Sound of Butterflies, The (42 page)

A moan escapes him. Is there a word waiting there too?

‘Say my name,’ she whispers, but he is silent. She moves forward and back until she feels him tense beneath her. She places her hand where she can touch herself every time she moves forward and as his grip on her thighs tightens she feels another surge of power through her, this time warmth and tingling, shooting up her abdomen, through her scalp and down the insides of her arms. She cries out for both of them and falls forward onto the sweating chest of her mute husband.

She awakes in the night after dreaming she is lying on the edge of deep well. She reaches out a hand — Thomas is gone. After they made love he turned his cold back to her and her joy dropped like a barometer. Now he is not in bed; he is nowhere in the room. Her body is replete, arms and legs limber, her bones liquid. But a crackle of doubt is growing inside her again; she feels it physically as a hard, round pebble in her gut. How long will this go on? Wavering between hope and crashing despair? She wants — no, she needs — to remain optimistic for him, but she can’t keep building up her hopes and having them pushed back in her face like this.

Stop it, she tells herself. We have made progress: we
have
. Three weeks ago she wouldn’t have dreamed of creeping into his bed like this. His body was as brittle as dried grass then; now it is filling out and the wounds have healed. She can still feel the warmth of his cracked hands on her back, the jagged edge of broken skin that traced a line down her spine. He is getting better.
He is getting better
. He made a sound, too, didn’t he? It is only a matter of time before his moans turn to words.

She sits up and listens, but the silence and the darkness are absolute. Thomas has left the covers on his side pulled back and the bottom sheet is cold and damp. She gets out of bed and wraps a sheet around her.

Her feet make no sound on the stairs as she pads down. The rest of the house is dark as well, apart from a faint glow in the hallway, coming from under Thomas’s study door.

She pushes the door open, and there is her husband, crouched over his work again. The clock in the corner tells her it is two o’clock.

‘Thomas? Darling? It’s so late.’ She rubs at her eyes. He doesn’t turn around.

She goes to him and puts her hands on his shoulders, but gets no reaction from him. One of his Brady drawers lies on the desk in front of him, half filled with butterflies, seemingly all the same breed, with only slight variations in size and colouring. Labels in Thomas’s scribbly hand sit neatly below each specimen, and his hands tremble as he places a new one beneath a freshly pinned butterfly with a scalpel. She can’t make out the Latin name in the poor light. They all look the same, though. Why on earth is he bothering to have so many the same? Surely he should sell them, not keep them all for himself like that? She stands behind him, offering him warmth and love through her hands, but he keeps his back to her, no acknowledgement even of her presence, giving absolute attention to a drawer full of insects. He even left the bed they shared, after she had given herself to him like that, to be with the horrible things.

She pushes off with the heel of her hands, making him stumble and drop the label. But still he doesn’t let her in, just goes back to collecting it up and reapplying it. Sophie backs away from him, giving him one last chance to do something — say something — before she walks upstairs, clutching her stomach, and returns to her own bed.

She sleeps a sort of half sleep, always aware of the sounds in the night, the tapping of the plum tree against the window, and eventually the growing light, but it is interspersed with thoughts that turn absurd. An image descends on her of Thomas’s back at his desk, but then it becomes her father’s, and she feels the bony touch of Nanny’s hand on hers, before it is gone again and she is awake. Butterflies flick at her ears and disappear. She feels Thomas’s hands on her back but she is not herself, she is another woman, and Thomas is making love to her as he should only to his wife. She mulls over the little hints Thomas has given her, the journals, the agent’s words about the letters he had received. But as her half sleep clouds her brain, she loses a grip on the thought, forgets it and moves on to the next. One idea comes to her again and again:
He loves the butterflies more than he loves me.

Just before dawn she hears Thomas ascend the stairs and go into his room. As the ash-grey morning light pushes through the curtains, her waking dreams have darned her insides into tight knots. All sleep deserts her as she rolls onto her side, onto her back — nothing gives her comfort in her bed; her skin itches and every position pushes some part of her body against another. She may as well be sleeping on hard ground, with ants crawling up her legs. Perhaps then Thomas would notice her.

She brings a knuckle to her mouth and puts her head under the covers. She lets out a muffled scream — anything to let out the tension inside her. Her legs thrash under the covers. Thomas and his butterflies. Thomas and his other woman. It’s as if he thinks of women as butterflies to be collected and pinned, lifeless, pretty objects to look at, like the blue that he gave her. She doesn’t want to join his blasted collection just so he’ll pay her some attention, alongside this other woman and who knows how many more?

Well, she can’t do anything about
her
, but the butterflies are just sitting there, in her own house, tormenting her.

Without bothering to wash, Sophie walks in her nightgown with sure steps down to Thomas’s study. The crates, now half empty, are not as heavy as they once were, and she drags the first of them through the scullery and out the back door. She tips it on its side and the remaining boxes tumble onto the grass. Sawdust spills onto them.

It takes her several trips — the rest of the crates, even the empty ones, the Brady drawers sitting on his desk. The rest are locked, and she thinks about dragging the whole set, but quickly realises she won’t be able to lift them. Assorted boxes of specimens are still scattered around the floor and sitting on shelves. She has made a temple of butterflies in her garden and for a moment regrets what she is about to do. But she knows it is for the best.

She sets a kerosene-soaked rag at the base of the pile — the sawdust will catch easily, and the crates are dry as paper. Her hand shakes as she strikes the match and it goes out. Another thought passes through her — she made love to Thomas, but he was probably thinking of her, the woman in Brazil. It was dark. He could have imagined that it was her on top of him, not Sophie.

She lights another match. This time the flame takes and she holds the match until it nearly reaches her fingers before crouching down and setting it to the rag.

The sun alights the garden just as the flames take to the nearest crate and it blackens, like a spreading ink stain, before burning. Sophie stands facing the house, and she catches movement in Thomas’s window. His face appears, a white smudge in the gloom. She sees his mouth open, but no words escape. She feels a twinge of guilt and takes a step towards the fire, which spreads through the sawdust that is scattered on the ground. Then Thomas throws the window open. His face is frozen and a look of sickness passes over it before he opens his mouth again and yells.

‘No!’

The word bounces around the garden, off the brick wall behind the roses, off the plum tree and the old oak. It passes into Sophie’s ear and causes a ripple through her brain. They stare at each other for what seems like minutes, and the last echo of his voice is the only thing she can hear. Then another sound — the cracking as the first crate is engulfed. The noise snaps something inside her. She looks back at he window, but Thomas has gone.

She runs to the other side of the fire, where the Brady drawers still lie untouched. She dives towards them and begins pulling things out of the line of the fire. She pulls off smoking boxes, some with their corners glowing with sparks, and then her husband is beside her and they are pulling together. Thomas is stamping and she tries to do the same but her feet are bare. She barely registers the pain as her feet blister.

They pull off all they can save and Sophie finds she is crying; great fat tears stream down her cheeks. They may be caused by the smoke or by the regret that looms inside her. She makes a last dash for the flames, but Thomas’s arms are around her, strong now, and he pulls her back violently, and together they collapse on the ground, crying. Her face is in his chest.

‘Why, Thomas?’ She doesn’t even know what she is asking of him, but it seems to be the question to all the answers she needs.

Thomas makes a choking sound, and then his voice comes, soft and cracked.

‘He killed her.’

It seems enough for now, and she stays on the ground in his arms as smoke rises into the sky, and the fire, with nothing more to feed it, dies away.

Rio Negro, March 1904

Thomas had killed Rodrigues, just as he had killed Arturo. It would have been better if he had lost his tongue in an accident and was mute, like Manuel. Then he never would have put either man in such danger. He leaned over the side of the boat, watching the turgid black water churn and feeling the leaden weight of the letter to Roberts in his pocket. He had no choice now but to go and warn the other men about Santos, and persuade them to leave. His tongue was numb and heavy in his mouth. Nowhere was safe for him any more. If Antonio had had him followed the day before then he would have had him followed again, and known that he had discovered Rodrigues’s body.

Thomas had stumbled from the office and through the streets, tripping over gutters, down to the river. A stench of drains had reached him and vultures scratched circles in the sky above him, waiting for him to drop dead so they could feast on his carcass.

People passed by him, flinching at the state of his vomit-stained clothes and the smell of him, but he found someone to pay to take him back up the river to the camp. He left with nothing but the clothes on his body and all his money gone.

Now he drummed a fist on his forehead while the roaring in his ears told him it was time to breathe again. What had he done? He took thirsty gulps of air and thought about what he was going to say once he got there, with no luggage and without Antonio to accompany him.

The camp appeared deserted when he arrived. The ground squelched under his feet and the smell of damp bark rose with every step. A lingering smoke drifted through the huts, bringing with it the sour smell of burnt meat. He couldn’t help but be reminded of the smell that had permeated Arturo’s village after the fire that killed him. He felt his stomach heave, even though he hadn’t eaten for a long time. If Pedro had burned the dinner, he would really have something to worry about.

He called out; his voice bounced off the trees and rose into the air. A bird took flight, drumming the air. A figure appeared in the doorway of Santos’s hut, small and quiet. Clara. She put a finger to her lips, eyes darting about, and shuffled towards him in her thin nightgown. Her hair was greasy and her face grey and speckled with spots. Dark circles hung below her eyes and her pupils were pinpricks behind a murky film. She gripped his arm.

‘Shh,’ she said. ‘My husband is asleep. He’s unwell.’ Her voice sounded strange, as if her mouth were full of liquid. An unpleasant odour, like sour milk, rose from her as she moved.

‘What’s wrong with him? Where are the others?’

‘Shh,’ she said again, though he had spoken softly. She’s gone mad, he thought. Her face had about it a tormented look, and her head wouldn’t stay still, nor would she look at him; instead, she seemed to be following the erratic flight of a bumblebee, or checking the undergrowth for spies.

‘They’ll be back soon.’

‘Mrs Santos,’ said Thomas. He clawed at the formal name, brandished it like a weapon. ‘Are you all right?’

She tapped her temple. ‘I just have these headaches. The doctor won’t give me any laudanum. He says he’s run out but I don’t believe him. He doesn’t understand how much it hurts. I can’t even sing any more.’

She touched his hand and her fingertip was clammy against his skin. ‘But I’m glad you came back for me.’

‘Clara, no.’ He drew his hand away. He sensed that he didn’t have much time and that Clara would be no help to him. She was safer than any of them; after all, she was Santos’s wife. He turned and sniffed at the air, which was damp and crackling with electricity. Rains were coming, and soon.

He set out to find the others before they returned to camp, not really sure of which direction to take, and wandering south. Butterflies criss-crossed his path, as if daring him to catch them. In the warm moist air they moved sluggishly, and he could have reached out and caught any number of them if he had brought his net with him. He tried to look past them, to focus on the task at hand — and to push out of his mind the thought that he was taking a last walk among his beautiful creatures; he felt as if he were saying goodbye to a lover. What a contrast, he thought, between now and the excitement and arousal he had felt early on in his time here, like the beginnings of love, as he had felt with Sophie; as with her, expectancy and thrill had given way to a constant affection.

Beyond the lepidoptera, dark columns of trees stretched into the gloom. Cuts marked the rubber trees he passed, weeping sap. He stopped to touch the sticky stuff and rolled it around in his fingers. Yes, this was very fresh. Santos’s workers must have set up camp nearby. He thought of the disgusting circumstances of the workers on the Putumayo and a panic gripped him suddenly. He should avoid the camp, for fear of what he might witness.

As he stood there silently, deciding which direction to turn in, he was startled by two human figures running through the trees towards him. A man and a woman, Indians, their bare feet making no sound on the forest floor. They stopped when they saw him, frozen like the jaguar, eyes wide. They started to back away slowly.

He put his hand out. ‘It’s all right,’ he said, for they looked at him as if he might kill them. They both had high, wide foreheads and wide-set eyes, angular jaws. The woman, naked to the waist, was young and still beautiful, for Thomas had thought since he arrived that the women became more like men as they got older. The man held tightly to the woman’s arm. He was much shorter than Thomas, but stocky and strong.

A shot rang out and the woman’s stare didn’t leave Thomas as she fell to her knees. Her hand went to her stomach, and he saw that it swelled with early pregnancy and her nipples were large and dark. Her face screwed up in pain and terror. Her companion tried to pull her to her feet, yelling at her, Thomas forgotten.

Then the men were upon them, four rubber men, kicking them both as they lay on the ground. They hadn’t yet seen Thomas, but what could he do? The men’s skin was the colour of old blood, their faces held terrible smiles as they kicked, as if they were playing a children’s game and winning. Thomas edged closer to the rubber tree and hid his face behind it, while his heart sent blood shooting into his tingling fingertips. He covered his face and winced with each sickening sound of boot meeting body. Then it stopped. The men jabbered at one another; they might have even been speaking English, but he couldn’t be sure.

He dared to look out from behind the tree but immediately wished he hadn’t, though he found he couldn’t move or look away. The woman lay still on the ground while one of the men crouched between her legs with his trousers down. The other two, who held the Indian man as he struggled feebly, laughed as the man pumped himself into her. Then they picked the Indian up and dragged him backwards to a tree, where they tied him tightly. The third man had finished with the woman and came over to help them, securing the Indian man’s limbs while they were bound. The woman lay motionless, probably dead.

What happened next Thomas knew would torment him forever. One of the men, shorter than the others, with dirty sleeves rolled to his elbows and bandy legs, raised his machete high and brought it down on the Indian’s upper arm. The Indian screamed, but his arm was still attached. The rubber men laughed at their bandy-legged accomplice, who shook his head with a smile and dug into his pocket. Thomas watched him drop a few coins into the outstretched palms of the other men, then take up the machete and swipe again. The Indian’s arm fell onto the ground and he passed out.

Thomas thought he would too. He gripped the tree and swooned; a buzzing filled his head and replaced the screams of the poor man. He realised that the rubber men were indeed playing some kind of game — betting to see who could sever a limb in one go. His mouth filled with saliva and his stomach heaved. As he vomited, he couldn’t help the rasping sound that came from his throat.

He didn’t have time to run; by the time he even considered it one of the men — the broadest one, with a large mole on his cheek — was upon him, grabbing him roughly by the arm and shouting at him in fast Portuguese.

I’m done for, thought Thomas, but he was listless, uncaring about what happened to him. He had seen it coming all his life.

Mole-face shook his arm and his whole body rattled. Thomas found the strength to raise a hand. ‘Please,’ he said in Portuguese. ‘Senhor Santos …’

The man dropped his arm as the others arrived. Thomas looked beyond them to where the Indian slumped against his bindings, his body slick with his own blood. Bandy-legs poked Thomas in the chest with his gun, hard, as if to break his sternum.

‘He knows Santos,’ said Mole-face in Portuguese. ‘Where are you from?’ he asked.

‘I am English,’ said Thomas. ‘I am here with Senhor Santos.’

The men looked at one another and lowered their weapons. They conversed quickly and Thomas couldn’t make out what they were saying. Finally Mole-face said to him in English: ‘Friend?’

Thomas nodded. ‘Yes, friend,’ wanting to kill himself for the shame of calling these men his friends. They took turns shaking his hand, and none of them mentioned the two violated bodies only yards from where they stood. Thomas started to back away. A wind had started up; it would rain soon, wash the blood off the bodies.

‘I go now,’ he said. Did he have a chance to save the Indian? What could he say? One man’s voice would surely have no effect here — why would they listen to him? He would be like a lone butterfly, its wings making no sound. He turned and started to walk, with each step telling himself to stop and go back, to try to help, but his feet carried him back towards the camp, just as the sky opened and the rains came.

Later, as the rain fell in steady sheets onto the roof of his hut and he watched water rush under him through a hole in the floor, glinting in the lamplight, he heard his name. John stood in the doorway. Thomas didn’t know how long he had been sitting there, alone in the dark, his hands clamped between his knees.

‘So you’re better, then,’ said John.

Thomas shook his head sadly. Better? He was worse now, much worse. But what could he say? He beckoned John into the room with a shake of the hand. The big man’s huge fingers enclosed Thomas’s thin ones.

John lingered awkwardly for a moment before Thomas motioned for him to sit on the one chair. Thomas sat in the hammock as if it were a swing.

‘Are you all right?’ asked John. ‘You’re very pale. And look, you’re trembling. Should I call Ernie?’ He stood again. Thomas put out a hand as if to push him back into his seat.

‘John,’ he whispered. His throat was tight; he had to squeeze the words out. ‘We have to get out of here. We have to leave.’

‘What is it? What’s happened?’

Thomas felt his face crumple and his shoulders sag. His stomach still churned and he couldn’t rid himself of the picture of the woman’s face, the man with his arm cut off.

‘Santos. He’s dangerous.’

John leaned forward to catch what Thomas was muttering. ‘It’s as I expected. You’ve seen something, haven’t you?’

Thomas nodded.

‘Tell me.’

‘I … I can’t. It wasn’t Santos, but … the men he employs. Santos knows about it.’

John nodded. ‘Have you told the others?’

Thomas shook his head.

‘They’ll never believe you, Thomas. They’re enthralled by the man. He might as well be paying them in diamonds for the hold he has over them. We must do something. We’ll confront him about it.’

Thomas’s arm shot out. ‘No!’ he croaked. ‘It’s too dangerous.’

‘Then we’ll leave and speak to the authorities in Manaus. We have to do something, Thomas, we can’t just stand by. I saw the scars on the backs of the rubber tappers. And Manuel … I’m sure it wasn’t an accident that cost him his tongue.’

‘There’s worse,’ said Thomas. ‘Much worse. You have no idea. But nobody will help us here. We must leave and return to England. We’ll be safe there.’

‘Perhaps you’re right,’ said John. ‘We’ll leave in the morning. Santos is too ill to follow us.’

‘What’s wrong with him?’

‘Harris says … well, he hasn’t told Santos yet, so I’m not sure I should be telling you.’

‘But you know?’

John nodded. ‘Ernie’s not very good at keeping secrets, not even for his patients. He seems worried for himself over it. I don’t suppose it will hurt to tell you.’

Thomas leaned forward and squeezed one hand inside the other. ‘Go on.’

‘Thomas, he’s got syphilis.’