Sound of Butterflies, The Page 11

  No, it was clear to him that the only way he could truly make a difference in the world was as an explorer — he would bring home the Papilio sophia and the world would remember him for it. His wife’s name would be immortalised, and he would be revered. He would travel the world speaking to entomological societies about the butterfly. He would relate again and again the adventure of the chase, the triumph he would feel when he caught one in his net, the skill he would use to do so.

  The jaguar yowled again, and another blast of pain echoed around Thomas’s stomach. Perhaps it wasn’t grief that was hurting him after all. Perhaps there was something wrong with him. It seemed the closer he got to the butterfly, the more the dark rainforest tried to hinder him. He would speak to Ernie tomorrow.

  The following afternoon, as the men returned from their day’s collecting — Thomas clutching his gut to try to subdue the waves of pain — Antonio, who had stayed behind, met them on the path.

  ‘You have a visitor,’ he said, his wide face looking at them for approval.

  Outside the cookhouse, a white man of around fifty years was sitting on a chair with his feet up on a stool. He stood and removed his hat before walking forward to greet them. His neat cream suit was remarkably spotless. He was smooth shaven except for a large grey moustache, waxed into thick leaves. There was something unnatural about the face beneath the combed and oiled hair. Thomas couldn’t quite place it until they stood face to face with him: the skin was utterly dry. While all around him men wiped at their grimy brows, slick with sweat, this man was as cool as if it were an English spring day. He bowed slightly as he shook each of their hands; his palm confirmed Thomas’s perception of him — it felt like cool glass, and his nails were clean and cut into neat squares.

  ‘I am very honoured to meet you, sirs,’ he said in almost flawless English. ‘Your man Antonio has told you who I am?’

  ‘Only that you are a hat merchant, my dear fellow,’ said George, whose nervousness had deserted him once he had laid eyes on the man; his relaxed hands were folded loosely in front of him.

  ‘My name is José,’ said the man. ‘Please just call me José. I am very pleased to make your acquaintance. No!’ He held up his hand as Ernie went to speak. ‘Please do not tell me. You are the doctor, Ernest Harris?’ Ernie nodded and raised his eyebrows, before following José’s gaze to John. ‘And you … you must be Mr Gitchens, I think. The hardy plant-hunter.’ John nodded, but looked at the ground. Thomas sensed that John was anxious to wander away, to snatch some moments alone with his work. His whole body seemed to be straining towards the hut. ‘And this must be Mr Sebel, of course, the learned scholar. And finally young Mr Edgar.’

  Thomas had the curious impression they were being welcomed to their own camp; he almost expected the hat seller to stretch his arms out to them. ‘And how do you know so much about us?’ he asked.

  ‘Ah, that would be your man Antonio again. We have been talking for a good two hours in your absence. I trust you had a good day collecting?’

  Ernie suggested they sit down. They gave their equipment to Paulo, who staggered away under its collective weight.

  ‘What brings you up the Tapajós, sir?’

  ‘Hats. I have come from Manaus, and I thought I would take a detour up the Tapajós before leaving Santarém for Belém. I have many hats to sell.’

  ‘And where are you from?’

  ‘Sao Paulo. I came to the Amazon to make my fortune in Manaus. I arrived there two years ago, and tried to sell my hats there, but nobody wanted to buy them. I even tried to drop the price, but nobody wanted them. Then I learned something. You see …’ He leaned forward in his chair, as if about to let the men in on a secret. ‘In Manaus everything is very expensive. The people there, they don’t care for quality, they only want what costs them the most so they can brag to their neighbours about it. Those rubber men! When they would not buy my hats, I put the price up a thousand per cent. I sold out within a week. They all wanted my hats! They were the most expensive, you see, and to them that means status! So you see before you a much wealthier man than the man who left Sao Paulo.’

  ‘And well educated, I am guessing, sir, by your excellent English.’

  ‘Oh, you know, one picks it up.’ He laughed. ‘May I be so bold as to ask if we may have some tea?’

  They looked at one another. Tea was a habit they had fallen away from in Belém.

  ‘I’m afraid we don’t have any tea, old man,’ said Ernie, and Thomas wondered if José would be offended by the expression. ‘We can offer you some coffee. Please forgive us for not offering before.’

  ‘Coffee?’ José looked terribly disappointed. ‘But you are English! Surely you drink tea?’

  ‘We do, but it has been a little hard to get. And we have developed a taste for coffee.’

  ‘Never mind. I have brought a supply of my own. I think it the most charming habit of the English — they want to drink tea at all times of the day.’

  ‘Have you been to England, Mr José?’ asked Thomas.

  ‘No,’ said the man. Then, ‘Manuel!’

  Thomas jumped; he was not expecting the man to suddenly shout out.

  A man came walking around from the back of the cookhouse. He was Indian, short and well muscled. His hair was worn in the traditional bowl cut but he was dressed in a white shirt and black waistcoat, with black trousers. Like an English servant, perhaps. Scars marked his bare feet and Thomas wondered how he coped with the fire ants.

  ‘Manuel, bring me some of my tea,’ he said in Portuguese. ‘Enough for the gentlemen.’

  Manuel nodded, but his face showed no expression. He emerged a few minutes later — the water must have been already on the boil for their supper — with a pristine china teapot and five tiny cups and saucers. The cup he set down in front of Thomas had a chip in the rim but the rest were unmarked — an extraordinary sight in the middle of the jungle.

  ‘Obrigado, Manuel,’ said John. ‘Vocî gosta de chá?’

  Manuel eyed John for a moment, then turned questioning eyes to José, who waved him away.

  ‘I congratulate you on your excellent Portuguese, Mr Gitchens,’ said José when the servant’s back had disappeared again. ‘But Manuel cannot speak. He is mute.’

  ‘But not deaf?’ asked George.

  ‘No. He is mute because he has no tongue. I see you looking at me in horror, gentlemen. It is one of the hazards of the Amazon. He lost it in an accident.’

  ‘God,’ said Ernie. ‘What sort of accident?’

  ‘I would not like to upset you by telling you,’ said José. ‘Please do not ask me to explain.’ He took up his teacup, clutching the tiny handle between thumb and forefinger and cocking his little finger as he raised it to his lips. He gave a satisfied sigh as he lowered it back to the saucer perched on his belly. ‘I prefer it with milk, but I like it almost as much with a slice of lemon, don’t you, gentlemen?’

  Thomas’s tea was too hot, so he blew on it. He couldn’t remember the last time he had drunk tea; the familiar smell coursed through him and made him smile.

  ‘I see you smile, Mr Edgar,’ said José. ‘You are missing England, I think.’

  ‘Why, yes,’ said Thomas. ‘That is, I am not, but I did for a moment remember tea at home, you’re right.’

  ‘I should miss England if I were you,’ said José. ‘I imagine it is a fine country. I would very much like to go there one day.’

  ‘What is it you like about England?’ asked George.

  ‘The tea, of course! But you can have that anywhere. I am very much moved by your poets, sir. I am particularly fond of Byron and Shelley. And Wordsworth, not forgetting him! Through them I come to know your landscape. And William Blake. Such a wise man!’

  ‘You are an educated man,’ said George. ‘Just as I suspected.’ He sat with one leg slung over the other, seemingly forgetting the threat of ants, and waved a fly away with one hand while holding his tea in the other.

  ‘If one can read, Mr Sebel, one
can be educated.’

  ‘True, true,’ said George.

  John stood and excused himself. ‘I have some work to do before the day’s end. I will take supper in my room, so I bid you goodnight.’ He sloped off, and the circle was broken somehow — an edge of it now lay exposed to the darkening forest.

  ‘I understand you are under the patronage of Senhor Santos,’ said José. ‘Have you met the man?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Ernie. ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘I am aware of him, yes. It would be difficult to live in Manaus and not know of him.’

  ‘What is he like?’ asked Thomas. An image of Captain Arturo’s angry face appeared in his mind.

  ‘You mean you know nothing of him? You have heard nothing?’ asked José.

  ‘No, nothing,’ said George. ‘All we know is that he has been very kind to us. He has provided us with accommodation and transport, including our passages here, and we are making our way to Manaus to meet him. He was to have met us at Santarém, but he had some trouble with some of his Indian rubber workers upriver.’

  ‘Yes, the Indians can be troublesome in employment. It is very hard to find decent men among the Indians or the Negroes. Since slavery was abolished it is even harder. So I am told. They are too proud to work for the white man, and try to subsist on their own.’ He finished his tea and poured himself another as he spoke. ‘So nobody has talked to you of Santos?’

  ‘No,’ said George.

  ‘Well …’ said Thomas. He paused. He couldn’t be sure he remembered what Captain Arturo had said about Santos. Perhaps it was better to keep quiet. But then again, perhaps José could shed some light on it. The others were looking at him, so he went on. ‘Dr Harris and I had an encounter with a man downriver from here. I’m ashamed to say we were quite drunk when it happened, so I don’t really remember. He mentioned Mr Santos, I think.’

  ‘I see.’ José leaned forward in his chair, interested.

  ‘I can’t be sure … only when we mentioned we were under the patronage of Mr Santos, he became quite angry and all but threw us out of his house.’ He looked at Ernie for confirmation, but Ernie shrugged.

  ‘I haven’t a clue, old man,’ he said. ‘Can’t remember a moment past pudding. Mark of a good rum, or whatever that hell-water was we were drinking.’ It was not unusual for Ernie to forget events that occurred when he was intoxicated, and he seemed unconcerned.

  ‘Interesting,’ said José. He stroked his gigantic moustache for a moment. ‘What was this man’s name?’

  ‘Arturo. A retired sea captain. Do you have any idea what he might have been bothered by?’

  ‘It is hard to tell.’ He sighed and adjusted his jacket, pulling it over his solid belly. ‘Some of the Portuguese are jealous of the success of the rubber developers. You may have run into nothing more than a case of petty envy. I would forget about it immediately.’

  Thomas smiled. ‘Yes, of course. I will. I don’t even know if I’m remembering it correctly. Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Do you know what he is like?’ asked Ernie.

  ‘Santos?’ José smiled. ‘A good man. But a man to be careful with. He likes to play games with people, I am told. You should be wary of him, but at the same time treat him with respect. And he will do the same for you, I am sure of it.’

  As they spoke, evening was falling around them. Thomas had setting to do, so he too excused himself and joined John in their hut.

  ‘An interesting man, don’t you think, John?’

  John sat at his desk scribbling notes. ‘Yes,’ he said, without turning around.

  His posture invited no more conversation, so Thomas unpacked his day’s catches: several of the speedy Junonia lavinia, with iridescent green patches on their brown lower wings, which he had managed to catch as they gathered at a mud puddle; some male Papilio torquatus, black with pink and white spots, and one precious female, which, with its black and yellow markings, had excited him prematurely. He took them from their temporary boxes, where they had been pinned onto pieces of cork. He picked up his pen and card to write the labels for them — the species, the location, and his own name next to the date. He was pleased that he had not had to consult any books — he was as sure of these species as he was of his own name. He thought about what the hat merchant had said — as long as one can read one can be educated. So Thomas had never studied entomology at Cambridge as George had. So what? He had a good general education — the rest of what he needed to know about science he could glean from the books he read. Alfred Wallace had never trained as an entomologist, yet he was accepted by the Entomological Society as a pioneer. He made a mental note to himself to spend more time reading and less time daydreaming, although he had read all the books he had brought with him. He would read them again.

  He was also envious of the way José slipped easily between English and Portuguese. Thomas’s Portuguese was still very limited. He could give basic instructions to the men, but relied heavily on John to translate sentences for him.

  As he set a Cithaerias aurorina on its new card, his hand slipped and tore one of its wings. He cursed to himself, then looked up to see if John had heard him. If he had, he didn’t react. He lifted the specimen up again and ran a light finger over the tear. It was so delicate that he couldn’t feel it on his callused fingers. He placed the wing between his finger and thumb and rubbed harder, and there it was — the velvety texture, seducing his skin. His fingertips came away with stardust on them and he wondered at the jewel-like quality of the butterfly. What woman needed diamonds, he thought, or sapphires, if she had a butterfly to adorn her? He glanced at an unusually small Morpho rhetenor he had carried from Santarém, reluctant to leave it behind. He would make a gift of it to Sophie, perhaps set it in resin so she could pin it to her coat or her hat. Its wings would reflect the blue of her eyes, its deep black lines her eyelashes.

  He worked on. Paulo brought his supper but it went cold on his desk. Finally, when he had finished his work, he looked up, blinking, surprised to find himself still at his desk. He had mounted and set all the day’s catch, as well as labelling them. He had then written in his journal of the place and manner he had caught each one, and sketched the specimens, pausing to fill in strategic whorls of colour — a pink spot here, a red stripe there. His paints could never compete with the natural, iridescent colours, but he sat back and took in his work with satisfaction.

  John had already retired; Thomas hadn’t even heard him, he was so engrossed in his work. He looked at his pocket watch and saw that it was well past midnight. He packed his paints away quietly and went outside for a cigarette. When he drew back the curtain from the doorway, something dark bumped against his face. He threw his arm up in alarm and knocked a huge moth to the ground. It floundered around on the ground, dazed, before righting itself and launching into the night air, in the direction of Ernie’s hut. Thomas took a deep breath. He had felt the moth’s wings beating on his face, felt its powder brush onto his face and into his eyes. He imagined that he had breathed it in and an involuntary cough welled up inside him.

  He heard a noise behind him, and John stood before him in his underwear, his hair standing straight up.

  ‘What’s wrong, Thomas? I heard you yell.’

  Had he yelled? He didn’t remember doing so, but he had been smothered by the moth’s attack.

  ‘Sorry. It was nothing. Just a moth. It startled me.’

  John chuckled. ‘And you call yourself a lepidopterist?’

  ‘No, I don’t!’ Thomas snapped.

  John apologised quickly. ‘I have noticed, Thomas, that you haven’t been collecting moths. Any reason?’

  ‘No,’ said Thomas, too hastily, he knew. He turned his face away so that John could not see the blush on his cheeks. ‘Sorry for getting you up. I’m fine.’

  John stood there for a moment and the silence between them was palpable. Then he let out a grunt and closed the curtain. Thomas was in near darkness again. The moth, which must have been hovering by
the crack of light at the doorway, had merely dived for it when Thomas opened the curtain. It was unlikely that he had been attacked. Nasty, ugly thing.

  He shook his head at his own morbid imagination and rolled a cigarette. The compound was silent, except for the usual forest sounds. No light escaped from any of the other huts. Thomas had heard Ernie’s offer to share his hut with José; no doubt he thought he had found a new drinking partner. Thomas supposed Ernie had warned him about the ants. José’s man Manuel was probably squashed into the men’s hut.

  He inhaled and felt the nicotine in the cigarette enter his veins and make its way to his heart, where the beating had subsided. He hadn’t known before that smoking could be such a pleasure, that it would be the thing he craved when he was upset or disturbed in some way. He also thought he wouldn’t mind a drink, but he pushed the thought away.

  As he stood still, not leaning against the wall for fear of what might crawl into his shirt, he heard a shuffle across the compound and saw a shadow slip out of George’s hut. He could barely make it out, but the figure stood for a moment, and he nearly called out to it. He stopped himself in case he woke everyone. It must be George, nipping out to relieve himself. But the figure crouched low and scuttled across the yard to the men’s hut and disappeared.

  Thomas threw his cigarette on the ground and jogged over to George’s hut. He knocked on the doorframe. ‘George,’ he whispered.

  ‘What?’ came a voice from inside. ‘Who is it?’

  Thomas pulled back the curtain. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked. ‘I thought I saw something.’

  ‘What? What did you see? Of course I’m all right.’

  ‘One of the men …’

  ‘There’s no men in here.’

  ‘I thought you were asleep. I saw someone come out of your hut—’

  ‘Nonsense, man. I’ve been awake the whole time. There’s been nobody here but me.’ He turned over in his hammock, facing away from Thomas. ‘Go back to bed.’