Chapter Two of The Iron Butterfly. Chapter One can be found here.

by Richard Lutman

          In a village of Chekiang Province lived Chu Ying-tai an intelligent and warm-hearted girl who decided to defy feudal custom whereby women were not supposed to need education.  Disguising herself as a young man, she left home and went to study for three years in Hangchow.  She became an intimate friend of Liang Shan-po, a fellow scholar who was simple and kind.  When the time came for them to part, Chu Ying-tai, still disguised as a boy, attempted to make known her long cherished love for Liang Shan-po.  Alas, the unimaginative young man was oblivious to what she was trying to say and took none of her hints.  A year later the truth suddenly dawned. Liang Shan-po hastened to Chu Ying-tai’s home to make his proposal of marriage but, alas, found her already betrothed by her father to the son of a wealthy squire.  The unhappy couple met on a balcony and vowed to be faithful to each other unto death.  But Chu Ying-tai was not in control of her destiny and Ling Shan-po, grief-stricken, died of a broken heart.  Mourning at the tomb of her sweetheart Chu Ying-tai condemned feudal custom to high heaven.  As she did so, amid a terrible clap of thunder, the tomb split open and Chan Ying-tai joined her lover, never to appear in human form again.  The two lovers turned into a pair of butterflies, deeply in love and forever fluttering among the flowers and trees, never to part from one another. 

1 

“God’s decide—live or die,” said Gloria as she lay next to me in the bungalow’s one large bed.  “I sleep with gweilo.  Nothing left.   No more life.  I done.”

            “What of Han?” I said.   “Do you sleep with him?”

            “Mistake.  No Han.”

            “I don’t believe you.  He’s spoken to me about you.”

“Han stupid.  No more talk of him.  I go.  Never come back.  No trust.  Just like all gweilo.”

            “Don’t keep calling me that.”

            “I call you what want.  Have right.  You know by now.  Big right.  Not another you fool with.  I Gloria Wong.”

            I sat up and tossed the sheets aside.  The thick air of the dank bungalow was clammy against my skin.

            “No,” she said.  “Not go.  I want inside me.”

            “That’s your answer to everything, isn’t it?  There has to be more.”

            “I do not please you?” she said.  “Is what you wanted.”

            “You do your job too well.”

            “No prisoner,” she said.

            “But I am.”

            “Deserve,” she said.

            “You have made my life very complicated,” I said.

            “Only as is.”

            “Why do you always have to leave?  I never know when you’re coming back.”

            “Always soon,” she said.  “Be strong again.  Fly away.  Never catch. Then no more prisoner.  You see.”

            I remembered the pictures I’d seen of the lovers, Ling Shan-po and Chu Yin-tai, his body bent in grief over the body of his lover Chu Yin-tai.  Her face even in death was still delicate, innocent, and sad.  The most beautiful woman I had ever seen until I’d met Gloria, but the legend was wrong.  The lightning that struck split my soul, not the boulder that set the lovers free to fly forever among the flowers.  At first I’d felt nothing, then the searing throb of a wound that never closed.  Even without closing my eyes I could savor Gloria.  I even believed I saw pain on her face when we made love, a pain that was exquisite to look at, her face like a gorgeous death mask.

            “Forget butterflies,” she said.  “Come to Peng Wo.  Big bungalow,” she said.  “No need for clothes.  Be as meant when come into world.  Stay in bed all day and dream about being rich—suck titties dry.”

            “Who does the bungalow belong to?” I said.

            “Very important man.  He like Gloria very much.”

            “Do you sleep with him?”

            “I do not like you.  Ask many question.”

            “Do you wash his feet?” I said.

            “I do what ask.”

            “I don’t care about your titties,” I said.

            “No like Gloria anymore?  One minute much, then….”

            The buildings below were dark.

            “Sometimes I no stand sound of you,” she said.  “Want to get up and run away.”

            “Then why don’t you?”

            “Fortuneteller say no,” she said.

            “What does your fortuneteller know?”

            “Much,” she said.  “Very much.”

            “What did your fortuneteller say about me?”

            “Never ask,” she said.

            “I don’t believe you.  Take me to him.”

            “No.  Very bad.”

            “What are you afraid of?” I said.  “I want to go.  I have to.”

            “No.  Never go.  Bad thing.  Very bad thing.” 

She looked away.

            I’d had enough, reached for my net and swooped it over her head.

            “You fuck bassid,” she said and clawed at the stifling white netting.

            “I didn’t mean it.”

            “Always mean.  You gwielo.”

            I dropped the net and returned to the bed, then stared into the humid black heat of the night.  Her body vibrated against me.

            “Sometimes I forget myself.  I never want to hurt you.”

            “Gloria tough.  Marine.”

            I smiled, in love with her all over again.

            “You must forget legend,” she said. “Happen in another time.”

            “But do you love me?”

            “I accept fate.” She said.

“Do you love me?”

“It is as my fortuneteller says.”

“Fuck your fortuneteller.  I’m asking you.”

“It is as I say.”
            The words made me feel as though I were standing on a mound of loose sand.  Her arms snaked out.  Delicate white fingers traced the dark, then fell still and pale on my hard chest.  A small tailless gecko on the ceiling scampered for cover as our twisting shadows touched it.  My fingers outlined the globe of her right breast.  The breath that circled us was stale with cigarettes, whiskey, and the jungle.  Sweat ran down my chest and soaked the coarse cotton sheets.  After we made love she liked to lay back and listen to the night sounds that echoed through the dark.  The sounds made her tremble and I felt her close against my body like a small comfort ready to be torn away at any minute.

            Below the sea was quiet against the rough cliffs.  Rats stirred in the dark kitchen.

            She rolled over and opened my journal, each entry written in my small, careful hand. 

            “What name me when done here?  Gloria the dirty.”

            “Stop saying that.” I said.

            “True.  Even wash still dirty.  I know what I am.  You do not.”

            “You are wrong.”

            “You know nothing.” she said.

            The pungent scent of the midsummer evening filtered through the screens and hovered about us.   

            “You can tell your children how you were with me,” I said.

            “Better things for children to know.”

            “What?”

            “How to please lovers as I please you,” she said.  “Better than wife.”

            “You take a lot for granted.”

            She laughed.  “How else?”

            “You always make things seem so final.”

            “Be back to Hong Kong,” she said.  “Important big business.”

            “I’ll go with you.”

            “No.  Must not,” she said.

            “I want to be with you.”

            “You have now.”

            “That’s not enough,” I said.  “I want to see where you live.”

            “Nothing to see.”

            “How do you know?” I said. 

            “Too interested in me.  I crash you down.”

            “That’s my choice,” I said.  “The way you bend your elbow on the railing in the garden below the bungalow when you look at the sea.  And your smell like a hot jungle clearing.  I don’t want anyone else.  You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

            She shook her head as if scolding me.

            “Not Chu Ying-tai.  I Gloria Wong.  Gloria, lover of gweilo butterfly man.  Dirty, dirty Gloria.”

            I slapped her.

            She turned away; her hair was like a black glassine sheet between us.

            “Yes,” she said “Yes.  Hit again.  Again.  Kill Gloria.  Best way.  No more have to live with what done.”

            A dog barked loudly from the patio and she sat up, trembling.  It peered at us and growled, eyes glowing.

            “Night dangerous here,” she said.

            The dog turned and trotted off into the dark.  The warm breeze rattled the bamboo outside the bungalow.

            “Do butterfly sting?” she said.

            “No.  They’re too beautiful to sting.”

            “Why you kill?”

            “It’s what I do,” I said.

            “I sting.  You kill me one day?”

            I shivered.  Her pale face seemed to glow with excitement in the momentary silence of the room.

            “No,”  I said.

            “Even if I hurt?”

            “I couldn’t,” I said.

            “Just like others.”

            “No.  I’m not.  I love you,” I said.

            “So they.”

            “My love is different.”

            “Always different.  We find my baby, then Gloria be OK.”

            “Baby?”

            “Baby boy.  Very handsome.  Grow up to catch many butterfly.  No more talk.”

            “No.” I said.  “We talk now.”

            “No more to say.” 

            “There is more to say.”

            I grabbed her wrists.  For a moment she struggled violently, then broke free and knelt on the bed.

            “You not understand,” she said.

            “Tell me.”

            “No concern.”

            “I want to know,” I said.  “Why won’t you answer me?”

            “Already answer.” 

            “Damn you.”

            She stood up and paced restlessly in front of the screen doors like a pale shadow against the night.

            The heavy odor of the vegetation reminded me of an unkempt greenhouse. A night bird called again, then fell silent.  Below the throb of the Macau ferry scooting between the islands shook the blackness.

            “You must accept,” she said.  “You die for me, Butterfly?”

            “Yes.”

            “Then I hate,” she said.

            “Why?”

            “Not clean,” she said.  “No one want.  Not die for.  No good.  No legend.  Never.” 

            “That is for me to decide.”

            “Not your right.  Not god.”

She poured out a whiskey, drank, then began to dance.  Her body glistened in the moonlight that fell like gossamer across the worn tile floor.

            “See how good,” she said.  “Like movie star in movie.   Men look.  I know.”

            She laughed harshly and pushed her hand through her tousled hair.

            “People so different,” she said.  “Tired of faces.  Bodies.  Hate voices most.”

            “Do you hate my voice?” I said.

            She turned her face to the moon and her features became hard.  I felt a chill constrict about my heart.

            “I don’t want you to leave,” I said.

            “You have many butterfly to catch.”

            “And at night?”

            “Always think of the night.  Leung yat.  Perhaps I not be back.  Perhaps last time.  Go find baby without you.”

            The words pierced me like a shard of glass.

            “Nothing more to say,” she said.  “I say enough.”

            “Come back to bed.”

            “No.”  

            “Are you worried about me?” I said.

            “I might be,” she said.

            “Would you mourn me if I died tomorrow on the trail?”

            “No.”

            She fell back on the bed exhausted, and I smelled her sticky-sweet flesh that reminded me of something that had decayed.  The odor excited me.  I wanted to take her again, to hear her moan against the thick, sweaty night.  She laughed and licked my chest.

            “How anyone love me again?” she said.  “I no want love that way.  Price many high.”

            Her slippery tongue sucked at my skin and I shivered.

            I reached out for her breasts and she tossed her hair over us like a thick black cocoon.

            “Who English bitch?” she said.

            “How do you know about her?”

            “You like her?”

            “I met her when I collected butterflies on her family’s estate on MiddleIsland.  There are lots of flowers in the gardens.”

            “I show better flowers.  No more with her.  I mean.”

            “Are you jealous?”

            She spat at me.

            “You little bitch.  You tell me more about your baby then maybe I’ll stop seeing her.”

            “No.” she said.  “You big bastard.”

            My hands found her breasts and squeezed them.  She pushed me away. 

            “I hate you.  I hate you.”

            Her eyes glowed.  For a moment I thought they would set the night on fire.

            My head tilted toward her and I bit into her lip.  She didn’t cry and pushed her hips violently toward me.

2

This year I’d been contacted by two graduate entomology students, Irene and Sonya, who wanted to join me in the field as I collected butterflies.  Brock told them I wouldn’t mind.   At first I’d said no then was surprised at how easily I changed my mind.  Perhaps I was at last learning how to survive without Gloria, but I knew that wasn’t it.  I just needed to fill the empty spaces she had left me in. They were both in their mid-twenties and quite attractive.  Brock was interested in Sonya and thought I might like Irene.  I was to meet them at the ferry on MiddleIsland, take them to CentipedeIsland for the morning, then return them to MiddleIsland in time for a late lunch at the Bahama where Brock happened to be staying.  After that we were on our own.

Each came with a large knapsack and new hiking boots.  Irene smiled a lot.  Sonya was a tall brunette from New Jersey who wore a lot of bracelets.  We sat at the table that I’d cleared off.  I watched them as they surveyed the room.

“I’ve seen better,” said Sonya.

“I got used to it after awhile,” I said.  “At least I’m not living in some tent.”

“I like tents,” said Sonya.  “There’s something almost primitive about them.”

She shot me a judgmental look.

  “Brock said to bring bathing suits and plenty of water,” said Irene.  “That was about all.  He said there were some nice beaches here.  He sounded very mysterious.”

“That’s Brock for you.”

“What do you mean by that?” said Sonya.

“Nothing.  I hope you enjoy yourselves.”

“We were looking forward to a swim,” said Irene.

“So was I when I first came here,” I said.  “The South China Sea sounded so intriguing I could hardly wait to plunge in.”

“Did you?” said Irene.

“At low tide.  The water was very warm and sandy.  Not refreshing at all.  Afterwards I got a rash.”

“I’d like to judge for myself,” said Irene.

 “Maybe we can go later,” I said.

 “Brock says you teach science at a high school in Vermont,” said Sonya.

“I try to.”

They laughed.

“I admire teachers,” said Irene.  “They can really make a difference.”

 “My parents did.  I think it was in their blood, but apparently not in mine.  They wrote a lot of articles and books, which made them famous.  I never seemed to have their ability to shape thought the way they believed was important.”

“That doesn’t always mean anything,” said Irene.

“In their world it did.”

“Then why do you want to be part of it?” said Irene.

“What else was I to do?”

“What you really wanted,” said Irene.

“If you didn’t teach, what else would you do?” said Sonya.

“I don’t know.  Maybe I’ll stay on CentipedeIsland forever.”

“That’s too easy,” said Irene.

“What would you have me do?”

“Don’t give up.” said Irene.

 “It’s not that simple.”

“Of course it is,” said Irene.

 “I wish I could make a difference,” said Sonya.  “I’d like to get my Ph.D. and do research.  There’s so much to learn.”

“My parents did a lot of research,” I said.

“What in?” said Sonya.

“My mother was interested in pheromones, my father forensic entomology.  Just make sure you have the proper protocols in place.  Without protocols, you have nothing.”

“What about you, Irene?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” she said.  “Perhaps I’ll know what I want to do when I get back home.   Figuring out one’s future is such a big decision.  I want to make the right choice.”

“Once you do, don’t change your mind,” I said.

“Is that what happened to you?” said Irene.

“No.  My choices were made for me before I was born.  I was expected to carry on the line and be more famous than my parents.  There was nothing I could do.”

“I don’t believe that,” said Irene.

“Was it your choice to come here?” said Sonya.

“No. My father arranged it.  So you see even here I’m not free of him.”

“You could if you wanted to,” said Irene.  “What are you afraid of?”

“I’m not afraid.”

“Then why do you keep coming here?”

“Because I like to.”

 “Have you been coming here long?” said Sonya.

“Long enough.”

“Do you have any theories about the butterflies you’ve caught here?”

“Some years there are more than others,” I said.  “It could be the weather or the natural adjustments of the populations.  How did you meet Brock?”

“He met us,” said Irene.

“That would be about right.  He met me one day while I was waiting for the launch to CentipedeIsland.  He was hard to ignore.”

“I know what you mean,” said Sonya.  “But I like him anyway.  I have to pee.”

I pointed at a door.  She stood up and headed for it.

“I want to apologize for Sonya,” said Irene.  “Sometimes she can be quite intimidating.”

“She’s still young and looking for answers,” I said.

“Are you?”

“I don’t know anymore.  Perhaps it’s this island.”

3

On the trail to King House I scooped my net across the small, fragrant white flowers.  The petals fell like a delicate snow.  The net turned toward the ground and I knelt by it then pulled it into a crumpled pyramid.  It was a net full of wonder.  Rising from the broken flowers I saw the swallowtail as it flew upward toward the top of the net.  I squeezed the net off behind it, pinning its wings.  The specimen was nearly perfect.  I stood up, pushed the net outward and watched as the butterfly took to the air once more.  I knew I should have killed this one, but I couldn’t.  There will be others.  Many others.  And I had the time.  Too much time.

            At an early age my father initiated me into the correct way of mounting, labeling and preserving my specimens. Something that had been a long forgotten hobby of his.  

In second grade I made butterflies of lopsided tissue-paper wings and pipe cleaner feelers coiled on top.   Looking back, the twisted image reminded me of the iron butterfly crouched in the shadows of the island’s abandoned detention center as if waiting to tilt into the sky.   In fifth grade I had even been featured in a newspaper article with the others from the local butterfly club.  I was the secretary, taking careful notes and carefully mounting and cataloging my specimens.  My collection had been exhibited in the science room of my school.  “Good job,” my mother said.  My father said nothing.

As I explained how I had caught each butterfly to the class, Marie who sat next to me pressed close, her heat burning my skin. 

            “I’ll show you my butterflies,” she said to me.  “Would you like that?”

            Later behind some bushes she lifted her skirt to show me the butterflies on her underwear.

            “You can touch if you want to.’

            I reached out my hand and touched her.  She gasped, dropped her skirt, then ran off.

The next year I’d been voted out as secretary of the club in favor of Tommie Burns, who had rheumatic fever and a limp.  He had a small nose and smelled of camphor.  I was the faster runner and beat him to every butterfly whether I had the specimen or not. 

4

Butterfly

Flutterby

You better fly.

            The distant words of child’s rhyme I made up to please my parent’s guests at one of their mid summer parties.  I remembered my mother in pale yellow and my father wearing a red tie.  They held hands as if they were young and very much in love then disappeared into the shadows. 

The first time I’d recited the verse, I pretended to fly.  I’d been the hit of the party even my father seemed to enjoy the words and shook my hand.  As I grew older I found the words were an easy way to get women to sleep with me.  They thought I was cute and I quickly became used to the smell and feel of a woman until it became a hunger that drove me to marry.  Now the words no longer mattered because of Gloria.

5

Gloria.  Gloria.  Gloria.  The words again written on this page in the morning rain light look no different than when this journey started.  I was restless and decided to walk to the top of the island in the heavy rain.  Once at the top I stood and looked out over the islands and the gun metal gray sea.  Then I took my clothes off and lifted my head to the drops that pounded my skin.  My body glowed.  A sentinel for the lost.

6

Two years ago Gloria sent me a photo of herself peering off into the distance.  She wore a sun hat with a strap under her chin.  Next to her I could see a shoulder with a blurred tattoo.  I didn’t write her for six months after that, then got a card that said ‘I hope you be well.  Weather very good.  We are fun.  Practice English much.  Much together soon.’

7

How many times had I thought of killing myself to escape the thoughts that shattered my sleep? 

            Did it matter what part of my body died first?  I wanted total and complete destruction so there would be nothing left.  I would leave no memory of Gloria and nothing for my father’s forensics to quantify.

            I didn’t want to die bit by bit like my father whose words hinted of something that had happened or might have happened as his memory flickered.  What did he remember about me?  Did he love me?  I was never sure.  My mother’s breasts gave me milk.  What had been the milk he gave me? 

            Love or death.  Death and love.  Loveanddeathandlovedeathandlove.  Where was the end?  Gloria?  GlorialovedeathGloria.

            Father.  Father.  Father.  Did I say the words the way I said Gloria’s?  Father Gloria.  Gloria Father.

            Perhaps a careless misstep onto a snake in the thick bracken that lined the trails.

            Gloria’s sex smelling like crushed leaves.

            My wings had no color.  No substance.  I am too heavy to fly.

            To the south lightning cracked open the sky.

8

I first met Johanna shortly after I arrived this year.  I liked the look of her.  She was thin and blond with deep green eyes and the slightest hint of dimples.  I found her to be very attractive and she became someone I got used to and depended on.  Brock, who had introduced us, was looking for a story to sell to the local English newspaper.  He told Johanna’s parents, the Trent-Williames I was a famous American academic who wanted to collect specimens among the gardens of the English who lived on MiddleIsland.  When asked about the kind of specimens he meant, she told me that Brock replied.  “Oh, just butterflies.  But they are an excellent determinant of biodiversity and millions of years old.”  He remembered that Johanna had looked at him intently with her deep green eyes.

            I didn’t feel like renting a bicycle and decided to walk the three quarters of a mile to the estate from the ferry.  The rain held off, and I arrived before Brock, who said he’d be there for the proper round of introductions.  Johanna met me at the door smelling of tea and mints.  Her eyes never left mine.

            “Hiya.  You must be the one,” she said.

            “I guess I am.  Is Brock here?”

            “Not yet, but do come in and meet the rest of the family.”

            She led me into a large sitting room that overlooked the sea.  A small red-framed temple had been built on the cliffs above the water.

            “This is Brock’s friend,” she said.  “Wilson, the butterfly hunter.”

            The colonel rose to greet me.  His wife studied me from her chair.  Her dirty shoulder-length, blond hair was streaked with gray and her face was weathered and wrinkled.  She wore a yellow pastel dress, a jade necklace and bracelets.  I wondered if that was what Johanna would look like when she was her mother’s age. 

            “Brock will be here shortly,” the colonel said and motioned me toward a chair.  “He just phoned,”

Johanna stood behind me.

            “You have quite a view,” I said.

            “We were bloody lucky,” said the colonel.  “One of the first to come here.  It’s not England, but it will do.  I don’t miss the cold and most of our friends live here now.”

            “Would you like to see the gardens?” said Johanna.

            I nodded and then followed her toward the rear of the house.  She opened a pantry door and we stepped out into the garden.  The same long unkempt grass I’d seen at other estates partially covered the stone paths that twisted through the flowers and bushes.

            She stopped and leaned against a large boulder, studying me as one might study a newborn, unsure, yet attracted to the first ugly wiggling of a life about to be discovered and shared.

            “Where are all your butterflies?” said Johanna.

            “Too wet.”

            “Is it the same on your island?” she said.

            “Yes.”

            “You’ll have to come again when the sun is out,” she said.

            “I’d like that.”

“Can you take me to your island? She said.  “I’d love to see it.”

            I knew her visit would be talked about and she would be compared to Gloria and she would hear about the visit.   Gloria wouldn’t be back for a day or two because she was with Han.  There had been a phone call.  Leighton told me he needed Gloria to help him move his lepers to another apartment before they were discovered by the tenants.  Han used them as cheap labor and Gloria was the only one who knew their dialect. I could only imagine how terrified she must be as she stood against the night shaking with fear.  I knew there was nothing to do and the pain I felt was like a knife wound.

            “We must get back,” said Johanna.  “It’s time for tea.  We can’t be late, especially this time.  It’s important to make the right impression.”

                She pushed off the rock and waited for me.  As we walked back our shoulders touched. For an instant she stopped, smiled then continued.

9

Johanna squeezed my hand as we approached CentipedeIsland.  I hadn’t wanted to bring her, but I felt I owed her for the tea with her family and I thought she might take my mind off Gloria.

            The strange boat approaching the dock drew the curious few.  The Land Rover charged down the hill as if to challenge the intruders.  Li burst out, saw me, and smiled.

            “Butterfly,” he said, nodding his head.

            I hopped onto the dock and secured the boat.  Li shooed the bystanders away.  He pointed to the Land Rover, then up the hill.  I shook my head.

            I felt Johanna taking it all in.  For a moment I wanted her to take her back to MiddleIsland where she belonged, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to, because things had gone too far. 

            “The hill to the bungalow is a bit steep,” I said.

            “I don’t mind.”

            She took my hand. 

            I knew Johanna was falling in love with me, but there was little I could do about it and I didn’t care.

            We reached the bungalow, and she walked around it. 

            “A bit quaint,” she said.  “Not quite my cup of tea, but it does have a certain charm.”

I unlocked the door, turned on the fan and opened the screen doors.

            “Is this where you sit?”

            I nodded.

            A table was stacked with books and small plastic boxes.

            “I’m having a bit of a do on Friday.  Will you come?  My parents are in Hong Kong for the night.  Besides, you need to get out more and meet some people.”

            In my mind’s eye, I could see her at the long dining room table discretely holding my hand, her eyes sparkling.  And I would perform, telling the guests tales of the mighty butterfly hunter of CentipedeIsland.  Candles would flicker, and the atmosphere would be very English. 

            She wandered slowly about the main room of the bungalow and opened one of the doors off it.

            “Is this the bedroom?”

            “One of them.  If I get bored with one, I can move into another or sleep on a cot.”

            I wondered if she could tell that Gloria had been there.

            “You’re not much of a housekeeper.  The bed needs to be made and the place needs a good sweep.   But I like it.  This place is you, isn’t it?” 

            I shrugged.

            “I never thought about it.”

            “But it is.”      

She moved back into the main room.

“You know I’m falling in love with you, don’t you? You don’t mind, do you?” she said.  “I guess because you smell different.  You smell of butterflies, or at least the way I think butterflies smell.  It’s a smell I want to know more about.  It’s not one of those stuffy and dirty English toffee smells that make you sick.  Were you ever married?”

            “I guess you could call it that,” I said.

            “What happened?”

            “I think we both knew the marriage would never work.  It didn’t take long for both of us to regret being married.”

            “Do you ever want to get married again?”

            “I don’t know.   Love is ultimately about yourself and how much you want to open up your heart.  I’m not sure I opened mine enough because I didn’t know how.  I think I was afraid to let myself go.”

****

It was early spring when I first met Francine, one of those days that seemed to promise flowers would soon be blooming.  I stopped at a coffee shop to pick up a sandwich and a soda before returning to my class.  I was unwrapping the sandwich when she arrived with her lunch in a brown bag.  A thermos stuck out of her large purse.  She stopped, looked at the other bench where a grandmotherly lady sat among a flock of pigeons, then took a step toward me.  I should have known from her look that I would regret that meeting.  Her brown eyes already held judgments.  When we kissed for the first time she hardly said anything, just touched my cheeks with the tips of her fingers.  It was nearly Christmas when I asked her to marry me.  I was surprised when she said yes.   I hadn’t been expecting it.

It rained the entire week of our honeymoon and we stayed in bed all day to keep warm. We burned up all the firewood by the first day and the whiskey was gone by the second. Neither of us felt like getting up to eat because it would mean facing the chill of the small dark room.

“Some honeymoon,” I said. “I’ve never been so cold in all my life.”

“Maybe tomorrow the sun will come out,” she said, pushing my hair back from my ear.

The wind howled and drove the rain at the windows.

“You’re not sorry you married me?” she said, her eyes searching mine.

“No,” I said.

Her streaky blond hair had spread across the pillow and for a moment she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.  Looking back I wondered what had happened. Was it her eyes and the way they fastened on you? A few words.  The missing touch of a hand.

“What is it?” she said.

Leave me alone I wanted to say. Leave me alone.  I don’t want you after all. But I was so much in love with her, the words never came.

For two years we watched our marriage crumble not sure of what to do.  On our last day together I remember that Francine stood by a window, trying not to look at me as I spoke.  

“Remember the first time we went out,” I said.  “You wore green stockings. We’d been caught in the rain.  I’d seen rain before, but on that day it had a different smell.”

            “We’ve been through this before,” she said.

            “But not now.   Please, listen to what I have to say.”

            “I don’t want to,” she said.  “We are no longer the same as we were.  Maybe we never were.  I think we fell in love with the wrong person.” 

            “I reach out and I can touch you,” I said.  “You’re not some ghost.”

            “That might have been better,” she said.   “I want you to understand what I’m going to say.”

            “Understand what?” I said.

            “I want to be fair.”

“What is it that you have to tell me?” I said.

            “I’ve been seeing this guy I met in class.  I like him.”

            “As much as you once liked me?”

            She laughed and touched the side of her mouth with her hand in a characteristic pose.

            “What’s so funny?” I said.

            “This whole scene.”

            She looked at the empty whiskey glass on the table by my chair. 

            “Green stockings,” she said.

            “Yes.  And you were shivering a little.  You were like a frightened fawn.  You still are.”

            “Don’t,” she said.

            “I love you.” I said.  “You heard me say it.  And I’ll say it again.”

            “You’re too late.”

10

The long dining room table at the Trent-Williames covered with an embroidered tablecloth had been well laid out for the guests.  The long green candles at each end of the table flickered in the breeze that came through the screens as the overhead fans pushed leisurely at the air.

On the sideboard, serving platters were full of fish, pork, chicken, vegetables and rice.     

“For the Greeks, their word for soul, psyche, was the same word for butterfly,” said Colin Hendricks.  “Did you know that?”

Dressed casually with a school tie and pressed shorts, he sat back and stared down the table waiting for reactions.  Several heads shook.  He had been asked at the last minute to properly fill out the dinner party. 

“And to poets, they were winged flowers,” he said with a gesture of his left arm.

“I remember the swallowtails back in England in my grandmother’s garden,” said the black-haired Alexa.  “But I never paid much attention.”

“I raised butterflies when I was a child, but I let them go,” said Bertie who was a distant cousin of someone at the table.  “They flew straight up.”

“More brandy?” said Johanna and passed the bottle around the table.

“When I tried raising another brood, they all died,” said Bertie. “Their chrysalis’ flapped in the wind until they dropped to the ground and were blown away.”

 “What’s CentipedeIsland like?” said Alexa.  “It seems more remote than the other islands and faintly mysterious.”

“Perhaps that’s for the best,” I said.

“Is it haunted?” said Bertie.

“I don’t know.  Sometimes, though, I think that time has stopped there.  It’s like a lost world.”

“Now that’s intriguing,” she said.  “I’d like to come for a visit to see the place for myself.”

“You’ll have to contact Leighton.”

 “Johanna says there are lots of butterflies there,” said Bertie.

“And snakes too,” I said.

“Have you seen any?” said Alexa.

“All the time.  But it’s the butterflies I’m interested in.”

“Don’t you feel bad about killing them?” said Hendricks.

“I can’t.”

“Would you feel the same way about killing a person?” he said.

“Probably not.”

“Certainly you must feel something?”

“There are times that I do,” I said.

“Then why collect at all?” he said.

 “What affects the butterflies can affect us.”

“Hooray for bloody science,” said Colin.  “What would we do without it.”

“Will you be back next year?” said Bertie.

“I’m not sure yet.  Each year I have to justify what I’ve done for a committee who never seems to understand what I do.  I think they want me to make a discovery that will shake their world and make them happy.”

“Such is life,” said Bertie.  “How can one justify anything anymore.  So you shouldn’t worry.”  

“Are there still butterflies to catch?” said Alexa.

“Yes.  Always.”

“Why can’t your committee realize that?” said Alexa.

 “I don’t know.”

“To the ‘celestial insect’ of the Chinese,” said Hendricks and raised his glass.  “The Chinese are such an odd race.  I’ll never figure them out and don’t know if I ever want to.”

“I’m sure we’re just as odd to them,” I said.

“Spoken like a true believer,” said Hendricks.  “And I’ll bet you have some Chinese girl stashed away somewhere awaiting your every need just like the typical foreign bastards who come here on some great mission.”

I could sense Johanna’s anger.

“Does she like litchi nuts and pigeon heads and washing your feet?” he said.

“She smells like noodles.  But the sex is good and I beat her regularly.”

He glared at me.

A gust of wind rattled across the silent table.

 “To the great butterfly hunter,” said Johanna as she raised her glass in a toast.  The others followed.  In the candlelight, it looked as if we each held glowing jewels.

Johanna grabbed my arm.

“I want to show you something,” she said.  “Excuse us.”

“The fair damsel to the rescue at last,” said Hendricks.  “Protect him from all that is evil here.”

I followed her outside to the patio.  Clouds covered the stars.  She took my hand, then put her arms around me.

“Colin can be a real prick at times.  Please don’t judge him too harshly.  He misses England and wanted to marry me once.”

“What happened?”

“It’s no longer important.  So you do have a Chinese lover?  I thought you might be different.”

“It’s not what it seems.”

“Do you sleep with her?”

I looked up at the sky.  Through a jagged hole in the clouds I saw a half moon.

11

Johanna lay next to me on the small secluded beach that belonged partly to her father and his neighbor, the Honorable Jonas Bassett, who liked to collect bamboo mats and ivory Buddha statues engaged in sexual acts.  For years the two had a gentleman’s agreement over the rightful ownership of the beach, but it never seemed to matter because the beach was little used by either of them.

The path to the beach was rocky and steep, perhaps the reason that prevented the Trent-Williamses and Bassetts from using it more than they did.  For Johanna and her friends, it became a lazy haven where picnics were taken in the late afternoon and the lucky diver would find a coin or two in the clear water

The recent swim in the tepid water had not been enough to cool us down, and had made us languorous and dreamy.

            “Are you staying for supper?” said Johanna.

            “I don’t know.  I should be getting back to the bungalow.”

            “Why?” she said.  “Are you expecting someone?  Your Chinese girl perhaps.”

            “I’m behind in my record keeping.  I’m meant to send weekly reports.  It’s not a task I like.”

            “I can help, if you want.  I’m good at such things. I worry that you are becoming too much a part of that island.  I don’t want you to forget yourself.  I can have you run over later in the launch.  Besides I don’t ever see enough of you.”

            She tilted her face toward me for a kiss.  Her mouth was hard, but not unpleasant.  She never let me sleep with her, preferring me to touch her breasts and stroke her between her legs.  I never knew if she was a virgin or just tangled up in the English morality I’d heard so much about.  It didn’t matter because I knew I always had Gloria waiting for me.

            “You’re a good kisser,” she said.  “But I guess you’ve been told that before.”

            “It’s always nice to hear it again,” I said.

            She smiled and bit my nipple through my tee shirt.

            “I wish I‘d been your first.”

            She smelled of sweat, cigarettes and nutmeg.

            I could no longer look at her because I thought she would see Gloria in my eyes with that mysterious way women had. 

            “It’s probably best I don’t stay,” I said.

            “Sometimes I don’t know what to make of you,” she said.  “I thought you liked it here.”

            “I don’t know what to make of myself either,” I said. 

“I’m sure that’s not true,” she said.   “I don’t want to lose you.”

            I kissed her as reassuringly as I could.

            “I like kissing you,” she said.  “I’d do it all day if you’d let me.”

            She jumped up and ran down the beach.  I watched her effortlessly cut through the water.  She turned on her back and floated for a moment, then rolled once again into the waves.

            I wanted to fall madly in love with Johanna because she would always be there—a constant.   But I knew that Gloria would be the shadow that hovered over us.

            Johanna splashed out of the water and knelt next to me.

            “The second swim is always the best, I think.”

            I pulled her toward me, then unfastened the top of her bikini.

12

After I returned and found that Gloria was still away the solitude was more than I could take, I’d gone to Hong Kong for the day, hoping to see her in the places Leighton told me she frequented.  Instead I stopped at Johanna’s office only to find she wasn’t in.  I left no message and wandered up the hill to Hollywood Road and the antique shops, then to the Peak where I tried to calm my hunger with a bowl of noodles at one of the restaurants.  I left the bowl half finished and went back outside again where I stood looking at the Peak Tram start its trip down the mountain to the whir of cameras. 

Once I thought I saw Gloria kissing a man by a wall, then running for a bus.  Another time I thought I saw her turn a corner ahead of me.  I followed, then thought I saw her shape again.  I stopped.  The street I entered was narrow and full of shops with signs in Chinese.  Hard stares met me, bodies brushing in a frenzied street rush.  I turned around and for an instant my way was blocked, then the surge parted and I stumbled back to where I came from.

The ferry back to MiddleIsland rocked gently. I watched the card players and the woman who had fallen asleep, the book she was reading, a pillow for her tilted head.  She was attractive, almost Spanish looking, and wore spotless white sneakers.  I kept returning to her face, which had a quiet morning-like calm to it.  I found myself continually being drawn to the people here.  Even when Gloria ate a pigeon’s head she made me want her.  Everything about her made me ache.

I waited for the first rush of passengers then slowly made my way toward the pier where the launch to CentipedeIsland was tied up.

            Some days I didn’t feel like eating at all, content to bloat myself with the boiled and chilled water Gloria had left for me.  At night gas swelled in my side so I couldn’t sleep and sat up all night in a sweat.  On other nights I slept like one who was dead.

            Last summer I met a scientist on the plane who spent his time in the rain forests of South America.  He had malaria, a bad liver, sore joints and parasites, but that was to be expected for the work he was involved in.  “There are things I’m finding that have never been seen before, anywhere,” he said.  “That’s why I have to go on, no matter how I feel you must go on.” 

13

“Do you want to touch my titties?” said Gloria as we lay on the bungalow’s sofa.  The rain had just ended and the room was fresh and damp.

            “Is your milk sweet?” I said.

            “Like sugar sticks.”

            “Then I will grow strong as I suckle.”

            “Very strong,” she said.  “Like god.”

            Gloria’s tongue stroked. The lights behind my eyes exploded.

            I asked her once what she saw in me, but received no definitive answer just a tilt of her head.  Then she stuck her tongue out.

            In the mirror we were legs, arms, hair, blood, stink.  Lies.  I loved her.  I hated her.  I wanted to tell her.

            On a beach at MiddleIsland divided by huge black boulders I imagined gathering shells I’d never seen before to give to her.

            Butterfly

            Flutterby

            You better fly.

14

In a small alley restaurant in Tai O at the southern end of Lantau, Gloria took the litchi nut from the bowl in front of her, picked off the coarse shell, then put it into her mouth and slowly chewed.  She had introduced me to the nuts when I first met her and I became fond of the small, aromatic, pulpy fruit.

            “Must stop,” she said.  “Grow fat and ugly like that one.”

            She nodded at the woman who sat with her husband in the shade of a tattered awning watching us.  A TV on a small table against the back wall was loud and the picture constantly rolled.  The husband drank quickly from a can of beer.  His wife rose, crossed the sun-filled alley, and stood by our table.  She pointed at the bowl.  Gloria shook her head and smiled, then offered her the nut she was about to eat.  The old woman smacked her lips once and returned to her husband.

            “Not sure of us,” said Gloria. 

            “The hell with them,” I said.

            “Not talk so.  Understand.”   The husband dropped the can on the table.  Then he crossed back into the dark opposite us.  The woman smiled and nodded her head.

            “Not welcome here,” said Gloria.

            “But they take my money.”

            “No choice.  Want return to the village of birth with respect.  Important.”

            “Will you return to your village?”

            She said nothing.

            “Why don’t you want me to know?” I said.

            “Sun shine and many fish be caught.”

            I peeled another litchi nut studying her as I did it.   My teeth closed on the fruit, and my mouth exploded with the taste that reminded me of the same taste I found between her legs.

            “Doesn’t it bother you to be with me?” I said.

            “I like when people stare.”

            “Did you like being seen with him?”

            “Who speak?”

            “Han,” I said.

            For a brief moment I thought I saw her fingers pause over the skin of the nut.

            “Be full with what you have.”

            “I need to understand,” I said.

            She shook her head.

            The sun that glowed behind her was like a cloak that had been woven into her hair, which sparkled like jewelry.  I wanted to smear her face and body in the lustrous shades of bright honey and polished amber that throbbed around her.  She wore it like a crown for which there was no kingdom to rule. 

            “Nothing to understand,” she said.

            “Why won’t you tell me more about yourself? “

            She closed her teeth over the opaque fruit.

15

I heard the gate outside the bungalow open then steps I wasn’t familiar with.  There was a loud quick rap on the door.  I could feel my chest tighten.  Then there was another knock and I heard the door open.  Had something happened?  I stood up and saw Johanna standing in the doorway. 

            “There you are,” she said.  “I’ve been trying to reach you all morning.  I guess you didn’t get my message.”

            “I’ve been in the field.  I thought you were someone else.  The footsteps…. “

            She looked at me.

            “Come in and sit down.  I can make you some tea.”

            She crossed to the table, placed her bag on it then sat, legs outstretched.

            “No thanks.  I just wanted to tell you I’d come back.  When I couldn’t reach you I thought something might have happened.  I’m known here now.  I wanted to surprise you.  I had to go to the NewTerritories.  I missed you more than I thought I would.”

            “Maybe that’s why you weren’t at your office when I called there,” I said.

            “I never got the message,” she said.

            “I didn’t leave one.”

            “It would have been nice to have been with you,” she said.

            “There was an accident,” I said.  “A boat hit some rocks off South Point and sank.  I saw several shark fins.  I heard a lot of screaming.”

            “How horrible.”

            “That’s life.  You should know that.”

            “I brought you some litchi nuts,” she said as she looked at me with a steady glance.

            I peeled the nut that I took from her outstretched hand and placed it in my mouth.  The cells of my tongue contracted, watering my throat with saliva.  The nut tasted damp and mossy.  I wanted to spit it out.  She handed me another.  I shook my head.

            “I’m still getting used to the taste.  I had my first in Tai-O.”

            “When were you there?”

            I didn’t answer.

            “Were you with that Chinese girl?’

            “Her name is Gloria.  Leighton introduced us.”

            “Does she come here a lot?”

            “She doesn’t like snakes.”

“I don’t know what to think.  I know so little about you.   Why must you always be so difficult?”

            “I don’t try to be,” I said.

            She stood up and walked to the screen doors where I stood.

            “I know that.  It’s probably my fault.  I always seem to say or do the wrong thing.  I love you.  You know that don’t you?”

            I nodded my head.    

“I remember my grandfather telling me how he used to gather chestnuts,” I said.  “Selling them was the first money he ever earned.  He bought a small German watch, which he kept with him through high school.  Sometimes I wonder what my life would have been like if I had done what he did and learned life the way he did.”

            “You would have been just the same.”

            “Are you sure of that?”  I said.

            “Yes.”

            “Isn’t there one thing in your life that changed you forever?” I said.

            “There were many things,” she said.  “My first kiss.  My first period.  My first lover.  The first time I saw death.  And perhaps my first meeting with you.” 

            She leaned over and kissed me lightly.  Her lips were warm and tasted like the sea.

            A wasp hovered in the corner by the kitchen then bounced off the screen at her.  She pulled away sharply and swatted at it.

            “I hate wasps,” she said.  “I got stung badly once.”

            “Last year I went swimming in a deep, clear pool near a monastery,” I said.  “There were swarms of yellow wasps that never left me alone.”

            “The yellow ones are the most persistent of them all,” she said.  “People have died from their stings.  You must be careful.  Perhaps it’s the way you smelled.  I’ll ask our Chinese maid if she knows of anything that will help.  She knows a lot about the traditional ways.”

            “It’s started to rain,” I said.

            “Always the monsoons of summer and the damp,” she said.  “I want to dry off for a change.”

            “Why don’t you want to go back to England?”

            “I can’t.  Never.  Nothing is left.”

            I took her hand and held it, then she pulled away.  The soft rain-light washed her face, and for an instant she became part of the shimmering drops.  Her jaw was set and her lips were tightly together.

            The wind started up and shook the leaves.  She threw open the screen door.  A great tumble of sound fell about her.  She arched her neck and looked up at the source of the rain.  The rain slanted off her legs.  She breathed deeply.

            We became absorbed in the rain that fell about the bungalow with a steady hiss.  She came back from the screen doors and stood next to me, then began to slowly caress my thighs.  I smiled at her.  Leaves nudged the screens.  When the wind blew they made the room shimmer.  It was like the movements of her fingers.

            She took her hands and spread them over my face.  Her fingers traced the roundness of my eyelids, then down my cheekbones to my mouth.  I saw myself in her eyes and pulled away.

            “What is it?” I said.

            “I don’t know.”

            She grabbed my hand.  The nails raked into my skin leaving dark red lines.

            “Today has been a disturbing day for me,” she said.  “I walked around a lot after I got back, but couldn’t seem to find my thoughts.  I felt so many things and found it hard to concentrate on what I had to do.  I always get this way after visiting my cousins in the NewTerritories.  It’s a different world there.  So much seemed to be expected I felt stifled.

            “You asked me once why I wouldn’t sleep with you.  I never gave you an answer.  I want to now before I lose my courage.  It’s important.

            “Two years ago I was raped and beaten, who did it is unimportant.  He pulled me down by the hair. When I tried fighting him off, he beat me.  His aftershave was very strong.  And I liked it.  I really did.  I even dreamed about it afterwards.  I still do and it excites me.”     

            She trembled.

            I put my arms around her.  Her body felt cold.

16

I heard the familiar light, almost shuffling footsteps on the stone walkway and knew that Gloria had finally returned.  For a moment she stood in the doorway looking at me.

            “Back,” she said.

            “Where were you?”

            “Much business,” she said.

            “What kind of business?”

            “Ask too much.”

            “What are you afraid of?” I said.

            “Not afraid.  Stupid.”

The fan stirred the mixture of the bungalow rooms into a torpid sweetness that smelt of her. The thin layer of cool coated my skin and my head began to ache, the pain pressing against my eyes.

            In how many other rooms had she stood looking at her lover?  Perhaps waiting for a word or gesture before moving onto the next plane.

            I hated her when she presented the silent challenge of her body coated in scents that made me dizzy.

            She yawned daintily, covering her mouth with the back of her hand.  It was a gesture that defined her and made me ache with desire.

            “Why do you keep coming here?” I said.

            She stood in front of the screen doors watching the rain fall like a sheet on the leaves of the crowding bushes.  The air smelled of wet leaves.  A gust of wind misted the drops over her face, making her skin look like chrome.  She turned to face me and I could see her begin to speak.

            The words were lost in the rush of rain and wind.  She smiled, opened one of the doors and stepped onto the patio, face upturned to the hard drops.  She shook her head, then once again tilted her face upward.

            I saw the contours of her body emerge from the wet cloth that held her.

            “Where else I go?” she said.

            Then I was with her.  The rained melted us together as we fell onto the watery grass.

17

“How did Gloria lose her eye?” I said.

            Leighton looked up from the snake he was pickling by the large sink in his apartment.

            “I’m not sure I remember.”

            “I don’t believe that,” I said.

            “I can’t say anything more,” he said.

            “Why not?”

            He held the jar to the light, then turned it slowly.  The snake rocked gently in the bright liquid.  The mouth was open in a smile and the small eyes were velvet black.  The yellow and black markings swirling in the light were faded.

            “A good specimen.  Don’t you think so?  It was caught as it crossed the floor in Central House.  Still immature, but quite deadly just the same.  I’ve only a few this size.”

            He put the jar on the table and poured himself a whiskey, then gave me the bottle.  I took a glass and filled it. 

            “To Gloria,” he said.  “May she outlive us all.  She deserves it.”

            The rain started again tearing at the leaves.

            “Next time she’s here I want both of you to come over for supper,” he said.  “There’s a lot to catch up on.  I’ll have the cooks fix something special.”

            “Was it an accident?” I said.

            “What?” He said.

            “Her eye.”

            “That would be hard to say,” he said.

            “Why won’t you tell me?”

            “Perhaps it’s best if you ask her.”

            “I have,” I said.

            “Then you know the answer.”

            “She has told me nothing.”

            “Perhaps there is nothing to tell,” he said.

            “I’ve told her many things about myself.”

            “Maybe not the right things.  You should take a year off and live in one of the villages that face the sea.  Learn to grow vegetables and catch fish.  Understand how life really is on the islands.  When I first came here I spent my days working in a vegetable paddy.  If I hadn’t I would have had no food.  Soon my wants became few.  I needed little, an occasional girl and some good English gin.  I think that life can get quite cluttered up with junk if you let it.”

            “Gloria wants me to go to Peng Wu.”

            “I thought she might.  It’s a lovely place to rut.”

            He opened the door and looked out at the rain.  It smelled stale, and the damp made me feel sticky.

            “You mustn’t concern yourself with the matter of the eye.  If she wants to tell you about it, she will.”

            The rain stopped as suddenly as it began.  For a moment there was utter quiet.  Then a bird chirped from a bush.

            “When I was small,” said Leighton, “my father let me visit his study.  He put a piece of paper in his typewriter and made me sit down and write something.  In my excitement, I jammed some of the keys.  He was furious.  I began to cry and ran outside.  That night I had to eat supper alone.  He used to call me ‘that peasant boy’ after that because I was so clumsy and had big hands, which he said would be no good except for beating people up.  So you see there is really nothing to worry about.  Is there?”