Sound of Butterflies, The (30 page)

He didn’t see her until she was almost upon him. He heard his name, whispered as if by a ghost, and then she appeared in front of him, a figure in white.

‘Thomas,’ she said again, not to get his attention, but more as a confirmation that this was his name.

‘Yes,’ he said miserably, for he knew the inevitable had arrived.

Her arms were crossed in front of her, as if she were cold, and her bare feet peeped out from under her nightdress.

‘Mrs Santos, I—’

‘Clara,’ she said. ‘You must call me Clara.’

He drew deeply on his cigarette and looked at the ground in front of her. Then he wobbled to his feet.

‘I don’t think we should be talking like this,’ he said.

‘But I must speak with you,’ she whispered. ‘We have not spoken to each other at all.’

‘No.’ He felt deflated, and he grasped the doorframe to stop himself buckling towards the ground once more. Get it over with, he told himself. What did she want?

‘I’m sorry,’ he said at last. ‘For what happened. I wasn’t myself …’ He trailed away and still could not look at her.

‘You have nothing to apologise for. My husband told me that he gave you one of his cigarettes.’

‘Yes?’ Had they discussed him?

‘Do not look so alarmed.’ Her voice was light, amused. ‘He only mentioned it in passing. Did you feel strange that night?’

‘Strange, yes. I saw … things.’

‘It was caapi. A drug. From the ayahuasca root. The Indians use it to commune with gods. Usually they mix it with saliva and make a drink from the paste, but it can also be dried and smoked. My husband uses it for recreation.’

He let her words sink in, turning over his memories of the night.

‘I expect you were not yourself. You mustn’t blame yourself.’

‘I see.’ A layer of guilt peeled, then lifted away. He had not been himself.

‘May I have a cigarette?’ She startled him by moving forward and sitting in the doorway at his feet. He had no choice but to join her. He gave her the tobacco, but she turned the pouch over in her hands and gave it back to him; he must roll one for her.

He rolled two, then watched her hair, loose and falling over her shoulders, as she bent her head to touch her cigarette to the match he held. He lit his own. The tension was leaving him now. Thank goodness for the brandy.

The back of one small hand faced him as she held the cigarette and exhaled a stream of smoke over his head. They were close now, almost touching, but he didn’t move away.

‘Your friends don’t like me, I think.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘That, is, you’re wrong. I’m sure they do.’

She shrugged. ‘I do not care. Senhor Gitchens is very kind to me. You have avoided me, but I do not feel the same scorn as I do from the other two.’

Thomas didn’t know what to say. She was right.

‘That Dr Harris, he is nothing more than a drunken idiot.’

He had to smile. Right again.

‘And that Senhor Sebel. Well, it is clear, isn’t it?’

‘What is clear?’

‘He doesn’t like women.’

‘Oh, I’m sure that is not true. He has funny ideas about people, that’s all. He’s a snob, I will give you that.’

‘No, I mean, he doesn’t like
women
. Women are too old for him. And the wrong sex.’

Thomas was too shocked to speak.

She laughed. ‘You look so offended. Surely you have noticed it. Do you not see the way he looks at the servant boy? I’m surprised he has not made it known to you.’

He knew she was right, but he had tried not to think about it. George’s relationship with the young boys in Belém, which Thomas had thought fatherly at first. The night on the Tapajós when he had seen a figure leaving George’s room. Paulo, of course, who had been so upset when they left Santarém; he had begged them to let him accompany them, but Antonio had forbidden it. George had given him a bag of money.

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ he said finally.

‘I’ve made you uncomfortable.’ She laid a hand on his arm, and he did not move away. Warmth pulsated from it.

‘Does your husband know?’ He meant about George but she misunderstood.

‘Of course not! That first night, at dinner, you and I agreed, did we not, to keep it a secret?’

‘Your poor husband. My poor wife.’

‘My poor husband!’ she spat. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Edgar. I do not know your wife, but my husband does not deserve your pity. What do you think he has gone back to Manaus for?’

‘I thought it was to engage in some business.’

‘Yes, business. Business with one of the many brothels there. Did you know, Thomas, that every third house in Manaus is a brothel?’

‘I didn’t, no.’

‘All these women who have arrived from Europe to make their fortunes. And they do make fortunes, believe me. All a girl has to do is make herself more expensive than the next, and she becomes instantly more desirable. Those men, they try to outdo each other at every turn.’

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Santos. Clara. If I was your husband, I don’t think I could …’

‘No, perhaps you couldn’t. But he has lost interest in me. He has not touched me for months. I’m afraid when you found me on that night … well, I also was not myself. And I did not expect to see you again.’

Why was she opening herself up to him like this? He had neither solicited nor desired it. And yet he found himself wanting to listen further. ‘But why has your husband not touched you?’ The question came out like a belch, unexpectedly.

‘Have you not guessed? Have you not heard him speaking all the time about family, about the importance of family? We cannot have any children. I cannot give him any children. He does not find me desirable, and to him there is no reason to share a bed with me.’

‘But he seems to respect you, worship you, even.’

‘Oh, he tolerates me. Family is sacred to him. It was my father’s wish that we should be married. My husband promised him he would take over my father’s business when he died, but he didn’t. He sold it at the first opportunity.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I have accepted it. Manaus is not so bad.’

‘You’re lying. I can hear it in your voice.’

She bit her lip and looked down at her cigarette, which had burnt out. She turned it over, as if surprised to see it there, before tossing it away. Then she covered her face with her hands and began to cry.

She leaned into his shoulder and he felt his arm move to accommodate her; he had little control over it as it wrapped around her shoulder and pulled her in to comfort her.

Her hair smelt of berries and a warmth emanated from it. He laid his cheek against it, then kissed the top of her head. Her sobs turned to soft hiccups and her shoulders stopped shaking. She put her arms around his waist and squeezed. How long had it been since he’d shared any kind of affection? He swallowed to stop his own tears and coughed. She pulled away and turned her face to his. Teardrops lined her dark lashes like dew and her cheeks were flushed. Her small lips quivered and her eyes searched his mouth.

He couldn’t help himself, as he had known he would not be able to. As he kissed her, his free hand found his pocket and he dug the pin deep into his palm until he felt the blood run.

Discretion countered the guilt somehow. Thomas made excuses for his behaviour: loneliness; that he had lived for so many months out of the sight of God that he was forgotten; that everybody knew adultery was mildly acceptable in today’s society — not that he had ever approved — so long as it was kept private and not flaunted. And he did not flaunt it.

There was something else: the longer he went without a letter from his wife, the more he was sure he was right about Captain Fale. He imagined the captain striding through Thomas’s drawing room, tall and strong, a sheathed sword at his hip, sweeping Sophie into his arms before laying her gently on the floor and taking her in front of the fire. He saw the rapturous expression on her face as he entered her, the firelight dancing in her eyes, her absent husband forgotten.

He still began to hate himself, his lack of willpower. But mostly he hated his body. It disgusted him. How his cock stirred whenever Clara approached him. Even his normal bodily functions made him sick — the way he had to bury his own shit, and how it smelled: worse out here for some reason among the loamy scent of the forest. His sweat smelled acrid to him, too, and his face sprouted coarse hair where it had previously been soft and downy.

Clara discovered the pin in his pocket when he pulled his hand out and blood dripped onto her skirt. She made him throw it away, convinced him with a soft word in his ear and sweet breath that he was entitled to some pleasure, that to go without was both unhealthy and unwise. He began to believe her. After all, he had already done it once and had felt terrible about it; the damage was already done. The idea that what he was doing was wrong only aroused him more, as did the prospect of being caught.

They made love like animals — no, not love, for he certainly didn’t love her, but the scent of her body, under her skirts, drove him wild. Clara liked it rough and coaxed him into ramming himself hard into her, which he did with his eyes closed, or fixed on the path to make sure nobody was approaching. He hadn’t known he had it in him, this animal lust. With Sophie, it was tender, an expression of his love for her, and he hadn’t realised there was any other way until now. The fact that he didn’t love Clara made it easier, for he was only betraying Sophie physically, not with his whole being. This had nothing to do with her at all. It was about Thomas, about his time in the rainforest, a time he would never go back to again. She could have her captain, he would have his Clara, and they would never speak of it.

One afternoon, when out collecting together, he took Clara from behind while she bent in front of him. She grunted like a sow and he was forced to put his hand over her mouth when a cracking sound alerted him to someone’s approach. He had just managed to pull his trousers up when Ernie lumbered towards them, swinging his prize catch — an umbrella bird.

‘I’ve found a friend,’ he said, oblivious to what he had interrupted, scarcely even noticing that Thomas wasn’t alone.

A bird walked behind him, following him like a lost dog. Its body was about the size of a pheasant’s, but with its long legs and neck, it resembled a crane.

‘Trumpeter bird,’ said Ernie. ‘They call it an agami. Bloody thing won’t leave me alone. Didn’t have the heart to shoot it. Gave it some fruit and now I can’t get rid of it.’

‘What will you do?’ Thomas was sweating hard; he didn’t care in the least what Ernie was going to do with it, but he was trying his hardest to feign nonchalance. He glanced at Clara. Her cheeks were flushed and her lips plumped with blood.

‘Well, the locals keep them as pets. Senhor Santos thinks I don’t give a hoot about animals. I’ll prove him wrong. Think I’ll keep him.’ He bent down and tried to pick up the bird, but it stepped away from him and arched its wings.

‘Bugger off, then.’ Ernie aimed a kick at the bird, which it dodged. ‘I’m off to deal with this beauty,’ he said, holding up the umbrella bird. ‘See you back there.’ He strode away, and the agami ran after him, making a sound that was less like a trumpet and more like a rumble from deep within its body.

To avoid any suspicion, Clara still accompanied John in the mornings, and after their near miss with Ernie, Thomas discouraged her from coming with him too often. When she did, she helped him collect butterflies, even catching a few specimens of her own, but she was reluctant to kill them, and instead put them in jars, which she kept in her hut. Thomas didn’t have the heart to tell her that she was being more cruel than kind; eventually the butterflies would die like that. He suspected she set them free again, anyway.

The afternoon rains were becoming more prevalent. They came every day now, while the men worked in their own huts or occasionally together for company. Thomas had taken to drinking in the afternoon to try to quell the sickness in his stomach that he knew was guilt, and it worked. By nighttime he was fluid and loose, with butter in his joints as he slipped into Clara’s room and crawled under her mosquito net.

It was here that she introduced him to another pleasure. She was reluctant at first, but he pressed her to tell him what it was that made her claim that on the night they met, at the carnival, she was not herself.