The Butterfly Box (50 page)

‘You’re married, but you’re not happy,’ he said, watching her steadily.

Federica stiffened. So she had put on weight, what of it? ‘How do you know I’m not happy? You’re judging me by your own standards,’ she argued. ‘I don’t want to be sitting down here writing books.’

‘You’d like to be sitting down here taking photographs.’

‘Oh, really,’ she laughed, ‘that was a long time ago, like I told you. I adore

London, I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.’ She watched Sam’s tortured face and wondered why he cared.

‘You’re living in a beautiful shop window. There’s nothing behind it, Fede. If I was worried about you two years ago, I’m even more concerned now.’

‘For goodness’ sake, Sam, this is ridiculous. Why do you care?’

He stood up again and strode over to the window. ‘Because you’re an old friend,’ he said softly, looking out onto the wet garden.

‘Because you kissed me once in the barn.’

‘Because I kissed you once in the barn,’ he repeated with a bitter chuckle. He wanted to add ‘and because I let you go when I should have held on to you’.

‘I care, Fede, because I’ve watched you grow up here. You’re part of my family. From the moment I dragged you out of the lake to those times when you came and cried on my shoulder, I’ve been like an older brother to you. I care about you. For God’s sake, Federica, look at yourself.’ He turned and stared at her with his grey eyes and grey face twisted in anguish. Federica felt her chest constrict and swallowed back her self-pity. ‘Darling, you’re not yourself. He’s changing you. The Fede I know doesn’t wear designer suits with matching handbags. The Fede I know doesn’t cross her legs like the Queen. The Fede I

know doesn’t smile from the nose down. She smiles with her eyes, behind her eyes. She’s like a lovely swan on the lake, but this husband of hers is pulling her under.’

They both stared at each other not knowing where to go from there. Sam gazed at her forlornly, fighting the impulse to gather her into her arms and kiss her again. Only this time he wouldn’t stop, but would go on kissing her for ever.

Federica’s skin prickled with an uncomfortable fervour. She looked at him in confusion while the person she was struggled with the person she had become in an agonizing conflict of wills. Finally a fat tear pushed its way through her restraint as she realized that she didn't know who she was any more.

‘I’m fine,’ she said coldly. ‘I’m fine and I’m happy. You’re just emotional because your grandfather has died,’ she stammered, standing up. ‘So am I. I love Torquil and he loves me. I don’t think it’s right for you to criticize me,’ she added defensively before leaving the room.

Sam turned around and stared bleakly out across the lake. The skies were black and dense and a soft drizzle floated on the wind. A few brown leaves swirled

about on the paving stones outside the window. Just like Federica, he thought, being tossed about by the will of something far bigger than herself. He remembered the shy, awkward child who had played with Hester in the caves and melted marshmallows on camp-fires, he hadn’t noticed her then. And the inadequate teenager who stammered whenever she spoke to him and blushed with her first tender infatuation, he hadn’t noticed her then, either. He couldn’t remember exactly when he
had
first noticed her. Perhaps the feeling had crept into his heart without him even noticing, because suddenly his jealousy had been roused, leaving him bewildered at the surprising strength of his emotions.

He had watched helplessly as she had married Torquil. The signs had been there right from the start in large neon letters and yet no one had tried to make her see them. He remembered Nuno’s wise words: ‘You can teach people knowledge, but wisdom, dear boy, has to be learned through experience.’ So far Federica had learned nothing. How much further had she to fall before she gained some self-awareness and inner strength? He sunk into Nuno’s leather chair and concentrated on devising a way to help her.

Federica returned to the sitting room and attempted to forget about her strange conversation with Sam. She forced a smile and tried her best to listen to what people were saying. But her ears rung with the echo of his words and as much as she made every effort to ignore them she knew in her heart that he was right. She wasn’t happy.

The chauffeur drove her to Toby and Julian’s cottage where she had arranged to stay the night. Rasta sat by her chair with his ageing white face on her lap, staring up at her with adoring eyes the whole way through dinner. Helena, Arthur and Hal joined them and they talked well into the night. When she slipped beneath the sheets she reflected on the family gathering that had been just like old times. The cottage was the same. The damp scent of the sea that mingled with the smell of rotting autumn had swelled her senses and flooded them with longing for those carefree days of her childhood. They had reminisced, laughing at all the old, well-worn stories that had slipped into family folklore. Even Hal had left his teenage angst back at home and joined in with enthusiasm. Helena was happy because Hal was happy and Federica was happy because she felt herself again.

But no one had failed to notice the change in her and they all worried.

When she left Polperro the following morning she felt a tremendous wave of homesickness. She dreaded returning to London, to the monotonous round of dinners and cocktail parties, ladies’ lunches and shopping and shuddered at the thought of Torquil’s persistent attempts to impregnate her. She looked down at her crocodile handbag and manicured nails and sighed. What was the point of it all?

Toby watched Federica leave and wondered when he would see her again. As the months rolled into years she was slowly drifting away from them. A small raft barely afloat on the strong undercurrents of a disappointing sea. Her marriage wasn’t what she had dreamed of. It wasn’t what her family had dreamed for her either. Toby resigned himself to the fact that he was losing her.

‘Seeing Fede makes me feel desperately sad,’ he said to Helena.

‘Oh, she’s all right. We all have our ups and downs,’ she replied, too concerned with the sorry state of her own marriage to dwell for long on that of her daughter. ‘Torquil loves her,’ she added, not wanting to sound selfish. ‘It’ll work itself out.’

‘I’m not so sure it will,’ he replied bleakly, retreating into the house.

Helena was irritated. All anyone could talk about was Federica. How unhappy she looked. How she had put on weight. How her marriage must be crumbling. From the Applebys to the people who lived in the village, no one had anything else to say. When Arthur decided to add his thoughts to the pile Helena lost her patience. ‘For God’s sake, Arthur. You don’t know what her marriage is like. You never even talk to her. I don’t see how you’ve suddenly managed to penetrate her inner world,’ she exclaimed hotly. Arthur’s own patience was being slowly ground down by her incessant ill humour. She seemed to thrive on the drama of an argument. If there wasn’t a reason to fight she invented one, happier to wallow in misery than try to find a way off her shadowy path of self-destruction.

‘Now listen, Helena. Federica might not like me very much for obvious reasons, but I’ve watched her grow up and I care for her very deeply.’

‘So do I,’ she retorted. ‘She’s my daughter, not yours.’

Arthur sighed and narrowed his small brown eyes, resisting the temptation to shout at her. ‘I’m only suggesting we do something to help, she’s clearly having a hard time. She needs our support,’ he said gently.

‘What do you want to do? Rush in on a white charger?’ she laughed

scornfully. ‘Fede doesn’t want our help. If she did, she would have asked for it. Look, she’s top to toe in designer clothes, has more money than King Midas and a husband who clearly worships the ground she walks on. So she looks unhappy; it was Nuno’s funeral, if you remember, not exactly a time for celebration.’

‘But she never comes down to see us.’

‘She doesn’t have time.’

‘She loves her home, the countryside, the Applebys.’

‘She’s moved on, Arthur, that’s what no one can bear to admit. She’s left us all behind. That’s fine by me. She’s chosen a better life for herself than being stuck down here in bloody obscurity.’

Arthur stared at her in fury. He rarely lost his temper, but this time Helena had gone too far. His face swelled like a ripe tomato. ‘Well if you're not happy with your lot, madam, why don’t you just leave!’ he shouted, throwing his papers onto the floor. Helena gaped at him in surprise. He never raised his voice. ‘Go on, put your money where your mouth is, because I’m sick and tired of your hot air!’ And with that he left the room.

Chapter 36

‘What’s this?’ Lucia asked, pulling Federica’s butterfly box out of her bedside table drawer, where she now kept it hidden beneath her books.

‘I don’t know,’ said Torquil, sitting up in bed and lighting a cigarette.

‘How sweet,’ she said, opening it.
‘Adorabile.
^}

‘Well, what’s in it?’

‘Letters.’

‘Letters?’

‘Mmm.’ She sighed, pulling one out.
‘Che carina.
¹

‘Who the fuck are they from?’ he asked furiously, grabbing it out of her hand. He opened up the first well-handled epistle and turned it over. His shoulders dropped with relief. ‘They’re from her father.’

‘Sweet,’ she said in a patronizing tone. ‘You’re so possessive.’

‘Like I told you, she’s my wife, she belongs to me and I adore her.’

‘What about me?’

‘You don’t belong to anyone.’ He smirked.

‘Torkie!’ she breathed huskily, pretending to be hurt.

‘All right,’ he conceded. ‘You belong to me part-time.’

‘I don’t sleep with anyone else, you know.’

‘I know. I’d kill you if you did,’ he said and looked at her steadily with impassive green eyes.

‘Give me one of those letters, I want to read it,’ she said excitedly. She liked it when he was masterful.

‘No you can’t,’ he replied, folding the letter up and putting it back in the box.

‘Torkie, come on, don’t be a spoilsport.’

‘I said, no. Drop it.’ He enjoyed playing Lucia off against his wife.

‘Don’t speak to me like that, I’ve just allowed you to ravage my body.’ She laughed.

‘And you enjoyed every minute of it. When I’m ready I’ll take you again.’

‘I might not let you,’ she goaded.

‘I’m stronger than you are. I’ll pin you down and fight my way into you. Don’t think you can ever prevent me from getting what I want, when I want it.’

‘I like it when you sound rough. Like a gangster.’ She smiled and stretched like a glossy cat. ‘I wish Federica would spend the night away more often.’

‘Absolutely not,’ he replied. ‘The fewer the better. I like her to be where I can

see her.’

‘You’re a jealous husband.’

‘She thrives under my guidance. She needs me. She’d be lost without me.’

‘Then why the
diavolo
are you sleeping with me?’

Torquil smiled at her indulgently. ‘Because, my angel, you work in an entirely different department. Fede’s my wife. You’re my lover. I love you both in different ways. I wouldn’t want to be without either of you. Besides, you and I go back a long, long way. It’s hardly an affair. Rather the continuation of an old friendship.’

‘How do you know she’s not having an affair?’ Lucia asked, fixing him with her wide Italian eyes.

Torquil continued to smoke complacently. ‘Because I know her every movement, angel.’

‘You little spy,’ she said, rolling onto her front and running a long nail down his chest. ‘Do you spy on me too?’

‘That’s none of your business.’

‘It’s sick that you are reduced to spying on your women.’

‘It’s not spying. You don’t seem to understand. I’m looking out for her.

She’s young and vulnerable.’

‘You’re spying on her. If she’s smart she’s sleeping with your informant. That’s what I’d do.’ She giggled.

‘And I’d kill you,’ he replied, fixing her with stony eyes. She flinched with a perverse kind of pleasure as she detected the menace in his expression.

‘Your little wife is not so little any more.’ Lucia grinned and ran a tongue over her thumbnail.

‘She’s not fat if that’s what you’re implying.’

‘Not fat, just fatter.’

‘She’s softer to lie on. I like it,’ he said. ‘Besides, if she were skinny like you I might muddle you both up in the dark.’

‘We both have Italian names, I’m surprised you haven’t already put your big foot in it.’

‘I never lose control. You of all people should know that.’

‘Do you love her?’ she asked sulkily.

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I love her to distraction.’

‘Well, it’s one very happy marriage then, isn’t it?’ she stated with sarcasm. ‘But I adore you too.’ Then she sat up and pouted at him, allowing her long

black hair to fall over her breasts, firm like newly whipped egg whites. ‘Why didn’t you marry me? I’m more beautiful than she is, more intelligent, more street-wise, I’m independent and worldly and I have no doubt that I’m a better lover. So, why didn’t you?
Dimmi, porcine non ci siamo mai sposati?'

Torquil stubbed his cigarette into the ashtray and rolled out of bed. ‘For all those reasons, angel,’ he replied. ‘For all those reasons.’

When Federica returned home in the early afternoon, Torquil was waiting for her. He embraced her in his duplicitous arms but she felt nothing but a tingling numbness and saw in front of her eyes those black clouds of doubt. ‘Are you all right, little one?’ he asked, stroking her hair. ‘You look exhausted.’

‘It was very sad,’ she replied, shaking her head, trying not to look into his eyes.

‘I missed you,’ he said. ‘I could hardly sleep without you.’

Federica smiled tightly. ‘I need a hot bath,’ she mumbled, pulling away from him.

‘And a massage,’ he suggested.

‘No really, just a bath will do.’ She sighed, putting her handbag down and

slipping out of her shoes.

‘I want to rub away your suffering.' he said and followed her up the stairs. ‘I know exactly how to cheer you up.'

Federica shuddered.

Torquil ran her a steaming bath scented with lavender essence and sat talking to her while she washed away the memory of Sam and her nostalgia. He told her he was planning to take her away on a long, hot holiday to Mauritius. ‘You’re anxious, sweetness, it’s no wonder you’re having trouble conceiving,’ he said.

Federica felt a sense of panic creep up to her throat where it tightened its grip and made it difficult to breathe. ‘What you need is a relaxing holiday in the sun. We can make love all day.’

‘Yes,’ she replied hoarsely, although the idea made her skin prickle with repugnance.

When she declined his offer of a massage and began to get dressed, he insisted that she needed it. ‘God, you’re tense,’ he said, rubbing her shoulders. ‘You see?’

‘I’m fine, really,’ she insisted.

‘Lie down.’

‘I’m fine, Torquil, please.’

‘Little one, I know what’s best for you, don’t I?’ he said, pushing her towards the bed. ‘Now, do as you’re told and let me massage away all that strain.’ Reluctantly she lay naked on her front and closed her eyes because if she opened them she feared she might cry. His strong hands kneaded her skin with lavender oil, rubbing away at the muscles that were taut around her shoulders and neck. The room was warm and she was hot from her bath. Soon his hands got the better of her and she felt her body relax against her will. Her mind cleared of thoughts of Nuno, her family and her conversation with Sam and concentrated on the pleasurable feeling of his fingers on her flesh. She was balancing on that tenuous border between meditation and sleep when her senses were alerted to his sudden shift in position.

He spread her legs in one swiff movement and fell on her, probing his way into the centre of her being, jolting her back to consciousness. He rode her hard and selfishly as if he was aware that he was slowly losing control. That little by little she was loving him less. She opened her eyes and fixed them to a point on the wall. Then the strangest thing happened. She mentally withdrew

from her body, as if it wasn’t happening to her, as if it were someone else lying helpless on the bed. She projected her mind back to Chile, back to Cachagua, to the beach where the sand was warm and soft like Lidia’s flour and the sea was hypnotic and soothing, drowning out her discomfort and humiliation.

In the barren months that followed, the butterfly box became her only source of consolation. She opened it to escape her unhappiness, reading her father’s letters and floating far away on the memories that were evoked by the magic of the strange, sparkling stones. As Torquil’s lovemaking grew more brutal the butterfly box became more vital. It was her lifeline. It was the only thing that sustained her.

It was at her lowest ebb that Federica received an anonymous note, delivered by hand through her letterbox like an epistle from Heaven.

You shall be free indeed when your days are not without a care nor your nights without a want and a grief

But rather when these things girdle your life and yet you rise above them naked

She turned the note over in search of a further note explaining whom it was from. But there was nothing. Just a simple piece of white paper with the verse typed onto it. She sat down and read it again. She didn’t recognize it. She read it again slowly, thinking very carefully about each word. Whoever had sent it obviously wanted to help her, but remain anonymous at the same time. There was only one person she knew of who would have reason to hide his identity. Her heartbeat quickened and the adrenaline pumped through her veins awakening senses that had grown sluggish with sorrow. Ramon Campione. It could only be from her father. How typical of him to send an anonymous note. He had never announced himself. He had always just turned up unexpectedly. It had driven her mother mad, but it was his way. Then the content of the note was also very much his style. She remembered his stories, sometimes mystical, often spiritual. The turn of phrase was reminiscent of his own poetry, but above all it was his philosophy. He had always risen so far above every care and grief, risen so high that they had no longer touched him. He had been unaffected by cares even when his own family’s cares and needs had driven

them away from him. He had let them go. Once he had cared for her. In fact, there had been a time when she had believed his love to be unconditional and everlasting. But she had been disappointed, bitterly disappointed. Perhaps this was a tentative plea for forgiveness. Maybe he was trying to explain himself and his carelessness. But she hadn’t seen him for years. Why was he suddenly thinking about her now? Where was he? How come he knew of her unhappiness? Why did he bother?

Later, when she lay in the darkness next to the distant body of her husband, she pondered on the note that she had hidden at the bottom of the butterfly box. Her father cared. He wouldn’t have sent the note if he didn’t care. She smiled to herself. He knew she was suffering and he wanted to help. The note was a clear instruction. She had to learn how to rise above her problems. The trick was not to let them get her down, to take control. It was all a state of mind. Her unhappiness was because she allowed life’s struggles to burden her. For the first time since her marriage she felt a twinge of excitement as she took the initial cautious step in regaining control. She was tired of being a victim, it was time to take a stand. She was going to go on a diet, enrol in a gym

and rise above her cares naked and unbound. But most importantly she wasn’t alone. Once more she felt the sun on her face and basked in her father's love.

Ramon sat down at his typewriter and began to write. He hadn’t attempted to write a book since the death of Estella which was now over three years ago. He had only written poems. Long poems of tormented verse, venting his pain and his regret in each carefully written line. He hadn’t left Chile, preferring to stay with his son and near Estella’s grave where he would often go to feel close to her, although his reasoning told him that she wasn’t in the ground but in the realm of spirit. He had watched with pride as his son had begun to write his feelings down in a diary. Sometimes they would sit on the beach and Ramoncito would read to him the lines he had composed about his mother. They were at first faltering, often clumsy, as he seemed impatient to release a grief that saw no other avenue of escape. But little by little he had refined his style, taken more time and begun to produce poems of great clarity and beauty. Ramon was touched. ‘Mama will be so proud of you, Ramoncito,’ he’d say, ruffling his hair with his hand.

‘How will she know?’ the boy would ask.

‘Because she can see you, my son,’ he would reply, confident that she was with them in spirit. ‘Because love has no boundaries.’

It hadn’t been easy for either of them. But while Ramoncito was distracted by his school friends and his schoolwork, his father was left alone to wallow in self-pity in the house on the beach where everything reminded him of Estella. Sometimes in the summer, the heavy scent of roses would rise up on the air and waff in through the window to hijack his senses. He would awaken from his dreams believing she was there, lying next to him, ready to caress him with her honey eyes and gentle smile. It was in those tormented moments that he felt the urge to sob like a child, clutch her pillow to his face and breathe in the memories that clung to the linen. So he had turned on the light and written his feelings down. Those poems had saved his sanity. They had also changed his life.

Ramon had learnt, through the intense scrutiny of his emotions, why he had run away all his life. First from his parents, then from Helena, then from his children and finally from Estella. He had run away from love. Love had terrified him. As long as he was on his own, far away from the people who cared about him, he was safe from the suffocating intensity of their love. The responsibility

had been too heavy for him to carry. So he had enjoyed their love from a distance, returning every now and then to check it was still there before breaking away again before it overwhelmed him. His intentions had always been good. He had suffered regret when he had watched Helena and the children walk out of his life, when he had travelled to England to find Federica crying in the porch of the church because she missed him, when he had seen her that afternoon on the bicycle, squinting into the sun. He had suffered terribly because he loved them. But he had also been afraid of his own capacity to love. He had run from that too. But Estella had been different. At first he had run from her like he had run from Helena. But Estella had loved him without wanting to possess him. She had loved him enough to give him his freedom. Her love had been pure and unselfish. Without realizing it he had learnt from her love. It was because of this lesson that he had decided to write a book, not for publication, but for Helena. An allegory with a hidden message. He wanted her to know why he had run from her. He wanted her to learn too from Estella’s undemanding love.

 

Sam sat on the top of the cliff and gazed out onto a sea that never changed,

whatever the season. The winter frosts painted the grass-topped cliffs with icy fingers, froze the rivers and streams, yet the sea stayed the same. It could be rough, it could be calm, but it was never dictated to by the seasons. It belonged to itself.

Nuno had belonged to himself. He had never been influenced by anybody. Sam missed him. The house continued to reverberate with his presence and they all still talked about him as if he were alive, retelling stories of the funny things he had said and the odd things he had done. Inigo had given his study to Sam. Sam had been so touched he had wept. His father had patted him firmly on the back and told him that he could do with it whatever he wanted. But Sam had kept it exactly the same. Ingrid was touched that he wanted to keep her father’s memory alive in the one room in the house that had truly been his. Sam had cleared the desk, placing all Nuno's pieces of paper with illegible notes scrawled in his hand across them, into a couple of boxes in order not to throw anything away. Then he had gone through his drawers. It was there that he had come across a yellowing book of Kahlil Gibran’s
The Prophet.
It was a book he knew well. Nuno had often quoted from it and had given Sam a copy for his confirmation - indeed he had quoted from it at his funeral. But

there was something deeply touching about Nuno’s own private copy because he had written down his thoughts and ideas in the margins. However, it was the accompanying letter that inspired him.