Virgin With Butterflies (15 page)

“You are good,” was all he said, and big tears came up into his eyes.

I couldn't say more then but when I was back in the plane I tried to think some more, but nothing much came of it.

Like I always do when I can't seem to think, I started planning. Only I couldn't do that very well because I didn't know where I was, how far it was from home or how I was going to get back there. So I did what I do when I can't either think or plan: I started remembering. That was something I didn't much like to do, but it couldn't be helped sometimes.

I remembered Pop and me sitting in the kitchen, him drinking a cup of coffee. Sunday night, it was, after he had worked all day on that scabbing job for Uncle Ulrich. Then he'd had to work all Sunday night nearly to get it done because we had to interrupt it to get him to the coroner's inquest on Dr. Harwood.

And there was Uncle Ulrich's gun at the inquest but Willie's fingerprints. Uncle Ulrich said, yes, it had been Willie's doing, that he just came into the shop while Dr. Harwood had been buying something. Uncle Ulrich testified that the boy just seemed to have a grudge, he guessed that's what it was, on account of the doctor giving evidence that was sure to go against Willie at his trial about the McComber girl.

So this night Pop had to stay late to finish building the killing pen for Uncle Ulrich, and I sat up in the kitchen to wait for him and keep the coffee hot. And I could hear Aunt Helga rocking in her room and Uncle Ulrich snoring in his room.

And then Pop come in the back way, so thin and pale under his eyes.

I made him drink his coffee and then we just sat there in the kitchen together, and there wasn't much we could say. But I was thinking, there was my brother hiding out somewhere, and every radio on every motorcycle in the state saying his name and age and what he had on. And Pop thinking the same. Then all of a sudden there Willie was at the window. He came inside the door and moved to the corner. I pulled the blind down just like I'd seen sisters or wives or mothers or sweethearts do in a thousand second features.

Willie wanted to talk to us, that's why he'd taken the chance and come back. He told us he went to the shop Saturday, going in the back way, to beg Uncle Ulrich to tell the truth about Darlene when his trial came up. And while he was begging Uncle Ulrich, somebody came past the window, and Uncle Ulrich said, “Get out of sight, quick.” Willie got behind the end of the big refrigerator room. Dr. Harwood came in, but the doctor started thanking Uncle Ulrich for the help he'd been to him getting off. Uncle Ulrich tried to stop him so Willie wouldn't hear. But Willie heard all right.

And he said it all came over him how he was being framed by Uncle Ulrich, so he took the gun that always stays on a little shelf by the cash drawer and he pointed it at Uncle Ulrich. The next thing he knew the doctor was on the floor and Uncle Ulrich was bending over him, so Willie got out the back door.

Well, I gave Willie quick what money I had in my purse, handed him a sandwich and made him finish his
coffee. He kissed me, and then he grabbed Pop and kissed him, too. I knew Willie would go now and maybe get away and we'd never see him again, and I was glad.

So I put the light out and I opened the door for him quietly, and then he ran out of the door right into the arms of Sheriff O'Conner.

So now on the plane over the Arabian Sea I just watched the glow of the sunset till it was night. And there was Coo with cool little slices of pickled melon that was a little sweet and a little salty and I says, “Hello, Coo.” And then there was Bill with strong black tea with mint in it and little crackers that tasted like rat-trap cheese, and I says, “Hello, Bill,” and he laughed in a squeak. And I settled back as the lights came on and the curtains were drawn and I felt rested and at home with these people that were so nice to me and wouldn't sell me, even for a fortune. I nibbled melon and sipped tea and slid down in my seat and slept like a baby till it was time for dinner.

That night when I was in bed I got to thinking again, and the more I tried not to, the more I did. Finally I stuck my head into Aunt Mary's berth and there she was writing with a little pen that had a little light on it.

“Aunt Mary,” I says, “I got to talk.”

“Talk away,” says Aunt Mary, and her little light went out.

“Well,” I says, “for the first time in my life I wish I had studied my geography better.”

“Why?” she says.

“Well, at least I would know where I am at.”

“The pilot's got a very stylish map you could study,
or I've got a smaller one. But if you're the girl I think you are,” she says, “you'll be happier if you don't look at any map at all.”

“What's Burma?” I says.

“It's a country.”

“Are there Japanese people in it?”

“Quite a lot.”

“Is there a town called Nagasaki in it?”

“No,” she says, “that's in Japan.”

“That's what I thought.”

“Go on,” she says.

“Well,” I says, “Mr. Bosco says he lives in Japan,” I says, “in a town called Nagasaki, but the prince told me Mr. Bosco is the richest man in Burma. How can a Japanese man that lives in Nagasaki be the richest man in Burma? And anyway I never want to worry you, but what are we doing traveling with a man from an enemy country,” I says, “two of whose countrymen were bluffing Washington while a lot of other Japanese countrymen were bombing the hell out of our Pearl Harbor,” I says, and I was sure surprised to find I was about to cry.

“Listen, dear child,” Aunt Mary says, “I am an American.”

“So what?” I says, sniffling.

“I am an American, but I've lived and worked most of my life in England and Europe,” she says. “And Mr. Bosco is like that, too. He's a Burmese.”

“He's a what?” I says.

“A Burmese who's lived for many years in Japan and who travels to South America once a year to look after his interests,” she says.

“You mean Mr. Bosco is not Japanese?”

“Mr. Bosco is not Japanese,” she says. “Why didn't you ask me long ago, or ask him?”

“I don't know,” I said, and I was so glad Mr. Bosco wasn't from Japan that I forgot all the other things I had wanted to ask Aunt Mary.

As I left her, she patted my hand. “We will soon have found out everything I came over from London to America to find out,” she says, “and I could never have done it at all without you.”

W
ELL, WE GOT TO
B
OMBAY
all right, after stopping at a couple of places, and I knew this was India as soon as I saw it. But I didn't know before how many English there were in India till I got there and saw.

I asked Aunt Mary, and she said England had to watch her step in India but I didn't know until later what she meant.

What a place! It was a mixture of clean and dirty, of parlors and cowsheds—a lot of cowsheds. For it seemed these round-shouldered cows were sacred, sort of, and they got treated better than anybody. Nobody could drive 'em or housebreak 'em. It sure showed me what Aunt Mary meant about what England had to watch.

In India there were many poor people and a lot of very rich people. I saw people carry things that I didn't think a mule would be able to.

My butterflies all went crazy and never stopped fluttering hardly a minute in any of the Indian cities I was in. They were only quiet when we got to the country where the prince and his papa and his brother all lived.

But first we went to Calcutta.

The prince and Mr. Bosco went off somewhere as
soon as we got there, I guess to the bank of the little old London lady. Aunt Mary told me the Bank of England is called the little old lady of Thread Needle Street, which is sure silly. And it's not because it's English, but because anybody ought to know that a great big bank sounds better as the First National or like that, than the little old lady of anything.

There were English newspapers in Calcutta and the war was awful.

Aunt Mary had to see a lot of English people all the time. Whenever we started out to a bazaar, we always ended up with some Englishmen that looked at me with eyes like bad little boys that would sure like to start something if their mothers hadn't made 'em promise not to.

When she was busy, Aunt Mary would find a nice young man with a face like a pink-and-white angel to talk to me so she could go in the other office with some other Englishman, and the young men they left me with seemed pretty silly I thought, never saying what they meant.

If they wanted to tell me about five thousand of the poor dying of the plague, or a riot with a lot of one kind of people cutting the hearts out of a lot of another kind of people of a different religion, they'd laugh and tell it, and then they'd say, “Rather a tidy little tea party that,” or “Quite a neat bit of a show, what?”

At first, I got kind of out of patience with 'em, but I soon found out that they were just being English and that's why they did it.

It's just that they were scared to say something to me that was so horrible I would never forget it, so they'd
say, “A priceless little quadrille if I ever saw one.” Those were the top-notch English that did that. The Cockneys are different, as I found out from one but I'll tell that when I come to it.

As I say, the English were like that, but at the time I'd never met one, so I had to get to understand 'em.

Once I got to know 'em, I found that they'd die for me, still talking that way, as if it was all just a “tidy little show, what?” Too shy to ever come out and say it like they mean it, and that's what makes England England, Aunt Mary says.

I know now she was right, because not two weeks later Captain Sir Rodney Carmichael—with his arm nearly cut off—sat with me in a little rubber boat somewhere not far from Australia and he had sure saved my life because whatever swimming Pop had taught me was no good to me in the Indian Ocean. Captain Sir Rodney Carmichael's left arm wasn't hardly on him at all, and I stopped the blood the way I had learned to when I had tried to help Willie become a Boy Scout, though he never did.

Well, after I stopped it with nearly all of the dress I had left on me twisted on a piece of the propeller that I found floating there, we sat in that little rubber square doughnut, in the broiling sun, and him laughing at what I said when I tried to talk about what was to become of us, if anything.

It's hard to believe it but he said it just like they all do, “After this jolly little picnic, we surely know each other well enough for you to begin calling me Roddy, what?”

So I knew Aunt Mary had been right, they can sure take it.

Well, that's the kind of Englishmen that gave me a dish of tea in Calcutta and they thought I was pretty funny and laughed a lot at what I said, and me at them just as much.

Finally at night we got to the prince's house in his own state. It was just like something I had seen once and hadn't ever forgotten. It was an old picture that got revived called
The Thief of Bagdad
.

There was a white palace in that. And here it was in the moonlight. It was as clean and quiet as I had hoped India might be before I saw it.

People came out and hugged Bill and Coo. And the prince and Mr. Bosco went off and I was sure they went to see the prince's brother.

Aunt Mary seemed nervous—it was the first time I had ever seen her like that. We sat in the shade of a big flat umbrella made of a flat piece of painted stone and drank something cool and sweet and she told me she was stumped. And for the first time she told me right out what we were really doing here. It sure gave me a turn.

We were here to watch the prince. That's why we had come on this long trip, because even though Aunt Mary had gotten to like him nearly as much as I did, she had to watch him and report on him because that was her business. And I found out she wasn't working for Mr. Hoover at all.

She never came right out and told me who she was working for, and maybe I never would have known if Lady Burroughs hadn't have told me what she did about the whole thing. But we didn't meet Lady Burroughs until we went to the prince's father's house and that
wasn't until the prince and Mr. Bosco came back from going to see his brother. They hadn't been able to see his brother because he wasn't home, and nobody would tell 'em where the prince's brother was at.

And now Aunt Mary was nervous because she had found out from some English friends she had had a get-together with in Calcutta that the prince was sure in deep, and the English kind of had the stuff on him, and his brother, too. They were both, it seemed, pretty bad boys, she said, and even though we had got to like him she was mighty afraid that Sir Gerald would do some arresting, and pretty quick. In fact she said she knew Sir Gerald meant to arrest the prince at his father's house.

“Who's Sir Gerald?” I says.

“He's an old friend of mine,” she says, “and he knows more about India than Gandhi does. Gerald is the typical fuddy-duddy,” she says, “but when it comes to action he always surprises me by being a man of it.”

“Of what?” I says.

“Of action,” she says, and then her eyes got gentle and she put her hand on mine. “Listen, child,” she says, “you've done a fine job, and I am deeply fond of you,” she says, “and what's worrying me now is that you are going to be hurt.”

“How?” I says.

“This is a hard-boiled game,” she says, “and I know you have grown to like Halla Bandah, and so have I. So be prepared,” she says, “for a shock when we get to his father's palace. For anything Sir Gerald does will have to be done quick, or it won't work. This is a military secret. But I know if I tell you it's safe.”

“Sure,” I says, but my heart felt tight and cold.

Well, like I said, Mr. Bosco and the prince finally got back, but the prince went right off again in a car, and Aunt Mary and me had dinner alone together.

The moon sure made the front yard of the palace look like a picture postcard. The front yard was about the size of Humboldt Park, and when Aunt Mary went to her room to write, I walked out in it. I walked farther and farther down some steps with stone railings cut out like lace, and finally I got to a little hill, and on the top of it was a little house that wasn't really a house because there weren't any walls to it, just a marble floor and a fountain and a roof.

So I climbed up the little hill by some broad flat steps, and then I saw there was somebody in the little house, and I started to go away again.

“Don't go,” says a voice that I knew.

“Mr. Bosco,” I says, “what are you doing out here?”

“I am looking at the moon,” he says. “What are you doing?”

“Oh, Mr. Bosco,” I says, “I'm sure glad to see you.”

“Me, too,” he says.

“I want to ask your pardon,” I says.

“Granted,” he says.

“No, wait,” I says. “I thought you were from Japan.”

“Granted,” says Mr. Bosco.

“Listen,” I says, “I know the prince and his brother are in cahoots,” I says.

“Where is that?” he says.

“That means they must do everything together, see?”

“That is English?” he says.

“Maybe it's Swedish, but that's what it means,” I says.

“I see,” he says, “you are right, they are in cahoots.”

“And you know what they are up to,” I says.

“I only know,” he says, “that the prince's brother has many men. All of his soldiers make a fine orchard. Many men made for prince's brother a beautiful big orchard, but they cut down all the trees and made a great flat place, big, for orchard, but no fruit trees in sight. What kind of trees do you think they're gonna be?”

“Maybe,” I says, “nice cherry trees, like what we had in Washington. But I guess by now they changed the name of these trees, like German fried potatoes in the last war. You guess maybe that's what the prince's brother is waiting for? Nice cherry trees from way off?”

“Granted,” says Mr. Bosco.

“Listen,” I says, “when are we going to visit the prince's father? He said he was going to take me.”

“Tomorrow night we go to dinner,” he says.

“Tomorrow night?” I says. “Will the prince's brother be there, too?”

“I don't think so,” says Mr. Bosco. “Since we got here, Halla Bandah has looked everywhere for his brother. He has gone now again to try and find him.”

“I wish I could ask if you know a lot of things, Mr. Bosco.”

“Better not to ask if I know what you know,” he says, “because you promised Aunt Mary not to tell.”

“Mr. Bosco,” I says, “you're wonderful.”

“Granted,” he says and off he went.

I went back to the palace, and there was Aunt Mary strolling up and down in the moonlight.

“Hello,” she says.

“Hello,” I says, but I didn't feel like talking and pretty soon we went to bed.

My room had a high narrow window with stone lace around the top and a balcony outside. When I was nearly asleep I heard a car slide on its brakes and stop. I listened, and the car went away. Everything was as quiet as I had hoped India would be when I was in Africa. And then I heard a match strike outside of the window. Then it was quiet again like before.

I couldn't stand it so I got up and put on my slippers and my wrapper and I tiptoed over to the window. The balcony kept me from looking straight down, so I stepped out on it so I could. And there down below me stood the prince smoking a cigarette with his back to me.

“Hello,” I says quietly, “is anything the matter?”

“Yes,” he says, “I was wishing you were awake.”

“Well, you got your wish,” I says.

“Can we talk?” he says.

“I'll be right down,” I says, and I went in and twisted my hair up and put on stockings and shoes. My wrapper was white crepe and had a lot of wraparound and a belt. So I just opened the door and went down the steps. He was standing at the bottom waiting for me.

“I want to talk where no one will hear,” he says.

“I know a place,” I says.

“Good,” he says. And I went outside and started for the little house where I had met Mr. Bosco, and the prince caught up and walked with me till we got there and sat down.

“You are wise,” he says. “You have taught me very much.”

“How?” I says.

“You gave me words of wisdom about my brother. You say the oath can be broken.”

“I didn't mean to butt in,” I says.

“You are wise, like my father,” he says. “Tomorrow we go to see my father.”

“Who will be there?” I says.

“Some English,” he says, “will be there. Lady Burroughs,” he says, “and her husband.”

“What's his name?” I says.

“General Sir Gerald Burroughs,” he says. And in my stomach just one little butterfly begun to flutter.

“Did you find your brother?” I says.

“I could not,” he says, “but I have sent him a message to meet me tomorrow night at the house of my father.”

“Golly,” I says.

“What?” he says.

“Nothing.”

“On the way to my father's house I would like you to see the temple,” he says.