingly he named his land Courteguay, half of which still truly belongs to Haiti. Late in his life General Court vanished from his Presidential Palace and was never heard from again.

  An ambiguous statement if the Gringo Journalist ever heard one.

  THIRTY-NINE

  THE WIZARD

  Like a true Wizard I am able to be in more than one place at a time. Being omniscient is one of the first requisites for being a Wizard, though it has taken years of practice and I have not always been so endowed. I am what is known in literary circles as an unreliable narrator. I will tell you the truth and history of Courteguay, but it is your ear that hears my tales, your mind that must decide which is truth and which is history. The people of Courteguay, if they are anything besides baseball fanatics, are liars. It is in the blood. This Gringo Journalist who follows me around like flypaper heard the tale of my being murdered by a perpetual loser named Cecilio Escadero, but since he had interviewed me before he heard the tale and found me quite alive he discounted it. He forgot that he was in Courteguay.

  The visiting journalist has good intentions. I give him full credit. He has made a valiant attempt to ascertain the facts. He is at this very moment in San Barnabas, ensconced in a second-class hotel sorting through his notes and tapes. He has spent four months in Courteguay researching the History of Courteguay, in spite of the fact that his home country, the United States, where he is considered a successful author and is revered as much as a writer can be in a country that does not value its artists, has refused to fund his visit to Courteguay. During his stay he has researched (a) the History of Courteguay, (b) the history of baseball in Courteguay, (c) my life story, (d) the story of Julio and Esteban Pimental the most famous baseball players exported by our country, (e) the life and times of Dr. Lucius Noir.

  He thinks he knows what has happened. He has conducted interviews with anyone who will talk with him. He has tried to hire someone to guide him into the wilderness to a camp where it is rumored that a group of insurgents led by the late Dr. Lucius Noir are holed up. I personally have prevented him from doing so. He is a nice young man, more than a little naive. And though I am certain Dr. Noir is dead, what if I am wrong? Dr. Noir might hold this young man against his will, or worse.

  The Gringo Journalist, unfortunately, has university training. He looks for things that do not exist, in places that hold no secrets. Explanations are usually simple. Take my murder. I owed Cecilio Escadero one thousand guilermos.

  I didn’t have it. I would probably never have it. Wouldn’t have paid him if I did have it. I have an undeserved reputation for welshing on bets. What I told Cecelio was: “If there is any blame here it lies with you for being gullible enough to bet with someone who is a self-admitted liar and cheat.”

  One thousand guilermos was a fortune to Cecilio Escadero. To me it was nothing. I didn’t have it to begin with so it meant little to lose it.

  “It is all a matter of attitude,” I tried to explain to Cecilio. “If I had won I would immediately have bet again and probably lost. And I would have had no money to pay my debt. Instead I lost my first bet so I saved myself a lot of trouble.”

  Cecilio Escadero took out a revolver and shot me three times in the chest. He was so literal-minded and so lacking in humor. Especially after I came back to life.

  THE FIRST TIME THE WIZARD was murdered he was unprepared for the event. He was shot after declining to pay a gambling debt. His body was packed in cloves and his coffin displayed at the baseball grounds in San Cristobel for two days. On the third day, just before Esteban Pimental was to conduct the service and his body was to be carried to San Cristobel’s largest cemetery, the Wizard willed himself back to life. When he sat up in his coffin he frightened the entire student body of St. Vagabond Primary School, who had just finished singing a song mourning the Wizard, praising baseball, and guessing the numbers for that day’s pick-three lottery.

  YOU SEE HOW IT IS with us wizards. Reputation is everything. One resurrection and your credibility in the gambling community rises like a balloon.

  FORTY

  THE WIZARD

  When Julio and Quita woke from their long, loving, butterfly winter, they walked hand in hand, down from the foothills and across the plain to San Barnabas, while the tunnel of butterflies spiraled above them.

  “First I have something to show you,” Julio said to Quita. “I discovered it as a child exploring the hills by myself. Esteban was never much company except when playing baseball. He preferred to spend his time down at the compound discussing philosophy and religion with the priests behind the chain-link fences.”

  Julio held Quita’s small hand in his and guided her between the banks of wild morning glories and plumeria toward what looked like a small swamp. The oval area was a bleak, bleached ivory color in contrast to the vivid green foliage and the startling reds and purples of the flowers.

  “What is it?” asked Quita. She studied the scene for a moment. “It looks dead and scary.” The area in front of her might, in another less tropical country, pass for grass or grain, pale, unearthly stalks topped by gray, claw-like appendages, that could be mistaken for roots.

  “This place looks like what I imagine death must be like, grey, dry, grasping, so everlastingly dreary.” She turned toward Julio, pressing her radiant belly against his. “Why would you want to show me this deathly place?”

  “Because there is a beautiful surprise,” said Julio, grasping a pale stalk with both hands as he braced his feet and pulled mightily and sharply upward. There emerged from the earth a purple and yellow flower of intense beauty. He turned the stalk over, shaking off grains of dark earth, exposing the flower to sunlight. Under the heat of the sun the mucous-like gel that covered the petals evaporated like steam, and the petals seemed to expand as well as unfold in a glorious bloom.

  “That plant was in the earth upside down,” said Quita, laughing delightedly.

  “As are they all,” said Julio, extracting another plant from the earth, this one unfolding into a magnificent bell of the deepest gold and wine colors. Julio continued extracting the upside down flowers and stacking them into Quita’s arms until she all but disappeared and begged him to stop.

  “Isn’t it wrong to pull so many?” asked Quita.
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br />   “A conscience,” said Julio, “is to make you feel bad about things that make you feel good.”

  THEY ARRIVED AT FERNANDELLA’S, both laden with flowers, peeking from behind them like overworked florists, to find that Julio was due to report to Florida for spring training in three days. Esteban was already packed, sitting on his suitcase on the patio reading a Latin translation of The Stranger by Albert Camus.

  “My season is like that of the butterflies,” Julio said. “When they leave, I leave. When they return, so shall I.”

  Before Julio flew off to the United States for spring training he ensconced his love, Quita Garza, in one of the lavish bedrooms in the east wing of his mother’s mansion.

  “I am in love with Quita Garza,” he told his mother. “She is now part of the family. Protect her as you would your own.”

  “You are too young to be in love,” Fernandella wailed. “You are only … what … sixteen?”

  “I am an adult of twenty-two,” said Julio, grinning, “and I have a birth certificate to prove it.”

  “Fake though it may be,” countered Fernandella. But she did not argue too strenuously, for she knew her prosperity came from the money Julio and Esteban earned from playing baseball in the United States. If Julio was in love, so be it.

  He and Quita located themselves in one of the many bedrooms, gorged on fried pheasant, grits, and passion fruit. They made love hour upon hour, for Julio knew he must soon fly away to America for another baseball season. Julio hated the thought of gathering together his few belongings, for packing meant parting from Quita.

  “I will return just before the butterflies,” Julio told Quita as they lay tangled deep in their bed, kissing her parted lips. “If we are fortunate you will be splendid with our child when I return.”

  “I will try,” whispered Quita, as Julio kissed down her belly, licking the insides of her thighs, savoring the sweet odors of her, the tartness of their mingled sweat.