The midday sun was scorching in spite of the sea breeze that cooled it off around the edges. They walked down the street, passing Señora Baraca’s dog who pulled on his leash and let out a frenzied round of barks when he saw them. Federica told her father how the dog barked all the time because he wanted to run about and wasn’t able to in his small garden.
‘Well, let’s take him out then.' said Ramon.
‘Really? Can we?’ she replied in excitement. She watched with pride as her father rang the bell. They waited in the shade of an almond tree. The sound of children playing in the street resounded through the air, their laughter like the song of sea birds on the beaches. Federica didn’t wish to be with them. She wished only that her father would stay this time and never go away again.
‘Sí?' came a voice from behind the door. It was deep and guttural, muffled by the phlegm that caught in her throat.
‘Señora Baraca. It’s Ramon Campione,’ he said with the assertiveness that pertained to everything he did. Federica pulled herself up, copying her father who always walked tall.
‘Ramon Campione, indeed,’ she replied, venturing out of the house like a timid crow. She was old and bent and wore a black dress of mourning even though her husband had died more than ten years before. ‘I thought you were the other side of the world,’ she croaked.
‘I’m home now,’ he replied, softening his voice a little so as not to frighten her. Federica held tightly on to his hand. ‘My daughter would very much like to take your dog for a walk on the beach. Perhaps we could do you the favour of exercising him.’
The old woman chewed on her gums for a moment. ‘Well, I know you, so you won’t be stealing him,’ she replied. ‘Perhaps you could shut him up for me. If I don’t go insane with grief, I’ll go insane with the barking.’
‘We’ll do our best for you,’ he said and smiled courteously. ‘Won’t we, Fede?’ Federica cowered behind him and lowered her eyes shyly. Señora Baraca’s knotted fingers fumbled clumsily with the lead, the hairs on her chin illuminated like cobwebs by the sun. Finally she opened the gate and handed the dog to Ramon. The dog stopped barking and began to jump about, puffing and snorting with the enthusiasm of a freed prisoner.
‘His name is Rasta,’ she said, hands on hips. ‘My son gave him to me before he disappeared for good. That’s all I have left. I’d rather have my son, he made much less noise.’
‘We’ll bring Rasta back before lunchtime,’ Ramon assured her.
‘As you wish, Don Ramon,’ she replied, blinking into the sunlight with the discomfort of a creature grown accustomed to the darkness of her melancholy.
Ramon and Federica strode down the hill towards the sea, half running to keep up with Rasta who jumped and skipped in front of them, straining at his leash, thirsting to sniff every gateway and post, every patch of grass or tree, cocking his leg indiscriminately everywhere the scent of another animal lingered. He was pathetically happy. Federica’s heart floated with joy as she watched the skinny black mongrel experience freedom for the first time in perhaps many months. She looked up at her father and her cheeks burned with admiration. There was nothing he couldn’t do.
They crossed the road that ran alongside the coast, then made their way down the paved steps to Caleta Abarca beach. One or two people walked up and down, a child played with a small dog, throwing a ball into the sea for it to chase. Federica took off her sandals and felt the soft sand, like Lidia’s flour, between her pink toes. Ramon changed into his bathing shorts, leaving his clothes and leather moccasins in a heap for Federica to look after while he went and washed himself off in the cold waters of the Pacific. She watched him jog towards the sea, followed eagerly by Rasta. He was strong and hairy, with the powerful physique of a man capable of climbing mountains, yet he walked and moved with surprising grace. Ramon Campione’s imagination was as deep and mysterious as the sea, full of shipwrecks and sunken continents. Federica had grown up on his stories and somehow those stories had made his absences less acute. When she looked back on her short life she saw only the long rides through her father’s fertile mind. Those were the adventures she remembered, not the many months of drought. She watched him splash about with Rasta in the glittering water. The light caught the tips of the waves and the silk of his hair and if she hadn’t known better she would have thought he were a playful seal. She placed the box on her lap and ran her hand over the rough wooden surface. She wondered to whom it had once belonged. A shudder of anticipation careered up her spine at the thought of another magical story. She opened the box to the ringing of little bells and marvelled once again at the glittering gems that caused the butterfly’s wings to quiver.
Finally, Ramon’s wet body sat down next to her on the hot sand to dry off in
the sun. Rasta, unwilling to stop enjoying his liberty even for a moment, galloped up and down the beach, playing tag with the sea. Ramon was pleased his daughter liked the box. She deserved it. After all, Helena was right, he wasn’t a good father. Good fathers gave their children their time. He couldn’t be that sort of father. It wasn’t in his nature. He was a wanderer, a nomad. His mother used to tell him that children give according to what parents put in. Well, he must have done something right, for Federica loved him and her love showed all over her face. He cast his eyes out over the blue horizon and wondered how long he’d last on this shore before the itchiness in his feet got the better of him and the winds of new adventures blew outside his window to lure him away.
Tell me the legend, Papa,’ said Federica. Ramon lifted his daughter between his legs so that he sat behind her with his arms around her body and his rough cheek against hers. They both looked into the mosaic of crystals and listened to the light clatter of tiny bells.
This box once belonged to a beautiful Inca princess,’ he began. Federica gasped in delight. She loved his stories and nestled in closer, for she knew this one would be special. She kept the box open on the folds of her yellow dress, running her hands over the stones and turning it from side to side to watch the colours mysteriously change as if by magic. The Inca Princess was called Topahuay and lived in a palace on the hillside village of Pisac in Peru. The Incas were an ancient Indian civilization who worshipped the sun, Inti, and paid homage to their Emperor, the ruling Inca. Beneath the Emperor were the nobility, the “Capac Incas”, the true descendants of the founding Inca, Manco Ca-pac. Topahuay was a member of one of these ruling houses called panacas. She had smooth brown skin, a round open face, sharp green eyes and long black hair that she tied into a plait that fell down her back, almost to the ground. She was admired by everyone and all the young men of the nobility longed to marry her. But Topahuay was secretly in love with a man of lowly birth, a member of the yanakuna, a domestic class who served the panacas. A marriage between these two such distinct classes was unthinkable. But Topahuay and Wanchuko, which was his name, loved each other so fiercely that they defied the laws of their land and saw each other in secret. Sometimes Topahuay would disguise herself as a woman from the yanakuna and they would walk the streets unnoticed, hold hands away from the suspicious eyes of her relatives and even kiss when no one was looking. Now, Topahuay was only
thirteen years old. You may think that is very young for a girl to be thinking of marriage, but in those days thirteen was the beginning of womanhood and her parents were scouring their society for a worthy husband for her. Topahuay felt trapped in a world of strict social codes with no escape. She knew in her heart that she would have to marry a nobleman and relinquish Wanchuko for ever. So Wanchuko decided to make her a box that was so unremarkable she would be able to take it with her wherever she went without attracting suspicion, but which contained a secret message within that only she would ever see, to remind her of his love. So he set about making a plain wooden box. He made it so plain that it was almost ugly.
Once the box was made he searched the hills and caves for the most beautiful stones he could find. Some were precious, some were simply crystals, others were rare gems h
e found at the bottom of the lake of such exquisite blues and greens that he believed them to have been made out of the water itself Once he had gathered all his stones together he locked himself in his small room from dawn to dusk where he chiselled and carved, setting each stone carefully into the wood. Then he fashioned a much smaller box, which contained a special mechanism he invented so that when the larger box was opened a strange music, like the tinkling of tiny bells, resounded within. Legend has it that the box was a magical box, made with the very force of his love that was not of this world. It was due to that higher vibration that the stones were set in place, as if by enchantment. You see, he didn’t use a type of glue, as others would have, instead the stones are held together by each other, like a magnificent mosaic. If you were to take one stone out they would all fall away and the picture would be lost for ever. So you see, it must have been made with magic. There is no other explanation. On the bottom of the box he designed a butterfly to symbolize Topahuay’s entrapment and her beauty. When he gave it to her she cried large silver tears and said that she wished she had wings like a butterfly so that she could fly away with him. What Wanchuko didn’t know was that the symbolism of the butterfly would go beyond entrapment and beauty. Butterflies only live for a day. Topahuay’s life would be cut short, just like the butterfly’s, at the height of her magnificence.
The Inca Empire was also at the height of its powers. It was the largest and most potent empire that South America had ever known. But it was all to go drastically wrong.
The Spanish arrived to conquer Peru in one of the bloodiest episodes in the
history of the empire. It was then, when all hope had drained away and the blood of thousands of Incas ran in rivers down the hills into the valleys that they sacrificed their most beautiful and cherished Topahuay to their god of war, in the desperate hope that he would save them. Clasping the box to her breast she was dressed in exquisitely woven wools, her hair plaited and beaded with one hundred shining crystals. Upon her head was placed a large fan of white feathers to carry her into the next world and frighten the demons along the way. Wanchuko was unable to save her. He could only watch, helpless and heartbroken, as she was led up the small mountain path together with an entourage of high priests and dignitaries. As she passed him her large green eyes gazed upon him with such intense love that a light ignited about her head, a light not of this world. His lips trembled and his outstretched hand grabbed her woollen cloak in an effort to save her. But it was no good, the entourage passed him and continued up into the mists of the mountain. Up to the bridge that joined this world to the next, a bridge that Topahuay would have to cross alone. He was too angry to cry, too afraid to run after her. He stood petrified, waiting, wanting it to be over. When he unclenched his hand he saw a brightly woven piece of wool sitting in his shaking palm. A moment later he heard a short, piercing scream. He turned his eyes to the mountain where the scream echoed momentarily off the jagged peaks before disappearing into the wind. When he looked down at his hand the piece of wool had transformed itself into a resplendent butterfly. He watched, aghast, as she stood quivering in his palm for a brief second as if stunned by her own metamorphosis. Then she lifted her fragile wings and flew away. Topahuay had become a butterfly after all and her spirit was free.’
Federica was so moved a tear trailed slowly down her shining cheek, dropping off her lip onto her chin and finally into the box where it seeped into the crystals. ‘How did you get the box, Papa?’ she whispered, as if the sound of her voice would shatter the tenderness of the moment.
I found it in a village called Puca Pucara. Topahuay’s family had managed to salvage it before she was buried on the mountainside. They brought it down to their village where they kept it for a while until the Spanish came with their weapons and their slaughter. It was then that Topahuay’s mother gave it to Wanchuko, for she had always known what her daughter’s secret heart contained, and told him to leave Peru until it was safe to return. So Wanchuko left
as he had been told only to return many decades later as an old man. He had never married for he had vowed in his heart to love only Topahuay. He had wandered the world alone, thinking only of her. In dreams, when he was awake as much as when he was asleep, her open face and smiling eyes would come to him and comfort him through his lonely life. When he returned to Pisac he recognized no one. His family had been slaughtered along with Topahuay’s; in death there were no social divides. They had all died together, emperors and servants alike. On the brink of despair he climbed up the same path that Topahuay had walked that fateful day, all those years ago. At the top, to his surprise, he saw a little old woman sitting on the grass, looking out across the kingdom of mountain peaks. She was quite alone. When he approached her he recognized her as Topahuay’s sister, Topaquin. Time had warped her skin and shrunken her bones, just like his. But he knew her and when he came closer, she too recognized him and invited him to join her. There they talked about Topahuay, her short, tragic life and the Spanish armies of destruction who had stamped out their culture and way of life for ever. Wanchuko gave Topaquin the box, telling her that the spirit of Topahuay danced in the light of the crystals and sang with the music of the tiny bells. Then he lay back on the spot where Topahuay’s life had been so cruelly taken from her and died. He, too, crossed the bridge that joins this life to the next. But, he wasn’t alone, for Topahuay was with him and her love was there to guide him so no evil could touch him.
The box was taken to Puca Pucara and remained there for all that time, handed down from one generation to another. The strange thing is that an old woman gave it to me. She said that it has special powers. She said that I needed it more than she did. So, she wrapped it up and handed it to me. It must be priceless, Fede, like you. So you treasure it, for it was made with love and must be cherished with love.’
‘I’ll cherish it for ever, Papa. Thank you,’ she replied, overwhelmed with gratitude and so moved by the story that her lips seemed to lose their colour and turn pale.
Ramon glanced at his watch while his daughter sat transfixed, stroking the butterfly with an unsteady hand. ‘We should go home for lunch,’ he whispered into her ear, stroking the soft skin of her white neck with tender fingers. ‘Where’s Rasta?’ he chuckled, casting his eyes up and down the beach. He stood up and
stretched before putting his clothes back on again. Federica followed his lead reluctantly. She closed the box and got to her feet. She straightened out the creases in her pretty yellow dress and called for Rasta. Still full of energy he appeared wet and sandy with a ball in his mouth.
‘Here, Rasta,’ she said, patting her thighs. He trotted up to her and dropped the ball on the ground. She shook her head. Some poor person would probably want that ball back, she thought, picking it up with a finger and thumb so as not to dirty her hands. She looked around but saw no one. ‘What shall I do with this ball, Papa?’ she asked.
‘Oh, I think he can keep it. Poor old Rasta. He doesn’t have anything else to play with and I can’t see anyone looking for it,’ he replied, slipping his feet into his moccasins. Federica threw the ball up the beach. Rasta scurried after it. ‘Come on, let’s go,’ he said, taking her hand and leading her back up the steps.
‘That was such a beautiful story, Papa.’
‘I knew you’d like it.’
‘I love it. I love the box. I’ll treasure it for ever. It will be my most treasured possession,’ she said, clutching it against her chest again.
Ramon was pensive as they walked up the hill towards home. He had a dark premonition that Helena had given up. There was a distant look in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. A resignation of sorts. The feisty expression was no longer set into her features, as if she’d grown tired of battle and wanted out. He sighed deeply. Federica was still far away in Pisac with Topahuay and Wanchuko and walked up the hill beside him in silence.
They returned Rasta to Señora Baraca who was grateful that he no longer barked, but panted heavily and wag
ged his thin tail with pleasure. She said that Federica could take him out whenever she wanted. ‘As he hasn’t bitten you, he must like you,’ she said without smiling, chewing on her gums.
Federica followed her father up the street. ‘Mama says I shouldn’t touch him. She says we don’t know where he’s been,’ she said to her father.
‘We do now,’ he replied, smiling down at her. ‘Still, I’d do as she says and wash your hands before lunch.’
‘I cooked your favourite lunch with Lidia,’ she said proudly.
He grinned, his gleaming teeth whiter against his dark skin. ‘Pastel de choclo,’ he said and she nodded. ‘I don’t deserve you.’
‘Oh yes you do. You’re the best father in the whole world,’ she replied
happily, hugging her magical box and gripping his hand so tightly that he knew she meant it.
Chapter 3
Federica followed her father across the midday shadows of the leafy acacia trees, through their front gate and up the path towards the front door. Just before they reached it Lidia appeared, scarlet-faced and anxious.
‘Don Ramon! Señora Helena is waiting to have lunch. She told me to go and find you,’ she puffed, her heavy bosom heaving with exertion.
Ramon strode up to her, disarming her with his wide smile. ‘Well, Lidia, you won’t have to now as we’re back. I hear there’s pastel de choclo for lunch,’ he said, walking on past her into the hall.
‘Si, Don Ramon. Federica cooked it all by herself,’ she said, closing the door behind her and following them into the kitchen.
‘Smells delicious,’ he said, inhaling the warm aroma of onions. ‘Don’t forget to wash your hands, Fede,’ he added, running his under the tap. Federica’s eyes sparkled with happiness and she smiled without restraint. After washing her hands she rushed into the sitting room to tell her mother about the legend of the box.
The Butterfly Box Page 3
