The Butterfly Plague

by Timothy Findley

  The Little Virgin’s party strode on. She could see the coats of the men were made of leather. Black leather, white leather—and also that the three anonymous men wore boots.

  Her father seemed very serious. Was he arguing with Letitia? Or trying to convince her of something she didn’t want to believe? Ruth could not ascertain what it was at this distance. She waited.

  Letitia stopped. She turned and said something vehement to George, who seemed to pale—the pallor recognizable even from this far away—and then Letitia could be heard for an instant only, and the words were, “should kill you.” And then she walked on.

  George hung back a step, letting Cooper Carter and then one of the other men pass him. The two remaining men waited, pausing on purpose, and when George walked on they took up their positions in the rear, as though instructed to do so. The warden wandered along with them, not really privy to the party or their conversation. He was there only to protect them.

  As they passed by, Ruth tried desperately to see Letitia’s face and to hear the words being spoken by Cooper Carter (whom she recognized at once, because he was notoriously handsome and wealthy). But not a word could she hear, and all she could see of the Virgin’s face was the set of its jaw and the metallic glint of its eyes.

  Her father walked by, looking very much like a man taking exercise in a prison yard—condemned to death but free to take the air and to contemplate escape. His eyes were fixed on the Virgin’s back, and they were filled with desperation.

  And then they were gone—the Virgin and the men.

  It was at this precise moment that Ruth was first aware of being watched.

  2:00 p.m.

  To wander in Paradise is all very well if you know your way. But the mapless terrain of Alvarez was utterly frustrating. Even a man with a compass might have had trouble.

  Dolly and Myra refused steadfastly to leave the path, which seemed to have no ending. And although Myra had conscientiously been dropping her various tidbits of attire at regular intervals, she and Dolly both had the unnerving sensation they had unquestionably passed this (or that) way before.

  Finally, Myra said, “Do you think we should call again?”

  “All right,” said Dolly. “Stand still.”

  They stood in the very middle of a crossroads and Dolly took off his hat. He wiped his brow with a handkerchief, cleared his throat, and bellowed.

  “Mother! Mother! Mo…therrr!”

  It was the best he could do but it produced only an extension of the silence.

  “MothER!” he cried.

  “The only thing is,” said Myra, attempting to be helpful, “that there might be a lot of mothers in here and they won’t know which one you want.”

  Dolly swiveled his toes in the earth, scuffing the blue off his shoes.

  “Myra,” he managed. “The regulations state that there shall be only six persons allowed in here at one time.”

  “Well, we’ve already seen several others,” said Myra. She scratched her knees.

  “What do you mean by that?” said Dolly.

  “Well, that woman in the helmet…”

  “Oh, she was just one of the staff.”

  “Well, then. That blond man in the German pants.”

  “What blond man in the German pants?”

  “The one on the path.”

  “Myra!”

  “Well, there was.”

  “In German pants?”

  “Those shorts they wear.”

  “Lederhosen.”

  “Yes. Those shorts made of leather.”

  “What else was he wearing, Myra?”

  “Well. A shirt. And a hat with a feather. And sunglasses. And gloves. And socks and shoes.”

  “And where was this?”

  “Well, on the path somewhere.”

  “Why didn’t I see him?”

  “You were peeing.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She scratched her elbow and adjusted her vine.

  “Have you seen anyone else?”

  “Yes. Haven’t you?”

  “I wouldn’t ask if I had, Myra. Who and where?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Which?”

  “Either.”

  “All right then. Describe them.”

  “What? The feet?”

  “The whatever,” said Dolly. He was practically ready to scream. “Tell me what you saw.”

  “Well, I saw these feet.”

  “When?”

  “Back there on the path.”

  “And…?”

  “And they were sticking out from the bushes.”

  “Oh, Myra. In the name of God. Why didn’t you say something?”

  “Well, I thought you’d seen them. And you didn’t say anything, so I thought it wasn’t important.”

  “What position were they in?”

  “Sticking out.”

  “Sticking out lying down or sticking out standing up?”

  “Standing up.”

  “Well. At least they were alive.”

  “Yes. Only they didn’t move.”

  “Very well. Goon.”

  “Well. They had on shoes.”

  “Ladies’ shoes or gentlemen’s shoes?”

  “Ladies’. So it was a woman.”

  Dolly thought about that for a moment.

  “It could have been a transvestite,” he said. “But go on.”

  “These shoes”—she scratched her wrists—“were black leather, I guess, and they had openwork sides. And the feet were wearing stockings, but that was all I could see. What’s a transvestite?”

  “MOTHER!!” Dolly screamed.

  There was no response.

  “And so what’ll we do?” said Myra.

  “We’ll go on,” said Dolly, replacing his hat on his head. “Have you much else to drop?”

  “I’ve got another hankie and I can take off my stockings if I have to and my bra and that stuff. What’ve you got?”

  “Handkerchiefs. My tie. And that’s all. Now listen, Myra. The next time you see anyone…hands, feet, a person, anything human…say so.”

  “Yes, Dolly.”

  “This is serious, Myra. It’s not a game.”

  “Yes, Dolly. I know.”

  “So stay close behind me and keep your eyes and ears open for everything. Understand?”

  “Yes, Dolly.” Pause. “Are we lost?”

  Dolly sighed.

  “Yes, Myra. We are lost. O.K.?”

  “O.K. Sure. I just wondered, that’s all.”

  “Well, that’s something,” said Dolly, and they struck out in what, this time, surely had to be a new direction.

  2:20 p.m.

  It was Miss Bonkers who found Miss Box.

  Miss Box had worn a neat green dress, a very pretty slip, some rather old-maidish drawers, lisle stockings, and black leather openwork shoes. She still wore the shoes and stockings. Her expression, as she swung from the tree (her toes neatly obtruding onto the path) was one of gentle surprise mixed with a very mild reproach. As though her lover had refused her some private but ultimately petty gratification. She was dead, of course, and there was a black-handled knife inserted in her vagina.

  Miss Bonkers for the first time in a spotless record of professional nursing, fainted dead away.

  2:30 p.m.

  Naomi, seated on her log at the crossroads of the path, stared off into the treetops and counted at least twenty species of birds. They intrigued and engrossed her until slowly (at first) and then more and more rapidly she began to be in pain. She practiced several stoic patterns of thought, but to no avail. She began to wish ardently for Miss Bonkers and her needle—a longing she had sworn to master, but one which she could not since the pain had begun to intensify.

  Dreaming of release, Naomi Damarosch was the first in Paradise to smell the smoke.

  She rose.

  Where should she go? Which way?

  Was it w
ise to move at all?

  Smoke, fire, run, she thought. But where?

  Ruth had told her not to move, but then neither she nor Ruth had dreamed that the Canyon—that Alvarez Canyon—would catch fire and burn down around their ears. It was protected—a Government project. There were scores of little men in green, whose only job was to see that the Alvarez Canyon Paradise did not burn down. And so, of course, this could not be fire that Naomi smelled. It must be some fluke, or the remains of some distant smoke carried into the Canyon on the breeze.

  She sat down. She was right. She had to be. Some things do not happen, and the immolation of Alvarez Canyon was one of them.

  2:35 p.m.

  Myra had shed everything but her shoes, her panties, and her vine. Dolly had released his jacket, his tie, and his shirt to the cause.

  Standing now in the middle of the path, he was debating the necessity of shedding, also, his trousers.

  “If I can go in my panties,” said Myra, giving her thigh a scratch, “surely to goodness you can go in your underwear.”

  “We’ll be arrested,” said Dolly.

  “Who the heck by?” said Myra.

  “You have a point there,” said Dolly. And he undid his buttons.

  Myra giggled.

  “Now what?” snapped Dolly, half in and half out of his trousers, revealing knee-length underdrawers and blue garters.

  “Oh, nothing,” said Myra. Then she began to sing.

  “Lovely—never, never change.

  Keep that breathless charm.

  Won’t you please arrange it?

  ‘Cause I love you

  Just the way you look tonight!”

  Dolly stared at her in disgust.

  It had been, until that moment, his favorite song.

  2:45 p.m.

  Ruth had paused to rest. Her journey, like that of all the others, was leading her nowhere. Occasionally, of course, there were clues. She found another of Myra’s stoles and one of Dolly’s handkerchiefs. She also found a box of comfits dropped by Miss Bonkers. (As a matter of fact the box was empty of everything but the lingering scent of peppermint, for Miss Bonkers had also seized on the Hansel and Gretel idea and had dropped her comfits, thirty-six of them, on another part of the path.)

  It was then that Ruth did something unaccountable. Knowing it was forbidden to smoke in Alvarez, she nevertheless took out a cigarette and lit it.

  Perhaps she wanted to see the smoke. Her mind was on the scorched piece of bathing suit and she wanted—perhaps—to conjure fire and complete the burning. If she could complete the burning, perhaps the image of the ragged bit of cloth would cease to haunt her. Perhaps.

  Perhaps. Perhaps.

  Perhaps, if I shot myself the world would disappear.

  Ruth smiled. She remembered thinking that as a child. Or something very like it. Surely she hadn’t really thought of shooting herself when she was ten. But something like it: yes. She closed her eyes and tried to remember.

  But that was it. The closing of the eyes.

  If I close my eyes, the world will disappear.

  She touched the piece of cloth in her pocket: pieces. She was making a collection: the star of Mr. Seuss—the bathing suit of the red-head—Myra’s stoles…She felt like a rag picker. “Any old rags! Any old rags!”

  Oh, God. The star of Mr. Seuss; the bathing suit of the red-head; Myra’s stoles—they weren’t rags. They were emblems. The emblems of violence: of violence being done.

  Ruth slitted her eyes and squinted through the smoke from her cigarette. Very slowly, she bent her knees and knelt until she felt her shins touch the earth. Then she hunkered in the center of the path and looked in through the jungle. All the crazy, unnamed birds were calling—alarmed—and there were animals, moving, though she could not tell what they were. Some kind of deer, perhaps. A herd of something moving very swiftly but silently through the trees…

  Suddenly, there was a noise behind her—beside her. She dropped the cigarette and stubbed it out with the toe of her shoe, thinking that she had been caught by one of the wardens of the park and already preparing her excuse…I was frightened. I needed to calm my nerves. I’m lost…And then she would smile and say, “Can you help me?”

  She stood up and brushed her knees, the smile already on her lips and the words beginning to tumble from her mouth, “I was frightened. I…”

  It was him.

  Whatever Ruth’s next word might have been, it was completely forgotten. The blond man stood before her, staring at her.

  “What do you want of me?” she said. “Tell me what you want of me.” She could smell the leather of his boots and trousers: his lederhosen. But he did not speak.

  “If you do not tell me, I cannot help you,” Ruth said. “You have followed me all the way from Hamburg and I don’t know what you want.” Suddenly, she raised her voice and yelled at him, “I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU WANT!”

  Above them, around them, all the birds took flight and animals Ruth had not even been aware of rushed away through the trees. But the man did not move and he did not speak.

  “Please,” said Ruth. “Don’t do this to me. I will.

  Go mad.

  She shook. Her voice died. She could feel the tears welling up in her eyes. She was angry, not afraid any more.

  Now, at last, the blond man seemed to be moved and, for a moment, Ruth thought he was going to speak. But instead of speaking, he lifted his right hand to his left sleeve, tearing the insignia from it and holding it out toward her all in one movement.

  She did not take it. Her hands remained at her side.

  For the first time ever, she saw an emotion cross the blond man’s face. It was not precisely anger; not only anger but also alarm; confusion. She had been meant to take his insignia without an argument. The intention had been that she would receive it with pleasure and, for a moment, he did not know how to deal with this—what to do, when her hand did not rise automatically the way hands should to receive a treasured gift.

  At first, it was only his eyes that shifted, but then—all at once—his body was pushing against her and his hands had taken control of her. With one hand, he had both her wrists behind her back and with the other he forced the torn insignia down the front of her blouse. His fingers brushed against the nipple of her left breast and she felt the buttons of the blouse giving way as he moved his hand to cover her breast with his palm. Their eyes met, but Ruth couldn’t bear to look at him and she turned her head away.

  He stepped back—coldly—apparently now in control of himself. There was just the briefest pause before he raised his right arm, from the elbow only, and gave her the salute she had come to despise: the one that Bruno had given, standing up in the stadium with all the others that day when Ruth and all the young of the world had passed below him in their matchless, perfect bodies.

  She felt a chill pass down her spine and she closed her eyes and shivered.

  When she opened her eyes again, the blond man was gone: disappeared, and nothing remained of him but the thing against her heart: the insignia.

  Rag picker. Rag picker. Any old rags…

  She reached inside her blouse and withdrew the piece of torn cloth and gazed at it, strangely at peace with it lying in her hand—all her resistance dead of exhaustion. The insignia’s black perimeters, its scarlet circle and its broken, mutilated cross no longer disturbed or revolted her. She knew it was a sign—a signal. A message she could no longer refuse to hear. I want you, it said. I want you.

  Ruth took a very deep breath and folded her fingers tightly around the swastika as if she could make its message disappear, the way its messenger had.

  If I close my eyes…she thought. And she did. She closed them tight as her fingers. But it did no good. It would never do any good again. She had seen—and been seen. She had chosen—and been chosen. She would never be rid of it, ever. Bruno’s damned perfection.

  3:00 p.m.

  Of all the people inside Alvarez Canyon Paradise, only Naomi sat
staring at the birds. Only she was at peace.

  The pain came and went in what seemed to be a sort of tidal flow, ebbing and rising, always in motion, always there, but mostly bearable and only occasionally not. And at these moments she would clutch her stick and say things to the birds.

  She didn’t want to leave, not just this Paradise, but life itself.

  For a moment it did not matter that she was lost—or that no one came for her—or that Ruth had disappeared. What did it matter if there was not another soul in Paradise? These things that were—the earth, the trees, the creatures and the sky (though she could not see it), they were enough, if only she could stay immobilized in Alvarez forever.

  But that would be wrong. That would be unreal.

  And so Naomi rose to go.

  It is a strangeness that those who take part in others’ dreams are always safe. But it is so. Therefore, Naomi returned to the gate and asked that extremely polite, still sleepy Negro to help her up into the rumble seat of the Franklin.

  3:00 p.m.

  Myra was weeping. She wore nothing now but the vine and a few large welts where she had scratched herself. She also wore her shoes and carried her handbag. She tore a leaf from a tree and blew her nose.

  “Oh, this is awful,” she wailed. “Oh, why did we come?”

  Dolly could not answer her. It had been his mother’s idea, or Ruth’s. At any rate, he certainly disclaimed it. Standing there, dressed only in his underdrawers, his blue socks and blue garters, his blue shoes and his hat, he felt as unforgiving as he had ever felt in his life. He struck out with his stick and broke some flowers at the edge of the path.

  “Of course it’s got to be some sort of a plot,” he said vehemently to himself. “Look at us, we’re two grown people—lost! It’s impossible. Somehow, they’ve switched the paths around, or altered the terrain. They’ve done something. I tell you, it’s not natural.”