Sound of Butterflies, The (46 page)

‘I’ve got work to do,’ he says. ‘And we have so many specimens still for Mr Ridewell to sell.’

She feels a wash of shame. Some of the specimens were ruined in the fire she started, but they did manage to save most of them.

He shifts his legs so he is kneeling and looking down at her. He leans over and takes her face in his hands to kiss her. It is the first kiss he has initiated in so long, and she feels it through her body, between her legs. She opens her mouth in response and he kisses her harder. Then he pulls back, surprised at the intensity that is passing between them. But Sophie lies back on the ground and pulls him with her. She feels dry dirt rubbing on the back of her neck, falling into her collar, but she doesn’t care: she is kissing her husband and he is kissing her back and this is all that matters.

He lifts her skirt and puts his hand on her leg, but suddenly stops and looks at her.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, and starts to move his hand away.

‘No,’ says Sophie, and places his hand back where it had been. Her skin crackles where he touches it. She pulls him closer so that his body presses against hers.

A twig breaks nearby. Sophie pushes Thomas off her and sits upright, horrified. What has she been thinking? She keeps her eyes turned away from whoever it is that has come upon them, and her face burns.

Thomas starts to laugh, an alien sound. She has forgotten how it swoops, low, then high. ‘Hello,’ he says. ‘Look, Sophie.’

She turns slowly. A doe stands a few yards from where they sit, ready to take flight. It breathes quickly, heavily. Sophie is relieved; the blood throbs in her cheeks.

‘Thank God,’ she says. ‘I thought we’d been caught.’

The deer turns and leaps away, but Sophie is not ready to resume their embrace, not yet.

‘I saw another doe around here once,’ she says. ‘It was the strangest thing, Thomas. I was thinking about you, and how I was missing you, and this deer … it looked at me, and it was crying. It was so sad.’

‘Crying?’

‘Yes, real tears. I didn’t know it was possible. What do you suppose it was so sad about?’

‘Oh, sweetheart, animals can’t cry. Deer’s eyes have oily secretions, that’s all. It’s nothing to do with feeling sad.’

She nods and sighs. He takes her hand and begins picking twigs and leaves from her hair.

Finally, Sophie speaks. ‘Thomas, I have to ask … that is, you haven’t mentioned your butterfly. Did you find it?’

He shakes his head. ‘I thought I had. There were times when I was sure I had it. But the forest — it played tricks on me. I don’t think my butterfly ever really existed. It was just a dream.’ His voice sounds wretched; she thinks he might start crying. ‘It drove me mad, Sophie. I think I actually might have gone mad.’

Sophie says nothing.

‘I’m glad to be home now,’ he says. ‘I think I’m ready to put it all behind me.’

‘But what of that man Santos? What are you going to do about him?’

‘What can I do? My friends are still with him. He’ll kill them. Or worse.’

‘You must contact the British directors. You must. Be brave if you have to.’

‘Brave?’ He drops her hand and wipes at his face in disgust. ‘Things aren’t as simple everywhere as they are in Richmond, Sophie.’

Something is wrong with his voice. It trails off and she is suddenly gripped with a fear that he is losing it again — that the mere thought of speaking out is making him retreat once more into silence.

‘We’ll find a way,’ she says, and puts her arms around him and pulls him close. Butterfly wings unfold and flicker in her belly.

Malay Archipelago, September 6th, 1912

Dear Sophie,

I will be very brief, as I am soon due to go out to dine, but I wanted to reply quickly to your letter, which you must have sent some weeks ago now. There is something I find soothing about writing to you, as if you are in the room with me and I am holding a real conversation with you.

It was with some amusement that I read your letter. That Agatha has turned out to be such a splendid hostess is wonderful, of course, but I can’t help but laugh at how different she seems now that she is married with children. I know she’s your friend and I mustn’t be unkind, but wasn’t she always lecturing you about social evils and the whims of society? I wonder sometimes how poor Chapman copes with her, now that she wants to throw parties every night for her new friends. I am glad I am not in Richmond, otherwise I would have to find excuses not to go — you are much better at that sort of thing than I am. I’m pleased Agatha’s hat business is doing well, though. Tell her I have a few specimens she will be very interested in.

Finding all the new species here has made me think of the Papilio sophia I never caught in the Amazon. What a fool I was — no doubt Wallace and Spruce were playing a joke by starting the rumour. Perhaps it wasn’t even them who started it, but some prankster at the Natural History Museum. What an idiot I was to believe it, when a butterfly like that is an impossibility. To think of all I nearly lost on its account. To think, too, what I put you through, and how you’ve stood by me — encouraged me even — to get back into the saddle and become a professional collector. You have my word, dear Sophie, that I will never do that to you again, and neither will I keep things from you as I did back then.

I received a letter yesterday from Mr Roberts, the American, forwarded to me by Mr Ridewell. Roberts informed me that Mr Santos died before he was due to stand trial. I don’t know how to describe how I feel about that. Part of me is glad that he is dead — is that terrible? — the other part is disappointed that he wasn’t prosecuted for his crimes. If only things had moved more quickly, but with nobody believing Roberts — especially the British directors of Santos’s rubber company, the blind fools — proceedings were certainly slowed. I’m very grateful that you encouraged me to write to Roberts, Sophie. Some might call me weak for deferring to your good counsel so readily, but no matter. You are my strength, and I will always listen to you. The way you now voice your opinion so strongly fills me with pride and admiration.

I only wish that George and Ernie had spoken out as well before they died. At least their disappearance made our government sit up and take notice. I thank God that they died of natural causes, although perhaps we’ll never know what to believe. I sometimes have nightmares that Santos found out about my giving evidence and killed them, just as he had implied he would do. Cholera was rife, though, and Ernie was looking ill even when I left. I was fortunate not to catch it myself, so weakened by my malaria bout, which still comes back to me, as you know. How many sweaty, delirious nights you’ve nursed me through!

Roberts has only just told me how Santos tried to blackmail him — had in fact set him up while he was in Brazil, by getting one of his lackeys to offer him money — and that the British directors almost believed it until someone tried to bribe them too. Then they realised
that Roberts was telling the truth about it all, and gave in. They sent their own inspectors out there who managed to gather quite a bit of evidence. I suppose the directors thought they could be absolved of all blame if they investigated and found their own company corrupt, and it looks as though they have been. What this means for the trial, I do not know.

Mr Ridewell has been encouraging me to re-visit my journals and bring them up to a publishable format, but I am so busy with other projects — the butterflies in the archipelago wait for no man! — that I am reluctant to start that difficult task. I could scarcely bring myself to read them and remind myself of that time in the Amazon. Perhaps, if it weren’t too hard for you, this might be a project you could help me with upon my return? Think about it, anyway, my love, and say no if you want to.

Well, I must run now as Frederick, my new assistant (and an enthusiastic one at that! He keeps me endlessly entertained — you would like him very much), has just come to tell me that we are soon expected. How I wish I could send him off to dine without me, and continue my conversation with you. I ache for you and the children, to be back with you again. Nine months is too, too long, and I promise not to be away for such a time again. Give my love to the children and my regards to your father. I do appreciate the time he spends with them when I’m not there.

My next assignment is to be Australia, next year. I hope, my dear wife, that you and the children might accompany me on that trip. You say the children are running wild in the park — well, in Australia they could be free to be the intrepid little ragamuffins they are. Wouldn’t that be an adventure?

I am, as always, yours.

Thomas

While this is a work of imagination, some of the characters are loosely based on real people: the character of José Santos was inspired by the Peruvian rubber baron Julio Arana, who lived in Manaus and had thousands of Indians tortured and enslaved in the Putumayo region (but who did not murder his wife); an American, Walter Hardenburg, provided the starting point for the off-stage Mr Roberts. The story of the clash of these two men deserves a whole book of its own
—
I urge anyone interested to seek it out. While every care has been taken to get historical details right, I repeat, this is primarily a work of imagination. In regards to the art of butterflies and collecting, I have used information that was available at the time, much of which I'm sure has been superseded. To my knowledge, no such collecting expedition took place in the Amazon at that specific time; however, there were many expeditions before and after.

This book wouldn’t have been possible without the following people, so my gratitude goes to:

Vivien Green, Harriet Allan, Rachel Scott and to Elizabeth Knox for her comments.

Jonathan King, for too many things to mention, but, as a start, telling me about the rubber barons and setting me on the path.

The NZSA (PEN NZ Inc) Mentor Programme supported by Creative New Zealand, and Chris Else for his incredibly valuable advice.

All my Zoetrope buddies, especially Richard Lewis, Paul Cunningham, Hannah Holborn, Thea Atkinson, Joan Wilking, Judith Beck and Anna Sidak. Special thanks to Mario Ribeiro for Brazilian advice and translation.

Insightful readers and support crew Susan Pearce, Kate Duignan, Katy Robinson, Tim Corbalis and Mary Parker.

Helpful staff at the Natural History Museum in London and the Richmond Public Library. Rob and Joan Marshall for introducing me to Richmond Park.

Sam and the Matterhorn for providing a safe, welcoming, book-loving, imbibing environment.

Friends and family for all manner of help, support and enthusiasm: Ros Henry, David Elworthy, Harriet Elworthy, Rebecca Priestley, Bill Manhire, Anna Smaill, Carl Shuker, Jason Hebron, Gemma Gracewood, Marianne Elliot, Tanya Fretz, Annette Cotter, Jon Bridges, Janelle Rodrigues, Paula Morris and especially Peter Rutherford.

Rachael King has worked in radio, television and magazines, and played bass guitar in several bands. She now writes full time and lives in Wellington. She is the recipient of the 2005/2006 Lilian Ida Smith Award.