Julie's Butterfly (6 page)

Julie took another photo, then grinned at Bastian. “This is fun.”

He smiled. “I know.”

Julie snapped a few more shots of the hideous blue floral lamp before moving it over to the table. She absently tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she examined the lamp.

“What on earth can I write about this abomination?” she murmured to herself. She was so focused on the lamp that she was unaware of Bastian’s presence until he moved. She took a deep breath in an effort to calm her racing heart.

“How about this? Exquisite lampshade with hand-embroidered Baroque flower appliqué on a high-quality base of the finest pure-white porcelain,” he suggested.

Julie giggled. “That’s really much too nice for this hideous thing.” She went to her laptop and swiftly typed in Bastian’s proposed caption. “If I’d known you were capable of coming up with such creative descriptions for these gruesome things, I’d have roped you in sooner.”

“It’s not so gruesome,” Bastian remarked, amused, as he returned to his place behind the camera. “It’s not as bad as that vase with the contorted cat.”

“Or the Mayan statue,” recalled Julie with a shudder. “That certainly would have gotten an F in art class.”

Bastian scratched his chin thoughtfully. “And what grade shall we give this shining example?”

“Let’s see . . . C minus,” she said, grinning.

For the first time, Bastian returned her smile.

C
HAPTER
9

“You can’t be serious.” Julie stopped short and stared at Bastian suspiciously. “
Fight Club
is a masterpiece!”

Bastian grinned from behind the camera. “I swear I haven’t seen it.”

“How can you claim to be a movie buff?”

“I never did.”

“Oh, really? A man who can quote movies from so many different genres without batting an eyelid is someone who knows his stuff.” Her eyes sparkled as she watched Bastian.

It all began with a small jewelry box that looked like a miniature version of the Ark of the Covenant. Julie had opened the box and looked wide-eyed at Bastian.

“ ‘Don’t look at it, no matter what happens!’ ” she warned him. He looked at her with an annoyed expression on his face but broke into laughter when Julie pulled the box out. He knew she was quoting Indiana Jones from
Raiders of the Lost Ark
.

“We’re only missing the staff,” he remarked drily.

Julie giggled.

That was the start of a lively debate over the best movies in cinematic history, one that had been liberally peppered with quotes from the films. To Julie’s surprise, Bastian could hold his own in any genre—until they got to
Fight Club
.

“Is that everything?” asked Bastian, looking around.

“Yes, we’re done.”

Bastian began to unplug his camera from the cables. “So what’s
Fight Club
about?”

“Hmm. It’s about a lonely man who convincingly illustrates the materialistic nature of society. He has everything, yet nothing. He ultimately goes to pieces for that reason,” explained Julie as she sealed up the last box. “One day he meets Tyler, and they form this
fight club
together. He uses the pain and the fights as a kind of safety valve, as a form of self-help.”

Bastian stopped what he was doing and looked at her. “Self-help?” he asked.

“Feeling you’re alive through an awareness of your vulnerability and ultimately your mortality.”

“That doesn’t make much sense to me.”

“People have strong but conflicting feelings about it. Some find it brutal and say it glorifies violence. Others see it as a deeply critical work that reflects the struggle against mainstream values.” She placed the box on the shelf and turned back to him. “The acting is excellent,” she added, leaning easily against the table. “I highly recommend it.”

“I’ll make a note of it.” Bastian rolled up the screen and dismantled the legs, then looked up at her. “I’ve never met anyone who knows so much about movies. How do you know all that?”

Julie shrugged. “No idea. Some people love books, others love football. I just really like to watch a good movie.” She took a step forward. “Wait, I’ll give you a hand.”

“No, thanks. I’m more or less done,” he said. He slid the screen legs into one another and winced. He swore under his breath.

“Everything OK?” asked Julie.

His expression darkened. “Excuse me a moment,” he said stiffly and left the room.

Julie watched him uneasily. After laughing so much over the past few hours, she’d let herself feel a fragile sense of hope, at least that they’d see each other again.

But when he returned, he was like a different man. The old coldness was back in his eyes, and his bearing was tense. He packed away his last few bits of equipment and carried them out to his car without a word. She was afraid that he was about to drive off without even saying good-bye, but after what felt like an eternity, she heard his footsteps in the corridor.

She stood by the small table and zipped her bag shut.

“Have you got everything?” she asked when he appeared in the doorway.

“All done.”

“Good.” Julie fiddled nervously with the keys in her hand. “I thought maybe we could go get a drink or see a movie.”

He stared at her but said nothing.

“I don’t want to give you any false hope,” he said eventually. “You’re a really nice girl.”

Nice? Julie felt nauseous. How stupid could she be? Hadn’t he made his feelings quite clear at the opening and in her apartment?

Bastian shrugged apologetically.

“Take care . . . Julietta.” And with that, he turned and made for the door.

Julie stared after him. The gentle way he’d spoken her name made her doubt his words against her better judgment. And the sadness in his eyes had betrayed him as he turned away.

She watched him as he withdrew stiffly. His hands were clenched into fists, the black gloves stretching tightly over his fingers like fetters he was trying to break.

She listened to his footsteps echoing down the corridor.

She hurried after him.

“Give me your gloves!” she called, surprising herself. Even to her own ears, her request sounded totally insane. She had no idea what had come over her, but she sensed for some inexplicable reason that those gloves held the key to everything.

Bastian stopped by the warehouse door and turned to her. He narrowed his eyes incredulously. “I’m sorry?”

Julie gulped. “If I’m not your type, then you can’t possibly care what I think of you.” She waited a moment to give him the opportunity to contradict her. To her dismay, he did not. “So show me your hands,” she demanded.

“Why?” His casual tone was too strained to be believed.

Julie folded her arms belligerently. “I’d like to see them.”

“That’s absurd.”

“Is it?” She raised an eyebrow and smiled provocatively.

A moment’s tense silence reigned between them. In the harsh light of the warehouse, he looked like a cornered animal. She saw vulnerability and fear in his green eyes. His tense demeanor caused her to doubt herself, but it was too late now. She wanted to know what he was hiding.

“As you wish,” he hissed. He removed one glove, then the other, jutting out his chin defiantly. There was a despair in his eyes that almost broke her heart.

As Julie looked down at his hands, her eyes widened. They were covered in bloody patches. He must have hurt himself much more seriously than she’d thought when he fell the other night.

There were also dark shadows across the backs of his hands that looked like large scars. Two blister-like swellings and several scabs covered the joints of his fingers, and his right thumb glistened with fresh blood. Hard skin covered the damaged nail beds where fingernails would normally have been.

She went up to Bastian and took one of his hands gently in hers to examine it more closely.

He flinched at her touch and backed up against the door. Now cornered, he could hardly contain his agitation.

“It’s all right,” she said quietly. She gave him time to get used to her touch. His hand was warm and strong.

He gradually calmed down.

She frowned, deep in thought as she gazed at him. Were these burns or some kind of rash? No. The wounds were too uneven for that. She was familiar enough with injuries to know that these were at different stages of healing. The blisters were unusual and must have formed at different times. It looked like he got hurt all the time. As she realized this, her stomach tightened. As gently as possible, she stroked the scars and the deformed fingertips. “Does it hurt?” she whispered.

Bastian swallowed hard. “You get used to it.”

Julie raised her eyes to his. “What happened?”

“Bad luck in the genetic lottery.” He attempted to sound casual and devil-may-care, but his voice reflected his bitterness.

“A hereditary disease?”

Bastian nodded.

Julie carefully raised his hand to her face, stroking the scars gently with her thumb.

Distraught by this affectionate gesture, Bastian closed his eyes. After a brief moment, he appeared to give in to her, to allow himself to feel her warm breath in the place where he felt most sensitive. The tension eased from his body. With a light rustle, the gloves fell to the floor.

When Julie was a little girl, Jo always kissed her grazed knees better. For a child, that was enough to heal small wounds. She wished a simple kiss could alleviate his pain and heal him now.

She didn’t believe in fairy tales.

But she believed in comfort.

She put her lips to the back of his hand.

Bastian suddenly broke out of his trance.

“Spare me your pity,” he snapped.

“But I . . .”

He was suddenly so angry that he all but screamed. “There are some who are much more badly affected than I am.”

Without another word, he turned and burst out of the warehouse.

She hardly heard the door bang shut over the hammering of her heart. She was too shocked to understand his sudden flight. She had only wanted to be close to him. But instead, she found herself staring, once again, at a closed door.

C
HAPTER
10

Bastian started his car angrily. He couldn’t get away fast enough.

Shame and rage surged through him, and he couldn’t say which was stronger.

He sped away from the warehouse, away from the woman who had seen him fully exposed.

How he hated all this crap, now more than ever before.

Bastian didn’t stop until he reached the flashing barriers of a railway crossing. Evening had fallen, and there wasn’t a soul in sight.

His gaze fell to his scarred hands desperately gripping the steering wheel. He swore as he realized that his gloves must still be back at the warehouse. He opened the car’s glove compartment and rooted around for a spare pair and a Spanish leather cigarette case. It was small, discreet, and stuffed with bandages, cellulose dressings, and two sterile needles. He tended hastily to the fresh wound on his thumb and the blood blisters on his fingers, then tugged the gloves onto his hands. He then let his head thump back against the upholstered headrest and stared out at the empty street.

The regular blinking of the signal light gradually calmed him. His heart rate eased, and his breathing was no longer ragged, though he still felt short of breath.

What on earth had gotten into him?

All he had wanted was to say good-bye politely to Julie, and suddenly, it had all gone haywire. He was still in a state of deep shock at his own behavior. He simply couldn’t understand what had made him comply with her request to reveal his hands. He had never felt so naked and vulnerable in his life. The touch and presence of this woman had completely unraveled him.

He had endured so much in his life, defied every aspect of the pain.

But that look of regret on her pretty face.

He could bear anything, but not her pity.

At least that was what he thought before she pressed her lips to his disfigured skin.

That had been too much.

A freight train rattled past on the tracks, echoing the harsh, silenced cry that was boiling up inside him.

Once the train was gone, the red signal lights went out and the barriers were lifted. But Bastian stayed where he was. The loneliness and the quiet that surrounded him were somehow comforting. They were what he knew. He could hardly stand the thought that he had lost yet another battle.

He was not proud of his abrupt flight—only cowards ran away. A vague image of his mother swam before his eyes, causing a stab of pain. He did not want to be like her. She had not faced up to her fears, but had instead disappeared when his wounds became more frequent, leaving him behind with many questions to which he’d never get answers.

He became aware of a desire to change things. Perhaps he should go back, apologize for his outburst, and explain to Julie what was wrong. Perhaps this time it would be different. Part of him—the part that dared to hope—truly wanted to turn the car around and go back. But he lacked the strength to overcome his shame.

He stared into space, hearing only the sound of his own breathing. Gradually, he suppressed his emotions until the tightness in his chest eased. Then he ran a hand roughly over his face in anguish in an attempt to bring himself fully back to his senses.

Though they hadn’t parted on the best of terms, he convinced himself it was better this way. He would have to let it go.

Julie was better off without him.

And he without her.

He had everything he needed.

Even some good friends. Elena and her brother, Felix, were the only ones he had allowed to get close to him over the years, and he had never regretted it.

Felix suffered from the same hereditary disease as Bastian, though they had different forms and Felix’s wounds were substantially worse. Even a careless touch from a hand could cause him serious injury. It had become extremely difficult for him to set foot outside the house, and he was largely confined to his bed.

Only the selflessness and support of his sister enabled him to lead a somewhat independent life.

Bastian suddenly felt annoyed at the bout of self-pity he’d indulged in. Only last night it had been made perfectly clear to him that things could be so much worse.

Elena had called him, at a complete loss, because Felix had fallen in the bathroom and severely injured himself. Felix had strictly forbidden her to call the paramedics, claiming that they were needed more urgently elsewhere. So Elena had called Bastian for help.

Bastian had found his friend in a dreadful state. Felix’s already tormented body was covered in fresh wounds. Felix must have been in incredible pain, but he gave Bastian a complacent grin when he arrived.

He and Elena hadn’t finished treating Felix’s wounds until late that night. Bastian had stayed on with him, distracting him with dirty jokes until the strong painkillers had taken effect and he had drifted off into sleep. Bastian hoped he was feeling better, though he feared the worst may be yet to come.

A short time later, armed with a carefully chosen pile of specialist medical journals, Bastian rang the bell of Elena and Felix’s cozy apartment. He followed Elena into the kitchen, where she was preparing supper, and threw the journals down on the sideboard. Then he rummaged for a suitable cup and switched on the coffee machine.

“How is he?” Bastian asked, his folded arms exposing his tension. Bastian and Elena occasionally slipped into the roles of concerned parents.

“Oh, you know Felix,” she replied despondently as she began to peel some carrots. “He never complains, but I can see he’s suffering.”

“Is there any inflammation?”

It was not unusual for such wounds to get infected. Felix had sustained several sizable wounds to his back, elbows, and legs when he’d slipped in the tub the night before. Any areas subjected to warmth and sweating had a good chance of getting inflamed no matter how carefully Bastian and Elena cleaned and bandaged them.

“The back of his knee and the wound under his left arm are red and swollen,” said Elena. “I drained them both again this morning, but I’m worried that he’s developed a resistance to the antibiotic ointment we’re using. It hardly did any good.”

“Has he got a temperature?”

“Fortunately not.”

“If it gets any worse, I’ll drive him over to the doctor,” offered Bastian.

“That would be good.”

The coffee was ready, and Bastian poured himself a cup. He looked at Elena. “Coffee?”

She shook her head with a joyless laugh. “I’ve had enough already for one day.”

For the first time since he arrived, Bastian noticed how exhausted she looked. The knife she was using to peel the carrots was held limply in her hand, and she was staring blankly into space as she scraped it over the vegetables. She only ever let Bastian see her feelings. Whenever she was around Felix, she assumed a cheerful smile. After all, it wouldn’t do anyone any good if she gave in to her helplessness and moped all the time. Felix needed her, and she was able to help him, so she had to stay strong, both physically and mentally.

But even Elena had her limits.

“How are you holding up?” asked Bastian.

“I hate to hurt him,” she whispered, her agitation visible in her glazed eyes.

“Elena, you’re causing him no more pain than he has to bear anyway,” said Bastian.

She nodded silently and pressed her lips together. But a tear leaked from her eye and rolled slowly down her cheek.

“Come on now.” Bastian laid an awkward hand on her shoulder. “If you didn’t see to his wounds, he’d suffer a great deal more.”

“I know,” she said shakily and sniffed. “It’s just so frustrating.”

Bastian didn’t know what to say. She was right, of course. It was frustrating and depressing and totally disheartening.

It was a constant battle.

As he himself knew too well.

Elena threw him a furtive glance. “Sorry,” she said, embarrassed. “Here I am complaining your ears off.”

“There’s no need to apologize.”

Elena swallowed hard. “Do you want to eat with us?” she asked, trying to regain her composure as she turned on the stove.

“What’s on the menu?”

“Grilled monkfish with mashed potatoes and carrots.”

“Sounds great.” Bastian wasn’t hungry, but he didn’t want to be rude, and he hadn’t eaten for hours. Trying to suppress the memory of Julie’s face over lunch earlier that day, he picked up his coffee cup and the journals. “I’ll go and see him.”

“Call me if you need anything.” Elena gave Bastian a small smile. Her eyes were still moist with unshed tears.

“Are you OK?”

“I’ll manage,” she said bravely and busied herself looking for something on the shelves. Bastian understood. She wanted to be alone.

He turned away and went to Felix’s room. The sound of noisy punk music got louder as he approached. Bastian leaned against the door frame and studied his friend. Felix was sitting up in bed, his attention focused on three monitors to his left, which were affixed to the wall and connected to a new computer. Felix affectionately called this impressive setup his window on the world, which, to a certain extent, it really was.

Bastian had tried to persuade Felix to get a hospital bed through his health insurance, but Felix had adamantly refused to pollute his home with a hospital-like atmosphere. Though a hospital bed would have been a more comfortable alternative to his adjustable bed set to its highest setting, Bastian could fully understand Felix’s aversion.

Felix had propped a number of pillows behind his back so that he could sit up more comfortably, and his bandaged fingers were hammering at the wireless keyboard on his lap. Blood-encrusted scabs, which he had probably caused by scratching without thinking, were visible on his bald head and right cheek. His intelligent blue eyes were framed by fashionable horn-rimmed glasses. His lanky body was clothed in a simple gray T-shirt and black sweatpants, and his feet were wrapped in several layers of bandages. His stiff posture told Bastian that Felix was in pain, but his friend nonetheless gave him a delighted grin when he noticed Bastian standing there.

Bastian entered the room and sat down in a chair by the bed. He set his cup and the pile of journals down on the bedside table, next to a bowl of soft, ripe fruit that Elena had placed there.

Felix whistled softly. “You look lousy,” he observed.

Bastian grinned. “Thanks. Same to you.”

Felix settled back a little more comfortably against the pillows. His movements were painstaking and meticulous.

“How are you feeling?” asked Bastian.

Felix frowned. “Never better.” His eyes fell to Bastian’s gloves and he sighed theatrically. “When are you finally going to leave those things at home?”

“When are you finally going to stop asking me that?”

“I’m coming to the conclusion that you’ve developed a bit of a fetish there,” remarked Felix with feigned concern.

Bastian rolled his eyes. He’d had enough excitement over his gloves for one day. “How’s your work coming along?” he asked.

Felix’s eyes shone with enthusiasm. He typed some commands into the computer as quickly as he could despite his unwieldy bandages. His hands were so badly damaged that they were at high risk of growing together, so each finger was bandaged separately, making fluent movements almost impossible. Felix had developed a unique method of working his way around the keyboard, primarily using his index fingers for inputting text and the balls of his thumbs for controlling the mouse.

Felix had studied computer science, then specialized in coming up with ways to use it for medical purposes. He was currently working on his dissertation, which involved writing a program that could be used to catalogue their complicated skin disorder worldwide. His aim was to compile a comprehensive database of meaningful information that would enable him to study everything from its demographics to specific symptoms.

“The databases are now fully interconnected,” he said with satisfaction. “I’ve input a few test cases from different sources. All the specialist centers around the country are now interconnected and should be able to communicate with each other without any trouble.”

“That’s great.”

Felix frowned pensively. “The problem is that global standards vary so widely. I’ve still got to find a way to transmit the data in a consistent form.”

“Sounds like a lot of work.”

“It is,” he said, sounding undeterred. “And once the primary data set is up and running, I’ll have to expand it by adding all the possible treatment options. Imagine being able to call up all the successful treatments for a particular set of symptoms, along with all the ones that didn’t work, all at the touch of a button.”

“It’s going to drastically reduce the need for experimental medicine,” agreed Bastian. Felix’s idea had potential. Doctors currently had trouble treating the more severe forms of the disease, as they lacked experience. Even the few who specialized in the disorder had no choice but to try a range of different treatment options before they achieved sustainable palliative care for their patients.

“Information on new treatments could be transmitted much more quickly,” said Felix as he reached for a slice of pear and pushed it awkwardly into his mouth. “Do you remember Paul from New York? I was chatting with him this morning and told him that my antibiotic ointments were becoming ineffective. He told me about a new medication that’s not widely commercially available yet that’s supposed to work wonders.”