The Dreams of the Black Butterfly Read online

  “Pachamama! I have it!” Moises cried in disbelief, as he pulled the net towards him and fell to the ground, holding it down so the butterfly could not escape. He unscrewed the long pole and tossed it into the undergrowth. “I have it!” he repeated. It was unbelievable. He looked around as if to find someone to verify what had just happened. He shook his head, laughed a little, felt a scream rising in his throat. The insect began to flap so he held the net a little tighter, cooing as if he were tending to a fussing infant. Moises pulled out the other half of the capture net from his shoulder bag and slid it under the open end of the net between ground and butterfly. He snapped the catches on the frame and sat back. Tension left him in a shaky sigh.

  Behind him, the other butterflies settled back to the mud and the noises of la selva seemed to resume the usual pattern in his ears. The giant insect in his net had folded its wings and was still, as if finally accepting its capture. Moises pulled at the net to give the creature some room to move inside. He stared absently into the trees for a moment and shook his head. What he had done was sacrilege. What he intended to do was even worse. There was a prepared syringe in his bag. He gripped the butterfly’s wings gently between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, and with his right, pushed the syringe through the net towards the creature’s abdomen. His thumb hovered behind the depressor. Moises had never considered this moment in any detail before now, maybe because he hadn’t really believed it would come to pass. Now, he realised that his heart didn’t seem strong enough for such a crime against Mama Selva, even if it might be for the good of the jungle in the long run.

  With a grunt he willed himself to push down his thumb.

  He was paralysed. He just couldn’t. He needed more time to think.

  As he was removing the syringe from the net, his head filled with a mixture of relief and failure, a huge, hollow crack resounded through the forest behind him. He dropped the net and turned just in time to see a 60-foot barrigona tree cut his tambo in half. The walls opened like a V and collapsed as the splintered roof beams spun away in all directions. A cloud of bark dust and dry leaves rose from the impact and hung in the air for a few moments. From beneath the wreckage there was the feeble cry of something trapped and dying and then a relative quiet descended upon the area. A spider monkey came out of the mess, moving along the fallen trunk cautiously. It gave Moises a quick glance, skipped onto a nearby tree and ran back up to the canopy.

  Moises stared at the destruction. If it had fallen ten minutes earlier, he would have been under there, a banquet for the ants. What did it mean? He lowered his head and closed his eyes, muttered a brief prayer. When he opened them again he turned quickly, picked up the net and gripped the butterfly as he had before. Before his nerve faltered, he pierced the insect’s thorax and emptied the ethyl acetate solution into it. The butterfly flapped frantically in response and Moises felt a sting in his hand; he had been scratched by the net or the insect somehow. He sat down on a tree root and sucked at the nick in his thumb. The insect became still.

  “Lo siento mi hermano,” Moises whispered and his mud-caked face soaked up the tears like a dry riverbed.

  On the journey back to the boat, his thoughts were consumed with one thing: examining the butterfly to check it was as special as Hawthorne had heard. But the microscope was far away.

  The sweat bees swarming around his boots finally dispersed as he approached the banks of the Yanayacu. Moises took off his cap and scratched his sweat-drenched head as he surveyed the darkening sky. During the past week the bloated clouds, split by lightening, had gushed short, heavy bursts on la selva as if warning of the coming deluge. The rains were late this year. They would be here soon.

  He stepped into the canoe and scanned the far bank, picking at the shadows for any danger. He saw only a flock of nunbirds and the solemn, white face of a monk saki studying him from high in the trees.

  It would feel much safer on the river; at least he could see what was coming out there. He put on his sunglasses and took out the CD Walkman that Hawthorne had brought him back from Lima. He had three CDs, two that Hawthorne had bought him from a second-hand shop and one he had been given by Miss Gallo. Moises took them from his backpack and chose the one with Mary Poppins on the cover.

  Moises fired the engine, guiding the light, long boat out onto the dirty water and the orchestra began to play in his ears. The jungle’s green walls rushed past him and he sang along to the music in a spirited falsetto, guessing at the lyrics. Soon, the narrow river opened out and a lake appeared on his right. Pink river dolphins played at the inlet and a cloud of brilliant-white egrets took flight at the buzz of his 55 HP motor, flying right across the bow of the aluminium vessel.

  It was two hours before he saw any humans. A motor launch filled with illegal loggers passed by, heading upstream. The men gazed at him impassively, chainsaws and guns resting casually in their laps. It was rare to see them at this time of year. They worked mostly during the rainy season when more of the reserve was accessible, cutting the rare cedar and mahogany and sending huge barges of logs down the rivers to be sold overseas. Most loggers were so heavily armed that the rangers were reluctant to challenge them. Besides, this was la selva de los espejos – the jungle of mirrors: an ancient maze of rivers and vast lakes that was impossible to police properly, even if someone had wanted to. Moises had noticed that in the last couple of years, the loggers had seemed bolder and more frequent with their incursions. Sometimes, when at one of his posts, he would hear their chainsaws and the hate and frustration he felt crippled his thoughts for a while.

  He reached the wider water of the Rio Samiria and felt a surge of hope course through his body. Maybe he would make it after all. Occasionally he passed river taxis or other boys under the employ of Emerald Earth. They chugged along in their llevo-llevos, raising their hands in greeting as he did, like a reflection across the water. He changed the CD in his Walkman, switching to Stevie Wonder, and pushed the boat harder, watching the prow slice through the white glass that stretched ahead of him. I must make Prado by nightfall, he warned himself. His thoughts died in the heat, boiled away until there was just the bitter concentration of his fear: Señor Dollie.

  It was fear that told Moises to push on to Iquitos, to catch a flight to anywhere and find the safety of distance before studying the butterfly. But he could never leave Mama Selva. Hadn’t she given him life? Didn’t her trees still embrace his family’s spirits? The boy’s hand shook on the tiller as he guided the boat around the logs spinning slowly in the deep current. He considered his options. The only chance to look at the creature would be at Prado, where he had Hawthorne’s equipment to hand.

  Why not just take it to Dollie and collect the reward? The question skipped into his mind before he could stop it. What difference would it make? Hawthorne was gone, his brother, his parents … Moises turned his head and spat violently into the passing water. He fished in his shorts and pulled out a matchbox, took out the used piece of gum inside and popped it into his mouth, chewing loudly. He immediately felt a little calmer.

  He would not give the black butterfly to Dollie.

  And he would not run.

  Iquitos still tempted him, though. Moises longed to be back at the Plaza de Armas, buying an ice cream cone from the heladería then crossing the road to eat it in the cool mist from the fountain. Yet another ritual, formed during meetings with his tutor Hawthorne, a gringo twice his age, who had originally come to Peru during the gold boom of the mid-nineties. Hawthorne was a tall, bony man with thick, curly, red hair and very pink skin, which never adjusted to the sun. He always smiled too quickly when other people spoke, as if he knew much more than they did and their ignorance amused him. The smile he used for Moises was quite different.

  It was almost a year to the day that Moises had met the Englishman in Iquitos for the last time. They met on the main street of the waterfront, the Malecon Maldonado, thei
r greetings lost in the growl of hundreds of three-wheeled moto-cars. The pitiless sun was almost at its height, fermenting the thick, grimy air beneath the colonial ironwork of the buildings. Hawthorne took Moises to the ‘Dawn on the Amazon Café’ for an early lunch. They sat at a small table under the large, white awning outside.

  “The burgers are very good here, why don’t you try one for a change?”

  Moises nodded vigorously, his head down over the menu, as if the decision would be tough and needed much consideration.

  “It’s your lucky day, Mo,” whispered Hawthorne.

  Moises looked up as his favourite waitress arrived to take their order.

  “Good morning, Gabriella. How are you today?”

  The young girl gave Hawthorne a thin smile and took out her pen. “Good, thank you. What can I get for you?”

  Moises watched the beads of sweat trembling on the swell of Gabriella’s cleavage as the Englishman ordered. When she turned to him, he looked down and muttered his order. “Tacacho con cecina por favor.”

  Hawthorne shook his head in disgust. “How long have you worked here, Gabriella?”

  “Three years.”

  The Englishman leaned across and patted Moises’s hand on the table. “You hear that, Mo? Three years.” He leaned back and gave the girl one of his infuriating smiles. “That’s a long time.”

  “I will be leaving in the spring,” she said quickly.

  Moises looked up.

  “Where to?” asked Hawthorne.

  She pointed out into the sun-bleached sky. “La luna.”

  Hawthorne sat up. “Really? For one of the mining companies?”

  She nodded.

  “But what will you be doing up there?”

  Gabriella put her pen back in her breast pocket. “I don’t know. They tell me when I get there.”

  “I think we know what she will be doing,” Hawthorne remarked as the girl returned to the kitchen. He turned to Moises. “You are running out of time with that one, Mo.” And when he got no reply: “Bananas and pork again? You are just like those monkeys in the jungle, your routine never changes does it?”

  She came back with two Iquiteña beers. Hawthorne chugged back half a bottle and burped loudly. He smiled. “Have you really never had a girl?”

  Moises shook his head.

  “You never will either if you don’t speak to them. It is the first requirement.”

  As if to reinforce the point, Gabriella laughed as she took an order at a nearby table. Moises watched with a feeling of utter helplessness. His dreams were like tight knots in his chest, impossible to unravel.

  The man and the boy finished their meal with a wedge of potent chocolate pisco cake and sat in silence for a while, content to watch moto-cars weave perilously through the dense traffic along the boulevard. Gabriella brought them beers whenever they ran low. Moises never tired of that wonder: an ice-cold bottle, its condensation dribbling over his fingertips.

  At about two o’clock, a group of three men and one woman came into the cafe and sat down at the only large, six-seat table under the awning. Many people had tried to sit there since Moises and Hawthorne arrived and had been moved by the café owner. He appeared now and was very attentive to the group as he seated them. Only one of the men was Peruvian. The other two and the woman were gringos. She was as short as Moises and wore a loose, white blouse and khaki shorts, her brown hair cut in a bob. She removed her mirrored sunglasses as she sat down and smiled at the café owner.

  Moises whistled quietly. Hawthorne had been watching the group, too. He turned and smiled at the boy.

  “What’s up with you?”

  A man appeared from the street with a large camera and there was much discussion. Eventually he took a number of photographs of the group with the café owner, then some more of the woman on her own. The flash popped repeatedly, tiny lightning flashes under the awning’s gloom bringing attention from the street.

  “Paparazzi, Moises; we have the famous among us today it seems.”

  Things quickly quietened down when the photographer left. The crowd of people at the entrance lost interest, not knowing who the woman was, and moved on.

  “Está muy buena,” Moises whispered; the table area outside was small and they were very close to the group.

  “I don’t know … Do you think she is more beautiful than Gabriella?” Hawthorne shrugged. “You are invisible to both of them.”

  The famous woman had a sandwich and an iced coffee, and spent the next hour in deep discussion with the men at her table. One of the gringos seemed to be translating between her and the local. At one point, Hawthorne sighed and pushed his chair back. “Well, if you are going to stare at her all afternoon, we better find out who she is.”

  Moises made to stop the Englishman, but he was too late. He saw the shock on the woman’s face when Hawthorne reached her table and when her big eyes met his, he looked down at the table cloth. He didn’t look back up until Hawthorne returned.

  “She is called Natalie and she is a South African pop star, here supporting a charity of some sort that helps women who lose their babies in childbirth. And she is even more beautiful close up, if you like that sort of thing.”

  By mid-afternoon, they were very drunk.

  “Come on, let’s go, Romeo.” Hawthorne threw some notes on the table and staggered towards the street.

  Moises followed reluctantly and as he passed the woman’s table he turned his head away from it, feeling his pulse quicken. He heard his name and turned, thinking he had imagined the woman’s voice making the shape of it. But he hadn’t, she was out of her seat, moving around the table towards him.

  “Hi, Moises,” she said, holding out her hand. “Do you speak English?”

  Moises blushed as he shook it. “Si, some English.”

  She laughed a little, showing straight, dazzling teeth and dimples formed on her cheeks. “Your father said you were a fan. Thank you so much.”

  Moises nodded. His tongue lay like a corpse in his open mouth.

  “I wondered if you’d like this, if you don’t have it already, that is?” She offered him a CD with her face on the cover.

  Moises took it and looked into her eyes. They were grey-blue, like the sky in the moments just before dawn.

  “Gracias … I don’t, I mean thank you … gracias.”

  She laughed again and shook his hand. “Nice to meet you.” As she turned away from him the sun caught her eyes and they flashed a clean, iridescent blue, now like the wings of a Blue Morpho.

  The fountain at the Plaza de Armas was busy. The smell of Turtle stew and barbecued bananas swirled in the hot air, while bands played in the road, competing energetically for any spare centimos the tourists might have. The edge of the fountain was knotted with people eating ice cream. Above them, the street lamps hung like yellow fruit under a canopy of jagged palms. Moises sat at the water’s edge, the cool spray peppering his skin, while Hawthorne stood over him making a scene. He flung out his arms.

  “Moises loves this wretched island Iquitos, the only city in the whole godforsaken world you can’t drive out of …”

  Moises smiled half-heartedly, his thoughts elsewhere.

  Hawthorne raised his voice. “… a city floating on the piss of its inhabitants.”

  “Si,” Moises laughed, nibbling around the edges of his cone.

  “You are the only boy I know who prefers the trees to the buildings, who prefers painting pictures to drinking. Me, I prefer to do both, which may explain the quality of my work.”

  “This is possible,” Moises said.

  The Englishman ruffled the boy’s hair. “You have a little talent I guess, but you are no Chagall or Jose De la Barra.” He sat and lit a cheroot carefully, before blowing a cloud up into the lilac sky. “Have you real
ly fallen in love with that singer we met? I thought she was feeble-looking and far too old for you.”

  Moises smiled, his eyes flashing in the sodium light from the heladería across the road.

  Hawthorne became serious. “Listen, I need your help with something.”

  “Okay.”

  “The Yaguas have a story about the black butterfly, don’t they? You should know this; you are a bastard Indian after all.”

  Moises rolled his eyes. Hawthorne’s cigar flared like sulphur in the dwindling light. “Tell it to me, not the tourist version … but the way your people understand it.”

  “Yana Wawa is a–”

  “Yana Wawa? What does that mean? Black …?”

  “Hija … erm …”

  “Daughter?”

  “Si, she is black daughter, a mountain spirit that went down into la selva thousands of years ago. She was punished for this; now she must serve la selva until the day when all the trees have fallen.” Moises shrugged.

  Hawthorne opened his hands. “Is that it?”

  “It is said that if you capture Yana Wawa, she will tell you some great secrets about this world. But … if you listen, you must replace Yana Wawa and stay in la selva until it falls or until someone finds you and listens to your stories.”

  Hawthorne shook his head. “That’s something like I heard.” He looked around him quickly, as if scared of being overheard. “It’s nonsense.”

  Moises threw away the rest of his cone. Something about the way Hawthorne looked was making him nervous. “It is legend,” he said, as if that explained everything.

  “Could it be true?”

  “Only Pachamama knows.”

  “I think Dollie knows, too, and he’s a lunatic.”

  They sat at the kitchen table in Hawthorne’s apartment just off the plaza and shared some marijuana. Hawthorne spent an hour telling Moises everything he had overheard about the black butterfly and then went through the books he had on microscopy.