Butterfly Winter (18 page)

He took Quita Garza in his arms and the heat she radiated through her thin clothing disoriented him even more. Her lips were soft and easily parted, and as they kissed she clung to him with a ferocity he had not anticipated. He thought of easing her down onto the scorched grass of the hilltop, imagined the silhouette their bodies would make against the declining sun.

BUT THEIR PASSION WAS INTERRUPTED
by the softest of sounds: birds seemed to hush, the wind surrender. The sky darkened even more as the wild spiral of golden and black butterflies came into view, an onrushing endless train hurtling overhead, hundreds of feet in the air.

“I want to follow them,” whispered Quita, staring up into the velvet movements of a million wings. And Julio, gazing with love into the girl’s long face and luminous eyes, could deny her nothing. She
took his hand and they trooped along the spine of the hill. The river of butterflies soon arched from horizon to horizon.

All the remainder of that day, and all the next, the conduit of butterflies flowed over Courteguay like an orangeade rainbow.

On the ground, Julio and Quita followed along; they left the city behind, crossed the flatlands to the foothills, and began a slow climb toward the timberline, where the air was calm and sweet.

When they arrived at the butterfly forest, millions of the silken-winged creatures were already covering the evergreens on the edge of the timberline. Millions more were arriving, seeking rejuvenation after their long flight over the ocean. There was such a profusion that their wing beats could be heard; the draft from these fluttering snippets tousled Quita’s long, reddish-brown hair.

Julio and Quita watched, enthralled.

“The wings of those on the trees are closed like hands at prayer,” said Quita.

“Do not give them so much credit,” said Julio.

“Can you fly home from America on your own wings?”

“I cannot,” he admitted. “Can you find it in your heart to love a man who cannot fly?”

When she didn’t answer, Julio took her hand, which was dry and cool, and pulling her close to him kissed her. She responded, her tongue sweet and warm, exploring his lips and teeth, like a butterfly itself.

The arriving butterflies blotted out the sun as they hovered, searching for a place to land. Though it was midafternoon, their gentle shadows dispelled the violent heat of the day, and it became comfortable as evening. Julio undid the single button at the back of Quita’s dress, and she helped him pull her arms out. She unbuttoned Julio’s shirt, and suddenly her tiny breasts were against his chest, burning like hot coins. Julio bent his head and her nipples tasted salty; she smelled of new rope, of tanned leather, and of the dark nasturtiums.

“I want you to know that I am not a virgin,” Quita said, as Julio pulled her down beside him in the sun-sweet grass beneath the butterfly trees.

“Unimportant,” said Julio.

“Whenever he feels it necessary, my stepfather sells me to his friends, or to strangers,” she insisted.

Julio covered her mouth with his. Swallowing the last of her words, he fitted their bodies together, locking them in passion, two puzzles completed by a single action.

“I have never made sex for love,” Quita whispered, much later, their bodies still deliciously entwined. “I never thought I would. Now I know why couples moan in the night.”

“I am glad my father did not have daughters when he was very poor. He would have been tempted, I’m afraid,” said Julio. “But I am rich, and at home for four months, and I promise you will never be touched again, except in love.…”

“Oh, look,” said Quita, for a butterfly had landed on her right arm near the elbow. Both her arms were locked about Julio’s neck. He was still inside her, their bodies sleek and sweet with their blended sweat, their mouths ripe with the tastes of each other.

Then another, and another of the gentle butterflies landed on Quita’s arm. Wings closed, they were no thicker than two thin swatches of silk.

“My back,” said Julio. “I can feel them on my back.”

Quita raised her head and peeked over Julio’s shoulder.

“They have woven us a blanket for the night,” she said. “There must be ten thousand of them on your back. Feel their warmth.”

As she spoke, thousands more butterflies covered the couple with their gentle color.

“Do they have hearts?” whispered Quita.

“I feel them beating like a million pinpoints,” said Julio.

All that evening the shimmering butterflies continued to arrive until they had covered every inch of the lovers; only the places where they were joined in passion and in love were not cloaked in black and gold. They looked like a burnt-orange sculpture in some erotic museum.

“They will fall and die if we move,” said Quita.

“Then we won’t distress them,” said Julio, as again he covered her mouth with his, and as he did, butterflies settled on their closed eyelids.

And there they stayed, down all the long, silken days of their butterfly winter, Quita and Julio, entwined in love, secure under the sleek blanket of butterflies, waiting for spring.

D
id Octavio Court actually exist? This was a question the Gringo Journalist asked himself many times. Courteguayans could be appallingly vague when asked questions they didn’t want to answer. “Ah, yes, Octavio Court,” they would say. “A great man.” Then, they would ramble off on some tangent or other and the Gringo Journalist would find himself being told the history of the mango, or how a mysterious American brought baseball to Courteguay.

History books, he discovered, were less than helpful. The Gringo Journalist knew that history is written from many different perspectives, none telling the whole story, most imparting only biased half-truths at the best.

Translated from the
Encyclopedia of the Republic of Courteguay
:

THERE FOLLOWED TWENTY PAGES
of what the Gringo Journalist thought of as speculative fiction. He had once read a supposed biography of St. Ann, the supposed mother of the Virgin Mary, a 200+ page book that contained no facts, nothing to substantiate that such a person as St. Ann ever existed. The remainder of the information on Octavio Court was much the same.
Octavio Court probably
was a favorite way of beginning a sentence.

The Gringo Journalist consulted other sources.

Translated from the
Encyclopedia of the Dominican Republic
:

From the
Book of Haitian History and Religion
:

An ambiguous statement if the Gringo Journalist ever heard one.

L
ike a true Wizard I am able to be in more than one place at a time. Being omniscient is one of the first requisites for being a Wizard, though it has taken years of practice and I have not always been so endowed. I am what is known in literary circles as an unreliable narrator. I will tell you the truth and history of Courteguay, but it is your ear that hears my tales, your mind that must decide which is truth and which is history. The people of Courteguay, if they are anything besides baseball fanatics, are liars. It is in the blood. This Gringo Journalist who follows me around like flypaper heard the tale of my being murdered by a perpetual loser named Cecilio Escadero, but since he had interviewed me before he heard the tale and found me quite alive he discounted it. He forgot that he was in Courteguay.

The visiting journalist has good intentions. I give him full credit. He has made a valiant attempt to ascertain the facts. He is at this very moment in San Barnabas, ensconced in a second-class hotel sorting through his notes and tapes. He has spent four months in Courteguay researching the History of Courteguay, in spite of the fact that his home country, the United States, where he is considered a successful
author and is revered as much as a writer can be in a country that does not value its artists, has refused to fund his visit to Courteguay. During his stay he has researched (a) the History of Courteguay, (b) the history of baseball in Courteguay, (c) my life story, (d) the story of Julio and Esteban Pimental the most famous baseball players exported by our country, (e) the life and times of Dr. Lucius Noir.

He thinks he knows what has happened. He has conducted interviews with anyone who will talk with him. He has tried to hire someone to guide him into the wilderness to a camp where it is rumored that a group of insurgents led by the late Dr. Lucius Noir are holed up. I personally have prevented him from doing so. He is a nice young man, more than a little naive. And though I am certain Dr. Noir is dead, what if I am wrong? Dr. Noir might hold this young man against his will, or worse.

The Gringo Journalist, unfortunately, has university training. He looks for things that do not exist, in places that hold no secrets. Explanations are usually simple. Take my murder. I owed Cecilio Escadero one thousand guilermos.

I didn’t have it. I would probably never have it. Wouldn’t have paid him if I did have it. I have an undeserved reputation for welshing on bets. What I told Cecelio was: “If there is any blame here it lies with you for being gullible enough to bet with someone who is a self-admitted liar and cheat.”

One thousand guilermos was a fortune to Cecilio Escadero. To me it was nothing. I didn’t have it to begin with so it meant little to lose it.

“It is all a matter of attitude,” I tried to explain to Cecilio. “If I had won I would immediately have bet again and probably lost. And I would have had no money to pay my debt. Instead I lost my first bet so I saved myself a lot of trouble.”

Cecilio Escadero took out a revolver and shot me three times in the chest. He was so literal-minded and so lacking in humor. Especially after I came back to life.

THE FIRST TIME THE WIZARD
was murdered he was unprepared for the event. He was shot after declining to pay a gambling debt. His body was packed in cloves and his coffin displayed at the baseball grounds in San Cristobel for two days. On the third day, just before Esteban Pimental was to conduct the service and his body was to be carried to San Cristobel’s largest cemetery, the Wizard willed himself back to life. When he sat up in his coffin he frightened the entire student body of St. Vagabond Primary School, who had just finished singing a song mourning the Wizard, praising baseball, and guessing the numbers for that day’s pick-three lottery.

YOU SEE HOW IT IS
with us wizards. Reputation is everything. One resurrection and your credibility in the gambling community rises like a balloon.

W
hen Julio and Quita woke from their long, loving, butterfly winter, they walked hand in hand, down from the foothills and across the plain to San Barnabas, while the tunnel of butterflies spiraled above them.

“First I have something to show you,” Julio said to Quita. “I discovered it as a child exploring the hills by myself. Esteban was never much company except when playing baseball. He preferred to spend his time down at the compound discussing philosophy and religion with the priests behind the chain-link fences.”

Julio held Quita’s small hand in his and guided her between the banks of wild morning glories and plumeria toward what looked like a small swamp. The oval area was a bleak, bleached ivory color in contrast to the vivid green foliage and the startling reds and purples of the flowers.

“What is it?” asked Quita. She studied the scene for a moment. “It looks dead and scary.” The area in front of her might, in another less tropical country, pass for grass or grain, pale, unearthly stalks topped by gray, claw-like appendages, that could be mistaken for roots.