Sound of Butterflies, The Page 17

  The room suddenly became unbearable. Thomas clapped his hands over his ears, but this made the noises around him seem louder. Ernie was uncomfortably close. He was speaking, but Thomas couldn’t understand what he was saying. His face was huge and shiny, and his eyes popped with veins, as if he were being strangled.

  ‘Are you all right, Mr Edgar?’ came a voice, seemingly from inside a cathedral; it echoed and bounced around his head. Santos had turned his attention from Lillie, and they both looked at him with concern.

  ‘Just … need some air.’ Thomas stood. He lost his balance and clung to the table. ‘Going for a walk.’

  Santos didn’t protest; instead, he pointed to a door on the other side of the room, which he said would take Thomas to an alleyway. ‘Be careful,’ he added. ‘Stay on the streets that are lit well. Stay where there are other people.’

  Thomas nodded and lurched towards the door. He dodged fat men in tailcoats standing about boasting to one another over the din. One man, with a wide, red forehead, caught his eye as he stumbled past. He was lighting a cigar with a banknote and winked at him. The conversations were in Portuguese, but as Thomas caught snippets, he understood as perfectly as if it were English.

  ‘My wife ordered a grand piano from France and she hasn’t touched it since it arrived. She just stares at it all day long.’

  ‘I have two of the things. So elegant.’

  ‘I’ve imported two lions from Africa. They are tame as long as I keep them well fed.’

  Beyond the knot of men a crowd was gathered around a bathtub, in which sat two young women in extravagant jewels and nothing else. Two men — all the men in the room looked the same — were emptying huge bottles of champagne into the bath while the women squealed. One of the women looked directly at Thomas and he found that he had stopped to stare. Her small breasts shone with moisture and she smiled at him. He heard a voice in his head: ‘Come closer, Senhor Edgar.’ He gasped and took a step back, but the woman had looked away again, and her lips had not moved.

  This is a pit of sin, he thought. Sweat ran into his eyes and blinded him momentarily. He tasted it on his lips as he licked his tongue over them, polishing them. He didn’t know how long he had stood there, but his whole body willed him to leave. With a final heave he reached the door and tumbled outside onto the street.

  A cool breeze carried with it the sandy smell of the river and the forest. He could make out hundreds of different senses: the sharp musk of monkeys, the rustle of palms, the calling of dolphins, the smell of decaying fish, the sulphur odour of the male Morpho rhetenor. He stood and allowed the wind to cool the sweat on his face. It stroked him and calmed him. His breathing softened.

  He stood beneath a single gas lamp in a narrow alley, not far from the main street. Wafts of music carried back and forth on the wind, getting louder by the second. Now that he was alone, he felt better: warm water trickled through his veins, and the backs of his arms tingled. He inhaled deeply, imagining he was breathing in the music.

  He crunched down the alley and out into the street. Below the music he detected a commotion coming from around the corner. He glided towards it, his feet light. Rounding the corner, he burst onto a scene of exploding colour and vibrations, music and dancing figures. It was some kind of carnival or street party, with masked men and women cavorting to music that emanated from a band of musicians dressed in coloured rags. Thomas laughed as the crowd enclosed him; hands fluttered, ribbons waved, flags and confetti filled the air. He had an overwhelming urge to move his feet in time to the music; when he closed his eyes it entered his body and took hold of his limbs. Here were hands reaching out to touch him, and he let them. Masked faces laughed with him. He was in heaven, surely.

  Through the dancing bodies a flicker caught his eye on the edge of the crowd. When he looked directly at it, it was gone. But wait — there it was again. He fought his way towards it. Somebody grabbed his hands and twirled him around; his feet pivoted on the cobbled street and he nearly fell down, but righted himself as his assailant spun away. He had lost the flicking object. Which way had he been facing? There it was — to his right. He stumbled after it, and gasped as he found what he was looking for.

  In the light of the revellers’ torches and the gas lamps, a butterfly hovered in the crowd. He stood only a few feet from it, breathless at its beauty. It hung in the air like a hummingbird, waiting for him. Thomas grabbed his chest and pulled at his jacket. Surely not … to have travelled so far and to find it here. Each pair of wings, with its scalloped tail, one yellow, one black, was as big as his hand. The black wings were the darkest things he had ever seen, and yet they swirled with every colour. In the yellow wings, Thomas could see his future. He started towards it but the butterfly danced away from him, through the crowd. Nobody else looked at it; all their eyes were only on him as he cried out for his butterfly. As it flitted away from the crowd, it seemed to pause for him to catch up. When he was nearly upon it, it was off again.

  He was alone with it now; the party was left behind. He should have felt a desperation, then, that it would get away. Instead he felt an aching warmth in his groin — here was his ultimate chase! His arousal spread through his whole body, to his tingling ears.

  The butterfly paused in its flight at the entrance to an alley and, as he reached it, disappeared into the dark entrance. Thomas was breathing hard now. He turned into the alleyway — provided it didn’t ascend, he would have it. He didn’t know what he would do with it once he had it, or how he would catch it with only his hands, but it would be his.

  He rounded the corner and cried out in the dim light. The butterfly had grown to huge proportions — it was as big as a human. Two hands snaked out from beneath the wings, beckoning to him. It no longer hovered, but stood firmly on the ground on human feet. He moved closer and it did not pull away. He reached out and touched skin, painted skin, which coloured his hands black. The butterfly laughed and enfolded him in her wings. He pressed himself to her and she kissed him, a flicker of nectar-coated tongue. He drank her in, shared it with her. His hands moved over her body, found wide buttocks and wings of shimmering silk that brushed coolly over his face and arms. Fingers fumbled with his braces, the clasp on his trousers. His cock was released; straining forward, it slammed into her. Legs wrapped around his body as he pinned her to the wall, and he was enclosed in warmth that made him gasp. Repeatedly he withdrew and entered her. She whimpered in his ear and he drew back to look at her — the fog in his mind told him a butterfly makes no sound.

  Something was clearing now. He thrust harder but could not fall off the edge of the plateau. Her face swam into focus. A woman, now, a woman. Her arms gripped his neck and black paint had worn off her face to reveal gold skin underneath. Her dark eyes looked into his and she cried out. The sound was all wrong; he tried to pull back from her but she had limpeted herself to him. Her face was a triangle, balanced on its apex, the inquisitive shape of a butterfly’s head above its thorax. He pushed her and she landed on her feet. He groped for his trousers, draped ridiculously around his ankles, and pulled them up.

  ‘Senhor,’ she whispered, and touched his face.

  She was no specimen. Her wide-set eyes pleaded with him. She leaned forward and he allowed a final kiss. Then she looked down at herself, saw that the paint had disappeared from her now naked body and crossed her wings in front of her. How could he have mistaken this makeshift costume for the wings of his precious butterfly?

  The woman did not move and Thomas willed her to walk away, to leave him to his shame. She’s waiting for something, he thought. He wiped his forehead with one blackened hand and reached into his trouser pocket. He withdrew the money Santos had given him and offered it to her, to pay her for her apparent services. It was not so bad, he told himself, if he paid her.

  She reached out towards the money but stopped when she saw what it was. She shook her head sadly and knocked the roll of notes from his hand. Then she turned and fled, her wings streaming behind her.
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  Thomas stumbled back out onto the street. The carnival had moved on now — or perhaps it had never been there? He couldn’t say. The streets were frighteningly real to him now and his feet rang a tune on the stones as he walked. He recognised the carriage in the street and approached.

  ‘Senhor Edgar,’ said the driver, a looming figure in a bowler hat; Thomas couldn’t see his face. ‘Tudo bem com você?’

  Thomas looked down and saw that his hands were smeared with black paint. He had lost his jacket and his elegant white waistcoat and shirt were crumpled and soiled. He caught a glimpse of himself in the window of the carriage; his face resembled a chimney-sweep’s. He buckled over with a sudden nausea and vomited into the gutter.

  ‘Please,’ he said to the driver, ‘take me home. Para casa.’

  The room gradually brightened and Thomas’s head hurt. He folded himself into Sophie’s back, the rough cotton of her nightgown warm against his cheek. So good to be home, he thought — in his bed again. His eyelids drifted open and he waited for them to focus on the dresser and on the pink wallpaper of Sophie’s room — their room. But something was amiss. The walls were dark and crowded with patterns. In place of the dresser, an over-stuffed chair squatted, with a grubby shirt and a pair of trousers slung over the back. When he squeezed Sophie’s waist, he found that it gave way under his fingers like a pudding. He lifted his head and squinted around the room.

  He was not at home after all. The shape in his arms was nothing more than a pillow in a cotton casing. Disappointment pushed his eyes closed again.

  He took a moment to enjoy the luxuriance of the bed, so soft it coddled his aching limbs. But the night’s events came back to him and he covered his face with his hands and let out a groan. What had possessed him? He knew he hadn’t drunk too much, and by the time he had left the club the rich food would have mostly been digested. It could only have been the strange cigarettes that Santos had pressed on him. Some kind of poisonous root. He tried not to listen to the thought that for a while there he had enjoyed the strange new sensations he was experiencing — no, he must keep in mind that it had led him to do unspeakable things.

  Sophie. My poor Sophie, he thought. He had broken his marital vows and would surely be punished.

  An insistent knock at the door. Was this what had woken him up? Whoever was on the other side had been kept waiting.

  ‘Come,’ Thomas croaked.

  Santos’s butler backed in with a tray of tea and steaming rolls. He still wore his penguin suit — ridiculous in this kind of heat.

  ‘Good morning, sir. Did you sleep good?’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Thomas, non-committal. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘It is nearly noon, sir. Two of your friends have been awake a long time. They read on the balcony. Senhor Santos has business in town.’

  Thomas didn’t have to ask which two. If Ernie had finished his cigarette last night, he would be feeling as bad as he was.

  The butler began picking up his clothes from the floor — his underwear, his spats and shoes. He paused when he reached the chair and reached out a cautious hand, as if the shirt were covered in shit, not paint. He lifted it between two fingers.

  ‘I will have these cleaned for you, sir,’ he said.

  Thomas waved a hand and dismissed him.

  Downstairs he found that Ernie had joined John and George and they were sitting in the shade, drinking coffee. Thomas headed straight for it and poured himself a cup.

  ‘Thomas, you look dreadful,’ said George. ‘Sort of … yellow. Doesn’t he, Ernest?’

  ‘You look like piss,’ said Ernie, clearly pleased with the comparison.

  Thomas slurped the coffee, which had gone cold in its jug. ‘What about you, Ernie? How do you feel?’

  ‘Perfectly fine, sir. Nothing that a good sleep didn’t cure. And some caffeine.’

  ‘And did anything … unusual happen? After I left, I mean.’

  ‘Not that I can remember. Mr Santos became rather fond of our Lillie, but that’s about it.’

  ‘Who’s “our Lillie”?’ asked George.

  ‘Only one of the most beautiful ladies of the night in Manaus, George. Keep up.’

  George harrumphed.

  ‘She might be your Lillie,’ said Thomas, ‘but she’s not mine.’

  ‘All right, all right, keep your wig on,’ said Ernie. ‘It’s only an expression. Isn’t that right, John?’

  John looked up from his book. ‘I suppose, if you say so, Ernie.’

  ‘Christ, what is it with everyone today? So testy.’ Ernie tutted and picked up a newspaper.

  Thomas sat back in his chair and wiped at the flies that had settled on his arms and face. The forest lay on the other side of a high wall, and patches of it had broken through the brickwork and forced their way inside. It must be a constant battle to keep it in check. He longed to explore this new area, where the change in the components of the earth had turned the river so black it was named for its startling colour. It surely meant a whole new array of insect life as well. Somewhere out there his butterfly was waiting for him. Despite the horrors of the night before, perhaps it had been a sign. That he would have to do anything to find it.

  When Santos returned from his business, he helped them fill in the rest of the afternoon with a tour of Manaus. The first stop was Santos’s pride and joy, the opera house, but the gloom that had settled over Thomas dulled its decadent sheen. It was truly a structure on which no expense had been spared. Santos boasted of the sixty-six thousand blue and gold tiles imported from Alsace that made up the gilded dome; it looked to Thomas as if thousands of morphos glittered in the afternoon sun and he waited for them to take off and reveal something far murkier below. The building utilised a Florentine design, and the stone had been brought from Italy. A heavy load indeed for any ocean liner, thought Thomas. Inside the building, Santos pointed out and named extravagant chandeliers from Venice, pillars of Carrara marble and tall vases of Sèvres porcelain. Sophie would have been captivated by it, and he longed to share it with her. Indeed, if she had been here, none of last night’s foolishness would have happened.

  ‘You must see it when there is a performance on,’ said Santos. ‘This is when it truly shines. It is more magnificent than any building in the whole of Europe! With this opera house, we have proven that we are a truly elegant city. Don’t you agree, gentlemen?’

  The men nodded, struck dumb, but it was clear they all thought the same as Thomas: that this building was a freak presence in the jungle, as incongruous as an elephant sitting down to tea at the Ritz. As magnificent as it was, Thomas felt uncomfortable in its presence after all he had seen of the forest and the people who lived there.

  That evening, when Thomas came downstairs for dinner and entered the drawing room, the others were sitting down drinking brandy.

  ‘I have a treat for you tonight,’ said Santos. ‘Some music. Do you like music?’

  ‘Of course,’ said George. ‘We have not heard enough music since we have been here.’

  ‘Well,’ said Santos, ‘I assure you, Mr Sebel, this is unlike any music you have heard before.’

  He rang a bell beside him where he stood at the mantelpiece. How curious, thought Thomas, to have a fireplace in a climate such as this.

  A short, rounded woman entered the room, followed by two men. One of them Thomas recognised as Manuel, Santos’s servant who had lost his tongue. The two men carried guitars and sat in two hard chairs, while the woman positioned herself between them. She pulled a black shawl around her shoulders and stood with her eyes closed. The guitars began to play, mournful notes plucked from the strings by deft fingers. The two players worked in complement to each other, their notes weaving a tapestry of sound.

  With her eyes still closed, the woman began to sing in a low voice, sad and throaty. As her voice built, she opened her eyes. She sang in Portuguese — Thomas closed his eyes and tried to make out the words. It was a melancholy song, filled with longing. He understood
that the singer craved her lost homeland, Oporto; that there was a great river there. The words sang of drinking wine and dancing slowly. Thomas opened his eyes again and looked around at his companions, who were all captivated. Santos’s face held a sad smile, barely noticeable under his moustache. The woman’s eyes glistened with tears as she sang. She didn’t look at them, but stared off into the far corners of the room, as if looking through the walls and over the ocean to her homeland. Her face, with its golden skin and small chin, its large brown eyes, stirred something in Thomas. As the song came to a close and she held a final, impossibly long note, her eyes slipped to his and her eyebrows twitched. His blood froze and he stopped breathing as if a great fall had winded him.

  The song ended and the men clapped heartily. Thomas’s hands moved mechanically in time with them. The woman bowed low, but there was something strong and defiant in the sweep of her dress as she did so. She spread the fan that dangled from her wrist and hid her face behind it, fanning herself. The two men picked up their guitars and left the room.

  ‘Beautiful, my dear,’ said Santos. He turned to the men. ‘This music is Fado, gentlemen. The music of Portuguese who long for their home. This lady is the best Fado singer in Manaus.’

  She looked at the ground, her eyelashes flickering over the fan. Santos held his hand out to her and she walked forward to take it.

  ‘May I introduce my wife, Clara.’

  Thomas thought he was going to faint as they all stood. He reached out a hand to steady himself on the back of George’s chair. As Santos went around the men, introducing them one by one, Clara would not look at him.

  ‘And this is Mr Edgar.’

  Santos turned his back for a moment, to say something to Ernie, who had moved towards the fireplace. Clara angled her fan away from her face and looked Thomas in the eye. Then she raised one black-gloved finger to her lips.