Sound of Butterflies, The (20 page)

The butler led them up the steps to the open door and into a cool foyer with marble floors. Classical statues of white, bare-breasted women with coyly curled bodies dotted the room next to potted palms and heavy velvet drapes. Oil paintings with gilt frames hung on the walls.

The butler bid them wait while he mounted a winding staircase. They milled about for a moment, and Thomas watched with worry as two young men arrived from nowhere and fought over their cases and crates in the rain. He was thankful they had sent the bulk of their collections back to Ridewell from Santarém.

The other men were unusually quiet and Thomas, feeling quite pale, realised they were as apprehensive as he was. They were finally to meet their benefactor. Antonio stood by, his hands crossed in front of him. His expression could only be interpreted as a smirk.

‘Gentlemen!’

Thomas turned his face to the top of the stairs, where a man stood, shrouded in wafts of smoke from the cigar he held in his hand. His arms were stretched out in welcome, and he wore a fine black suit. A gold watch chain glinted on his solid belly and his grin, under the thick waxed moustache, was wide.

‘We meet again!’

‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ muttered Ernie.

The men stood about, stupefied, as Santos danced down the stairs. His cigar was now firmly stuck between his teeth, and a throaty laugh built in his lungs.

‘Your faces!’ he guffawed when he reached them.

Thomas’s face wore an uncertain smile, and inside, he was just as unsure. The man before them was José the hat merchant, and yet here he was in Santos’s house — was Santos himself, in fact. What was it the man had said to them in the forest?
He likes to play games with people
.

Santos’s laugh built to a crescendo, and Ernie, who slapped a stiff George on the back, had joined in. John shook his head slowly from side to side, and wore a smile that conceded a brilliant trick, as if the man had cheated him out of his life savings but he had to commend the ingeniousness of the scheme. Antonio’s eyes were fixed on Santos and he laughed just as heartily as he did, following the peaks and valleys exactly.

‘Oh dear,’ said Santos as he took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes. ‘Please forgive me, gentlemen, for playing a trick on you. But it was worth it just to see the looks on your faces. Come now, Mr Sebel, Mr Edgar. Where are your funny bones? Not in your elbows where they should be, I think!’

Thomas was overcome with shyness, and looked at George in the hope that he would speak for both of them.

‘We are very amused, Mr Santos,’ said George. ‘Forgive us. We are just tired. It has been a long journey, and a long, hot day.’

‘Ah yes,’ said Santos. ‘You bought the suits? I hope you don’t mind, but we have a celebration tonight and I guessed you might not have brought dinner suits with you. Am I right?’

They conceded and gave their collective thanks. Only George Sebel had brought a dinner suit with him, but he hadn’t protested when Antonio bought him a new one.

‘But you are tired, I am sure. Please come into the dining room. We will have a some tea and sandwiches and then my
butler
’ — he beamed at them all as he emphasised the word — ‘will show you to your rooms to rest.

Thomas lay on his back, drifting in and out of sleep in the dry, high-ceilinged room. A fan turned lazily overhead, pulling the hot air up and dispersing it. He didn’t want ever to leave this spot — for he lay in a proper bed, as firm as his bed at home, with cool cotton sheets and feather pillows. He was astonished to find electricity here, in a town that was essentially in the middle of the jungle. He didn’t even yet have electricity at home in England. He had stood for a long time when he walked in, turning the light switch on and off. Not that he hadn’t seen an electric light before — of course he had — he just needed to feel it over and over at the tip of his fingers to believe he wasn’t dreaming.

His room was relatively restrained compared with what he had seen of the rest of the house, but the wallpaper was still a sprawling map of bursting flowers; thick velvet drapes hung from the windows — which he couldn’t understand, as he thought these were essentially to keep warmth in — and the bed was an elaborate four-poster. The room had a slightly excessive feeling about it, rather how he expected a bedroom in a brothel might be. But Mr Santos had money and he was eager to show it off.

On the wall hung a pre-Raphaelite-style painting of a woman kneeling beside an open chest. In the upper corner of the picture a cloud of moths seemed to burst from the frame. The woman had a look of fear on her face, and remorse. A flash of yellow and black drew Thomas’s gaze to her wrist, where a swallow-tailed butterfly — he couldn’t be sure of the species — sat lightly like the jewel of a bracelet.

He realised he was looking at a depiction of Pandora’s box, the moths representing the evils of the world that Pandora inadvertently released with her curiosity. The butterfly, he knew from his studies, represented Hope — to be sent after the world’s troubles so mankind wouldn’t sink into despair. How like his own butterfly it was in colour and shape, if not markings. He smiled. If he believed in such things, he would say it was a sign.

He fell asleep again but was woken when somewhere outside a woman laughed; the sound floated into the half-dream he was having about Sophie. His prick hardened as he felt her laugh into his ear, her breath coat his neck. His waking half wondered what she was doing now, whether she experienced similar dreams. The thought was unbearable and he pressed his palm hard against his erection, and felt a jolt run through his body. He snatched his hand away just before he orgasmed, and sat up, flushed and breathing hard. He must be stronger; the heat was getting to him, the luxuriance of the room. His judgement was clouded.

He rose and washed, then shaved with the razor left out for him by a maid. It was some time since he had looked at himself properly in a mirror — there had been a small one in his cabin on the ship, but the light was terrible and he couldn’t see more than two inches of skin at a time. His hair had grown since George last cut it with a pair of grooming scissors. A large curl foamed over his forehead, covering two great mosquito bites, the colour of ripe raspberries. His lips were dry and perpetually tingling; the irritation painted them a shade darker than their natural colour, which Sophie had always referred to as his ‘sweet, strawberry-stained mouth’. Thomas smiled. So now his face was beginning to resemble a fruit bowl. His cheekbones jutted through tanned skin; it was if a new person looked out at him — no, not a person: a
man
. He smiled again as he rinsed the soap from the razor. His hands were light with elation — that he had decided to take this journey, and where it had brought him so far. Where would he be now otherwise? Probably plump on pudding and becoming bored with his quiet life at home.

Santos was taking them to his club for dinner and, as it was ‘a special occasion’, had asked them to wear the full evening dress he had bought for them. Thomas dressed in his new clothes, which he had found laid out for him when he arrived in his room after tea. He pulled on stiff trousers over his underwear and a starched-front cotton shirt that scraped at his skin. The smell overwhelmed him. When was the last time he had smelled such fresh clothes? He had long ago resigned himself to material infused with bodily odours. These new clothes reminded him of his wedding linen, and for a moment he was taken with the associated sense of anticipation.

Next he slung his arms into a low-cut, single-breasted satin waistcoat with sparkling crystal buttons, which perfectly matched the cufflinks that had sat on top of the pile of clothes like shiny beetles.

By the time he came to put on his shoes, he was sweating again. Why couldn’t custom be relaxed, here of all places? What was it about men who insisted on keeping up appearances in the most wretched of conditions? He had let his own standards drop, and would have happily swanned around in his underwear provided there were no ladies present.

Now there was a sight he thought he wouldn’t see in Brazil — his new Oxfords shining like fresh spit. It wouldn’t be long before the dust from the streets coated them, anyway. He fastened his spats and looked at himself in the long mirror.

He had never worn a suit that fitted him quite as well. The long, narrow trousers accentuated his narrow shape. He would have liked a little more breadth across the shoulders, but on the whole he looked a fine, handsome fellow. If only Sophie could see him now. She would help him button his collar and tie the little white bow tie that still lay on the bed. After he did it himself, he realised he needed a final touch. And, yes, there beside the washbasin was a jar of pomade. It had liquefied in the warmth and was like honey on his fingers. He worried for a moment that he might attract a hoard of jungle insects if he put it in his hair, but ignored the thought and combed it through. A middle parting looked ridiculous — his giant curl, once separated, became angel’s wings and flapped inanely above his ears. He tried instead a side parting, which George insisted was now the fashion anyway, not that Thomas knew about such things. That was better. He stopped as he gave it a final comb, head cocked to one side and his hands hovering by his ears. He had never noticed before, but now he could see how like his dear old father he had become. He raised one blond eyebrow to confirm the likeness.

The carriage took them down long boulevards lined with trees and paved with immaculate stones. Thomas knew not all of Manaus was as clean — down by the river there was a stench of sewers, and rubbish built up in the gutters. But here the streets were pristine, and the only smell was from the fresh manure one of their horses deposited on arrival outside the club. The horses were decorated like carousel ponies for the occasion, with huge, garish red plumes that shook and waved as they tossed their heads. A little man popped out from an alleyway with silver buckets and proceeded to water them.

‘Tonight is a celebration!’ declared Santos to nobody in particular. Then he murmured something in the groom’s ear. The man bowed low, and while the men alighted from the carriage, he scampered inside and re-emerged holding a bottle of champagne.

‘Dom Perignon, Senhor Santos,’ croaked the man.

‘Excellent!’ Santos took the bottle and popped the cork, but instead of offering it to anyone, or drinking any himself, he poured it into the horses’ water buckets. The horses snorted and nodded their heads as the bubbles frothed up the sides. ‘And now we can go inside, gentlemen.’

The men exchanged glances when Santos wasn’t looking. It was clear he was putting on a show of wealth for them, but Thomas felt sorry for the horses. He dropped back behind John, who, with his top hat on, had to bend to get through the door. In his evening dress, he reminded Thomas of a sight he had seen at a circus once: a bear in a bell-boy costume, riding a tiny bicycle, the humiliation of which had made him terribly sad. John was trying to make an effort, but though his vowels had rounded slightly and he had combed his hair and trimmed his beard, the back of his neck was caked with dirt, and it was rubbing off onto his cool white collar.

Inside, the club was like any gentlemen’s club in London. Potted palms decorated the foyer, which was amusing, considering that in England they were there for fashion, as exotic plants; here in Brazil there were thousands of such palms growing wild within a mile. More healthily than these, which were clearly in need of water: their leaves were curled and browning. The floor was made up of large black and white tiles, and rich leather couches and armchairs nestled in dark corners. Men in white tunics scampered past.

‘Guns, please, gentlemen,’ said Santos. ‘There are no guns in my club.’

A table by the door was piled with pistols, some small and silver such as a lady might secret into a garter belt, others big and black with long muzzles. Santos himself laid such a gun down.

‘We don’t have any guns,’ said Ernie. ‘Only shotguns for shooting birds, and where would we put those?’

‘Do we need them here?’ asked George, a little nervously.