Sound of Butterflies, The Page 8

  The house in which we are staying — once again arranged for us by Santos’s man Antonio, who has accompanied us — is at the outskirts of the town, towards the banks of the Tapajós, which has broad, white, sandy beaches, graced with tall javary palms, and water of dark green — a welcome change from the monotony of the yellow Amazon with the forest trailing into the water.

  We have been here scarcely a day, but have already discovered the pleasures of swimming in the river. I prefer to run in and straight out again, thereby avoiding any nasty creatures (water snakes, or piranha, or a particularly nasty tiny fish that swims into one’s most intimate places and makes a home!) while still enjoying the cooling benefits of the swim. John is a strong swimmer, and uses the opportunity to take some exercise, pounding the water for several hundred yards before turning and swimming back against a rather strong current (indeed, the current is what keeps us safe from alligators). Not that I want to worry you, my dear. I assure you I am perfectly safe! Ernie stands about up to his waist, smoking a cigarette, and George doesn’t go in the water at all, save taking his boots off and dipping his toes in. The local Indian children, who live in thatched huts nearby, come down to the water and lie very still in its shallows. I became curious after I heard them giggling to themselves, and when I approached saw they were attended to by tiny fish, which seemed to be kissing them all over. Antonio explained to me that the children lie very still in the water and the fish come and eat the ticks and jiggers and other parasites that have burrowed into their skin! I assumed this act would mean the children would get regularly nipped, but from their laughter it appears it tickles them more than it hurts them.

  The house is pleasant enough, though a step down from the house in Belém. Again we are sleeping in hammocks (I have resigned myself to the fact that as long as I am on Brazilian soil, I will not have an ordinary bed). We are only staying in town for a week. We were to have met Mr Santos and have him accompany us to Manaus, but he has been further delayed. Instead, we have been promised an excursion into the interior, where we will stay for as long as suits us. We will be taking the cook that Antonio arranged for us; Antonio himself will be our guide, as it seems he knows this area well, and George managed to persuade young Paulo from Belém to accompany us, at least as far as this, if not further. So we have plenty of help. I believe we may even be travelling by canoe, in which case we will have one or two Indians to steer us and to help us by catching food for us to eat.

  I have developed a taste for the local coffee, my love, of which I enclose a sample. It is refreshing in the extreme when taken first thing in the morning, and what seemed bitter to me at first is now aromatic and bracing. I advise you to take it quite weak to begin with, then build up the strength as you get used to taste. I assure you it is much better than the coffee we usually drink at home. I look forward to sitting in our parlour together, little Sophie, and sharing this pleasure with you. I am also hoping, my darling, that you can send me some more peppermints. By the time you get this, and then send them back to me, months may have passed. How frustratingly slow letters can be!

  I think of you always, my love, and look forward to the day when I will again be

  Yours,

  Thomas

  Thomas found he relied on his peppermints more and more to disguise the taste of smoke in his mouth when he went to bed. He enjoyed it while smoking the cigarette, but it did turn to an almost brassy sensation on his tongue — from where it came he couldn’t imagine. His fingers were beginning to develop a yellow stain, which occasionally wore off after a lot of scrubbing, but mostly sat on his fingers reminding him of his new vice. But Ernie Harris had the same stains, and despite himself Thomas thought of the mark as a brand of brotherhood between them. Of manhood.

  He took the folded packet of ground coffee, wrapped it with the letter in brown paper and tied it with string. His hand shook slightly as he wrote his own address on the front — it was only in moments like this, when he had imagined his conversation with Sophie and written it down, that he felt the bruises of homesickness.

  On the other side of the room John Gitchens — his new roommate — made scratching sounds as he sketched the shrubs he had found that day on the campos. Every now and then there was a ‘gloop’ as he dipped a brush into a jar of water and added some colour to his sketch.

  The house was smaller than the house in Belém, and had no balcony, so they either had to sit outside in the sun, or inside where it was dark. Thomas had made this corner his own as soon as they arrived, even though he knew they might not stay for long. The house was at their disposal while they were away on their expedition to keep the belongings that were unnecessary and difficult to carry. He had been furnished with another wooden table, the same size as the one in Belém, and he had stacked up his books and journals and laid out his tools. A silver-framed photograph of Sophie gazed at him as he worked.

  He took great joy in cataloguing his finds through drawing and painting — the one thing he excelled at. He had watched George trying to paint — his lines smudged and he more often than not ended up with a swirling puddle of brown water, which ran off the side of his page and onto his trousers. George had rebuffed him when he offered to help.

  ‘It takes more than a few painting skills to be a scientist, Thomas. I’m very happy for you that you could always take a job as an artist if you needed to.’

  Thomas already cringed at his own clumsy knowledge in comparison to George’s without the man taking pity on him and all but patting him on the head. He knew it wasn’t necessary to make studies of the butterflies — they had already been done by those who had gone before him — but he liked to keep a log for his own satisfaction, and of course it was a way of keeping track of the hundreds of specimens he would be shipping back to Ridewell to sell for him. With each consignment that was sent back, he asked Ridewell to reserve an amount for his own collection.

  John stirred behind him, and Thomas turned to look at him. He was leaning back in his chair, his arms stretched up and back over his head. The chair tipped onto its back legs and for a moment Thomas was worried it would break under the big man’s weight. But he finished his stretch and let the chair back to the ground without a sound.

  John, too, had piled books up on his desk, and there were tins lining the wall, in which he kept his seeds. Propped beside his desk were his botanical press and a pile of brown paper, in which he wrapped the plants before pressing them. John appeared to be packing up for the evening, so Thomas ventured to ask him a question. He had observed that John carried no photographs with him. Even Ernie and George, whom he knew to be unmarried, had pictures of their parents and brothers and sisters.

  ‘Tell me, John,’ said Thomas, ‘are you married? May I ask?’

  John turned in his chair and looked at Thomas from beneath a solid, high forehead. His beard was becoming unruly, and his cheekbones were squared and sharp above it.

  ‘No, I’m not. I see you are, though. I couldn’t help but notice your pretty wife.’ Again, Thomas wondered at John’s soft northern voice in one so large and rough. ‘And how long have you been married?’

  ‘Two years,’ said Thomas.

  ‘It must have been hard for you to leave her behind.’

  Thomas nodded, but he was suddenly gripped by a feeling he realised with panic was something like guilt. That he had left her alone like that. She had said she didn’t mind, was excited for him in fact, but still, what if he hadn’t made sufficient arrangements for her? Wasn’t taking enough responsibility for her?

  ‘That’s why I could never marry,’ said John, as if reading his thoughts. ‘Someone of my profession. It wouldn’t be fair on a woman.’ He ran his hands over his face. He was a statue, larger than life-size, his edges hewn with a rough chisel. He sighed. ‘When I fall in love one day, perhaps I will. But who will feed the hungry mouths if I’m killed in a jungle somewhere?’

  Thomas shuddered. ‘Is that something you think about?’ He realised he hadn’t thought of
danger like that, had let excitement push away all thoughts for his safety.

  ‘Of course.’ John stood up, blocking the light from the lantern momentarily before moving aside, causing an occlusion that fluttered in the air like a moth. ‘But you can’t let it stop you living. I just see it as inevitable that when my time comes, I will go. I would rather go in the jaws of a tiger than in some quiet corner of England.’ His lip curled as he said ‘England’ and a drop of spit launched itself from his mouth, disappearing before it hit the floor.

  Thomas sensed that it was time to stop talking, but his curiosity was getting the better of him. ‘And what of your family? Your parents?’

  ‘I haven’t seen them since I was a lad. My lot was to go down the mines like my father. I wanted to learn, but do you think opportunities were there for someone like me?’

  ‘But you seem to know so much, John.’ Thomas meant his knowledge of the rainforest, his fluent Portuguese.

  ‘Aye,’ said John. ‘Well, it’s not from working down any mines, I can tell you. I got out when I could. I hitched a ride down to Liverpool and jumped on the first ship I could find. Met a man; a collector he was: a botanist. Took pity on me — they were going to throw me off at the next port — and took me on as his apprentice. Took me all over.’

  ‘How wonderful,’ said Thomas limply.

  John just stared at him. The jut of his brow cast his eyes in deep shadow, but still there was a glint there. He shook his head.

  ‘Wonderful, terrible. It’s all the same. I’ve seen some things. I wouldn’t be sitting here talking to you if it wasn’t for that man.’

  ‘And where is he now?’

  ‘Gone.’ John rose again and screwed up his mouth as though it had filled with saliva. He crossed to his water jug and poured some into the bowl. He sluiced his face, his back to Thomas, who decided to leave the man alone for a few minutes.

  Outside, the chorus was softer than in Belém. A light breeze cooled the sweat on his face and arms. The scent of some flower — John would be able to tell him what it was — filled the courtyard and once inside his lungs made him nauseous. He took his tobacco from his pocket, quickly rolled himself a cigarette and lit it.

  He thought back over the past days’ events, about how much he had told Sophie and what was left unsaid. There were many ladies on the steamer, bound for Manaus, and most of them were unaccompanied. They seemed to be travelling in a tight-knit group, pooling together in the evening and playing loud rounds of whist. Their voices were shrill, like macaws, and drifted across the room in clouds, along with the smoke from their cigarettes.

  These women, though elegantly dressed, were of questionable virtue, he knew. One had even tried to solicit his attentions. She was a fine-looking woman, no doubt, and there was something in her countenance that reminded him of Sophie — her height, perhaps; her strong shoulders. But her hair was red, not blonde, coiffed into an elaborate nest on top of her head. Sophie would never take such pains for her appearance. As he had sat alone, reading, he was alerted to her approach by the rustle of her skirts. His polite smile became forced when she sat down beside him and laid one gloved hand on his bare wrist.

  ‘I am Lillie,’ she said with a strong French accent. ‘As in Langtry. That is, my name is not Langtry, but I have the same name as that famous English beauty. You are English, no?’

  Thomas removed his arm from her reach and attempted to turn his shoulder to her without appearing too rude.

  ‘English, yes. My name is Edgar, miss. Thomas Edgar.’

  ‘Well, Monsieur Ed-gar.’ She drew out the final syllable of his name and rolled the ‘r’ deep in her throat. ‘What do you think of the Amazon so far?’ She leaned towards him with her elbows on the table, exposing more of her cleavage than necessary. The action caused her breast to plump up even more, and it was a wonder the woman could breathe at all, her stays must have been so tight. A smattering of freckles dusted her décolletage. The edge of one aureole, an edge of the palest pink shell, drew his eye and held it. For a moment he felt his jaw slacken, a physiological reaction, he knew, to the hidden beauties of the female flesh laid bare for his own witness. Her breast suddenly rose, as if she had been holding her breath and was taking a difficult gasp of air, and Thomas’s eyes slid to the table. He felt himself begin to colour. She had asked him a question. God would give him the strength to answer it.

  ‘Yes. Yes, quite interesting, thank you, Miss …’

  ‘Lillie.’

  ‘Miss Lillie, yes. I only wish my wife were here to share it.’ There, he had said it. Surely this would give the young lady the idea. But she only laughed softly.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure your wife would have a fine time here, Monsieur Edgar. There is much for a girl to see and do in Manaus, I am told.’ And with that she stood, and with a sideways nod of head, which flexed her white neck, she floated back to the other side of the room to her friends. They leaned forwards hungrily as Lillie sat. She had said no more than a couple of words before the table erupted in more shrieking laughter and glances were slung his way.

  Humiliated, Thomas turned his back on the spectacle and tried to focus on his book.

  After a few minutes, the giggling stopped, and Thomas, assuming the women had gone, turned to check. Ernie Harris stood at the table, making elaborate sweeps with his hands. Several of the women’s mouths hung open or their hands were clasped to their chests. Then Ernie gave a slight bow and crooked his arm. Lillie stood and took it.

  Thomas realised with a lurch that they were walking towards him and he turned back to his book, but the words were just a line of furry caterpillars on the page.

  ‘Ah, Thomas,’ said Ernie. ‘Lillie and I are just taking a turn about the deck. Then I’ll come and join you for a drink.’ He winked. Lillie’s eyes met Thomas’s for a moment and looked away as she arranged her lips in a pout that she no doubt thought alluring.

  The pair exited the games room and Thomas fixed his eye on the porthole, expecting them to pass by at any moment. The lamps were lit outside, draped in a cloud of insects. A large moth hurled itself at the porthole in a frenzy. How tenacious they were. He stared outside for some time, but Lillie and Ernie did not pass by, so he continued with his reading.

  After about twenty minutes, Ernie re-entered the games room alone. He adjusted his collar by hooking his finger in it and stretching his neck forward like a starling as he walked. He dropped heavily into the seat next to Thomas with a sigh. His cheeks were quite flushed and his lips were moist. Despite this, his tongue kept darting out from beneath his neat moustache to wet them further. He let a sound, a sort of ‘hooeey’, and patted his chest.

  ‘And where is Miss Lillie?’ inquired Thomas.

  ‘Oh, she wasn’t feeling very well, so I accompanied her back to her cabin where she could lie down. She was attacked by mosquitoes outside; they went berserk over all that tender young flesh so ripely exposed! I told her the new theory about mosquitoes causing malaria and she went quite faint. She’s resting comfortably now, though.’

  ‘I see,’ said Thomas. He felt a stab of something and realised with horror it was jealousy. That Ernie could do as he pleased, and held little regard for the consequences, either in this world or the next.

  ‘As for me …’ Ernie rubbed his hands together, ‘I’m quite done in, old man. Think I’ll hit the hay.’

  Now on firm soil in Santarém, Thomas ground the end of his cigarette into the dirt with his heel and took a peppermint from his pocket. He felt the cool vapours rise up through his sinuses and the pleasant tickle of a distant sneeze. It built and built until he let a gigantic explosion bend him over double. It was one of the side-effects of his peppermints that he was not at all averse to.

  ‘Bless you!’ He heard the voice from inside the house, from the direction of Ernie and George’s room, and he chuckled.

  There were relatively few mosquitoes in Santarém, and if Ernie’s new theory proved correct, he had found another reason to avoid them beyond the int
ense irritation and discomfort they caused with their incessant whining in his ear and their sharp bites, which left his arms red and raw. There were still gnats and sandflies and ticks to worry about, of course. Thomas pictured himself lying naked in the shallows of the river, as the boys had been that day, with their penises floating and waving in the current like minnows. He had omitted the fact of their nudity in his letter to Sophie, but he had become quite used to the sights of the human body in Brazil, mostly of the small children and the odd older native woman with pendulous breasts exposed. George, whom Thomas expected to be the most tenacious with his prudery, spent a long time standing by the boys in the water, practising his Portuguese on them, and seemed quite disappointed when their mothers called them out of the river.

  John was about to get into his hammock when Thomas returned to his room. The ropes gave a moan as he put his substantial weight on them, but the hooks held fast. Thomas said nothing but smiled a little at the other man before crossing to his own hammock.

  ‘Thomas,’ said John. He looked as if he had something important to tell him; he was sitting up as much as the hammock would allow, with a look of earnest concentration on his face.

  Thomas began to remove his boots. ‘Yes, John?’

  ‘Only that … about what we talked about before …’ He sighed, and the hammock creaked again. ‘Only, could you not mention it to the others, about how I got started in this business? About the mines.’

  ‘Of course I won’t, John. Not if you don’t want me to.’

  John seemed satisfied with this answer, and lay back down. But with his eyes on the ceiling, he spoke again. ‘It’s only that they already treat me as their inferior. I don’t want to give them any more reason to do so.’

  Thomas paused. Did Ernie and George treat John badly? He tried to remember any interaction he had witnessed, and recalled their first morning in Belém, when Ernie had made some comment about his background and John had left the room. None of them had spoken much to John, but Thomas had thought this was because the man was so dark and quiet, not through some conscious choice to snub him. Did this mean Thomas had also exercised some superiority over him, an unconscious recognition of their class difference? He couldn’t remember. But surely John’s willingness to share his past with Thomas meant he was an ally, not a threat.