Sound of Butterflies, The (35 page)

‘Senhor Santos would like you to have tea with him, Senhor Edgar, before the rain starts.’

‘I’ll be there presently,’ said Thomas. Antonio left him and he lay and stared at the ceiling. He had not allowed himself to be alone with Santos. The others would no doubt be off collecting somewhere, and the man needed someone to talk to. He let himself out of his hammock and put his clothes on with shaking hands.

‘Ah, Mr Edgar.’ Santos sat in a shady corner of the yard at a low table with an extra chair beside him. Pools of water and mud were dotted around from the recent rain, and the thick air promised more. Manuel stood by, fanning Santos with a large banana leaf. As always, Santos managed to appear perfectly cool. Thomas was used to the damp heat now; he had even begun to enjoy the sensation of a warm bath, provided he could have a swim or a cool bathe at the end of the day. His shirts were all marred by the same yellow stains under the arms, and he had given up fretting over them. Santos’s shirts, however, were always crisp and clean, as if he wore a brand new one every day.

‘I trust you are recovering well?’

‘I am feeling better, yes. I do get tired, though.’

‘Yes, you will. I too have had malaria. It never really leaves you, you know.’

‘No?’ Thomas felt aged suddenly. He had stepped over a threshold and could not come back.

‘Don’t look so crestfallen, Mr Edgar! It will make you stronger in the long run. A brush with death is good for the character.’

‘I’m afraid my character may be deserting me.’ He mumbled this, half hoping Santos wouldn’t hear him. Was he pushing him? Waiting to see if he knew that he had acted dishonourably?

‘Nonsense, my dear sir. I have been watching you …’

At this Thomas’s stomach jolted.

‘… and I have seen you grow. You feel tired now, I know, and perhaps a little useless.’ He tilted his head and looked at Thomas as he might look at a sulky child. ‘Am I right? I think I am right. But I have seen your confidence in the jungle grow. Perhaps you have not noticed it yourself. You are becoming a true scientist.’

‘Scientist?’ Thomas clicked his tongue and could not keep the scorn from his voice. Was the man blind? ‘I’m no scientist, Mr Santos. I’m nothing but an amateur. I don’t even know what I’m doing here half the time. No — most of the time.’ He ran a hand through his hair and found knots, grit. He shook his fingers. ‘You know that I am completely unqualified? I’m surprised they even let me come here. Butterflies have been nothing but a hobby to me.’

‘No, Mr Edgar, you sell yourself short. You may not have made a career from the study of insects, but you have something much more important. You have passion. I see a fire inside you. It went dim for a time, when you were ill, but it came back a thousandfold the day I played my little trick on you.’

‘You did that on purpose?’

‘Mm, yes and no. It is all right to get angry, Mr Edgar. I suppose in my own way I was testing you. And you passed, I can tell you that.’

‘I did find the butterfly, you know. Right before John found me passed out.’

‘Oh, I think not. You were very ill. You probably just thought you saw it. It’s not uncommon to see things with malaria. Why, I saw my first wife once when I was ill, a baby in her arms. She told me it was my son and when I awoke they were both gone.’

‘You are probably right. I did so want to believe in it, though.’ He studied Santos’s face. The man had been too quick to dismiss his claim. Could he be lying? Could he know Thomas to be telling the truth?

‘I saw the photograph you have of your wife. What is her name?’

‘Sophie.’

‘Yes, Sophie.’ He seemed to be turning the name over, feeling the shape of it on his tongue. ‘She is very beautiful, isn’t she? And so young.’

Where was this going? He didn’t want to discuss Sophie with him. It tainted her somehow.

‘What is she like?’ Santos continued.

‘Like? Well, I don’t know, I suppose she’s …’ He trailed off, trying to conjure up an image of her standing in the garden, smiling at him. Then he saw her beneath him, in the park as he tried to make love to her. He shuddered.

‘Come now, Mr Edgar, surely you know your own wife?’

‘Yes, of course. She is wonderful. Quite wonderful.’ His voice had become a murmur. If he spoke quietly, she would remain pristine, not sullied by the jungle as he was. ‘I couldn’t wish for a better companion.’

‘And children? Does she want children?’

‘Yes, she does.’ He realised with a jolt that they had not discussed children for a long time, and he worried that this was his fault. Had he discouraged her?

‘Excellent. I am very pleased for you. She is so young; I’m sure she has many years of child-bearing ahead of her. Not like my wife. I fear her days are over. She is thirty-four years old and has had no children. I envy you. There is nothing I want more in this life than to father many children, for my name to continue for generations.’

Thomas, at the mention of Clara, felt himself begin to blush. He willed himself to stop, but this only made him burn harder. He prayed Santos wouldn’t notice.

‘I’ve embarrassed you, sir. I apologise. I am always doing this — talking about people’s private business.’

‘Not … not at all,’ said Thomas, relief cooling his cheeks again.

‘Anyway, I’m sure you will have a fine big family. You must not stay away for too long, I think. You are not like the other men — they have no family, no ties. They are married only to themselves and their work. It is selfish of them. There is nothing to stop them disappearing into the jungle — who would miss them? But you, Thomas, you must go back to your pretty wife.’

‘I will, in time.’ Was Santos trying to get rid of him?

‘But I do admire you, Mr Edgar. You have passion, and with passion you can succeed at anything. It was always my intention to fund individuals such as yourself, those who might never have an opportunity such as this.’

‘And the others?’

‘Dr Harris is an amateur like yourself. But he is a skilled taxidermist, even I can see that. His passions are worn on the outside, and spill over into less, shall we say, virtuous pursuits.’

Thomas smiled. The skin on his face felt as if it might crack from the newness of the expression.

‘And Mr Sebel,’ continued Santos. ‘He did not need my assistance to come here. He has every opportunity in life. Some he will take advantage of, some he will not. He may be educated, Mr Edgar, but don’t for a moment think him superior to you in any way. I have great faith in you.’

‘Thank you, sir, though I wish I could say the same for myself. And what of Mr Gitchens? Where does he fit in?’

‘Ah, Mr Gitchens, yes. A fascinating man. Very difficult to get to know. I couldn’t even begin to try to understand him. I can only be certain of one thing.’

Santos gazed at Thomas, who did what was expected of him. ‘And what is that?’

‘That he is in love with my wife. Ah, our tea.’

Thomas had not noticed Manuel slip away as they spoke, and the servant now returned with the tray of tea things. Thomas was grateful for the distraction because Santos’s casual accusation of John had made him blush furiously, and he was able to concentrate on watching Manuel’s hands while taking calming deep breaths to try to dispel the blood from his cheeks.

As Manuel finished pouring the tea into its tiny cups, an insect landed on his neck, startling him. He swatted at it while attempting to put the teapot back on the tray, his arms crossing as he did so and his elbows clashing. Thomas saw what was about to happen but could not react quickly enough to stop it. The teapot left Manuel’s hands, spun slightly as it landed partially on the tray, teetered and fell to the ground, striking the leg of the table on its way down.

‘Look out!’ said Thomas, but it could not be saved. The teapot shattered, and hot tea sprayed over the legs of Santos’s pale linen suit.

Manuel froze, but Santos sat with his eyes closed, breathing through his nose. Thomas held out his handkerchief and it dangled from his hand, waving in the slight breeze, while he waited for either the servant to take it or the master to open his eyes and see it. Finally, Santos opened his eyes and Thomas saw a cold anger at work in them. He lowered the handkerchief.

‘Antonio!’ Santos called.

Manuel began to make a sound from his tongueless mouth; it was as if he were trying to speak, to apologise, but it came out only as the low of a calf. He was shaking his head slowly back and forth, staring at Santos, who would not meet his eyes. Antonio strode into the yard, took one look at the teapot and grabbed Manuel by the arm. Manuel fell silent as he allowed himself to be led away.

‘What’s he going to do with him?’ asked Thomas, suddenly fearful.

Santos smiled and took his own handkerchief from his pocket. ‘You needn’t concern yourself,’ he said as he dabbed at his leg. The anger had retreated, dried out like laundry on a hot day. ‘Sugar?’

Thomas was haunted by the sound Manuel had made, by the look in his eye as he was led away. He didn’t see him for the rest of the day, and Santos — who no longer had a pot for his beloved tea — did not call on him.

Reluctant to raise the incident with the others when they returned from collecting, Thomas approached the only other person he could speak to about it.

‘I don’t know what happened to him,’ said Pedro in Portuguese. After only a week, Thomas was already able to understand him better, helped by the fact that Pedro spoke slowly and deliberately, with simple words. Thomas could tell he was lying. He sweated more than usual, and his hands shook as he stirred the pot of stew he was cooking. ‘But Mr Santos was very angry. He cannot drink tea without his teapot.’ He lifted the pot off the flames, but dropped it again when he burned his hands, and cried out. He eyeballed the stew, but though it slopped into the flames with a hiss, it did not spill too much. His relief was palpable. He turned his back on Thomas when he tried to look at his hands. ‘Não foi nada,’ he said.

‘Pedro …’ Thomas laid a hand on his shoulder.

‘I know nothing,’ the cook said in English, as if he had rehearsed the phrase over and over.

The rain abated in the early evening and Thomas took a walk to mull over the situation. He kept an eye out for the path that had taken him to the valley where he had seen the butterflies, but it eluded him. Pedro seemed terrified of Santos, that much was certain, and knew what had become of Manuel but would not tell Thomas. He couldn’t ask Clara about it, not yet. He would have to wait until Santos was gone again; at the moment he still couldn’t be near her. Thomas didn’t dare risk exposing his feelings for her, especially after the incident with Manuel and the glimpse of his rage — cleverly contained, but certainly there.

As he walked, he was struck by the absence of butterflies. Where once they had criss-crossed his path, even landing on his shoulder if he stood still enough, the rain had driven them away — where to, he could not say.

And what of John? Santos had spoken so clearly of the planthunter’s fascination with his wife. Though Thomas had not wanted to believe it, there was no denying it in the looks that John directed at her: looks, he noticed, that were not returned with quite the same intensity. He must warn him. But he did not want to lay himself open for suspicion from John or from anybody. No, best to keep it to himself.

The path was growing dim so Thomas turned back towards camp, to be home before it was too dark to see. He had not gone far when he saw a movement off the track, and could make out in the fading light the back of George disappearing into the forest, followed by — leading by the hand — the young boy Joaquim, easy to spot in his white short-sleeved shirt. Thomas didn’t know why he did not call out to them; instead he followed, slowly enough that he might lose them. He would call out to them soon, when he was sure he had really lost them.

But he didn’t lose them. Instead he came upon them behind a tree. George was kneeling before the boy, whose shorts were down around his ankles. Joaquim’s face was sad more than scared; his eyes were closed and his bottom lip quivered, as if he were enduring something bravely that he knew would be over soon. George had both hands on the boy’s buttocks, kneading them, while he had the boy’s penis in his mouth. A noise arose from his throat, such as one might make to a baby bird to reassure it.