Magpie Hall
Page 22
I placed the huia on a high shelf in my bedroom, where it would be safe from Rita’s drunken guests, and went downstairs to see Roland. I waited while he finished up a job, a man with a shaven head getting his bicep covered with skulls.
‘What was the significance of those?’ I asked Roland, after the guy had left, clutching his antiseptic cream.
‘Said it was for all the mates he’d lost in car accidents. Quite sad, really.’
I thought of Sam. I wondered if he had found work elsewhere. If I’d see him again.
‘What have you brought me?’ asked Roland.
I showed him the book I was holding, and opened it onto the right page.
‘Can you do something like this? Only a bit more stylised?’
He examined the picture. ‘Sure. Give me tonight to work on it. Come back tomorrow first thing. I’ve got nothing on.’
The following morning I put on a vintage 1950s halter dress splashed with flowers to go with the brightness of spring. It showed off my tattoos nicely. I was always given curious looks when I dressed like this: the juxtaposition between the pretty, old-fashioned dress and the sailor tattoos confused some people. Then I fussed about completing the look: curling my fringe under, applying liquid eyeliner to my top lids, flicked out at the sides, red lipstick, and red high heels that clacked down the stairs to the tattoo shop. Roland sat in the only sliver of sun that would penetrate the building all day, and would soon be lost behind the hills. He unfurled his long body when I appeared and pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket. He squinted at it through his little round glasses before handing it over.
‘Is this what you had in mind?’
His design had captured perfectly the essence of what I wanted to convey.
‘It’ll take a couple of visits, at least. I’ll start with the outline today, then we’ll book you in for the shading.’
I took off my cardigan and lay face down on the padded table, my head in a pillow that smelled of lavender. Roland shaved the area on my back, just above my shoulder blades, then rubbed it with Vaseline. I felt the whisper of paper as he transferred the sketch onto my skin, and I wished that gentle caress was all I would feel. Even after ten tattoos I had never really got used to the pain. Perhaps this would be my last. I couldn’t imagine what more I could want or need, or where I would put another.
‘Starting now.’
I closed my eyes and pressed my face into the crook of my arm, smelt the sharp tang of sweat that suddenly sprang up. Beside me, Roland would be dipping his needle into the tiny pot of black ink. I heard the hum of the tattoo machine start up and waited for the buzz, for that first scorching sting; I concentrated on my breathing so I wouldn’t flinch.
Usually Roland worked silently, to be able to focus, but I preferred it when he talked. It took my mind off the pain, so I was glad when he spoke.
‘You know, I have something to tell you.’
I waited for him to go on, breathing in through my nose, out through my mouth until the pain was at a point where I could imagine it turning to heat and dissipating.
The needle shut off as he refilled it. He wiped my back with a cloth.
‘I’m shutting up shop. Moving to Wellington.’ He started up again and I forgot to breathe. I flinched as the needle went in.
‘How come?’ I asked.
‘Business isn’t doing so well. This place is changing. Haven’t you noticed? It’s all couples now, with kids. All the cafes that are springing up. They’re like cold sores, don’t you think? It’s just not the place for misfits and freaks any more.’
‘So what’ll happen to the building?’
‘Sorry, love.’ He stopped working again, patted my shoulder. ‘You’ll probably have to move out.’
I nodded and kept my face buried. Took a deep breath.
‘You okay?’ he asked.
‘I’ll be fine,’ I said. I thought of my little flat up there, stuffed with ephemera. It was probably way overdue for a cull anyway. It’d do me good. It would be an impossible task to pack it all up and move somewhere. It was true what Roland said about the port. Rents were hitting ridiculous heights. I’d be lucky to find a room in a house with a whole lot of people for that price.
‘I’ll be fine,’ I repeated, and gave in to the pain.
When he had finished, I stood up, feeling woozy. Roland took my arm to steady me, and led me over to the mirror that took up one wall of the back room. It was surrounded on all sides by photographs of Roland’s work — patches of skin, red and raised and freshly inked, shining with Vaseline, including my magpie, which had now moulded to my wrist and become a part of my body.
‘You ready?’ he asked. I nodded and he held up another mirror behind me, so I could see his work. And there it was, just as I had imagined, curving gently with the contours of my back, the arc of its beak cupping my shoulder blade. The delicate outline of its wattle awaited the colour that would bring the huia to life and make it sing on my body forever.
Acknowledgements
I am grateful to the following people: Julia De Ville, for allowing me to use aspects of her life and work to build my story, and for sharing her knowledge of taxidermy; Mark at Ink Grave, for answering my questions on tattooing and letting me watch him work; Gillian Arrighi, for information on nineteenth-century circuses; Gareth Cordery at Canterbury University, for letting me sit in on his inspiring lectures on the nineteenth-century novel, thereby changing the course of this novel forever; the New Zealand Society of Authors and the Lilian Ida Smith Trust; Creative New Zealand for a generous grant and again, along with Canterbury University, for the Ursula Bethell Residency in 2008 — it gave me freedom and space and resources that would not have otherwise been available to me; my editors, Harriet Allan and Anna Rogers, and my wonderful agent Vivien Green; my crew, Kate Duignan, Katy Robinson and Susan Pearce, for incisive criticism and much love and encouragement; Richard Lewis, Paul Cunningham and Hannah Holborn, all of whom I am yet to meet face to face but who have become trusted early readers; Sharon Blance and Brence Coghill; the Brunette Mafia; Christchurch City Libraries and Under the Red Verandah cafe for unwittingly providing me with an office away from home; Ros Henry for a sharp editorial eye and again, along with David Elworthy, for helping out tirelessly with family matters so I could write; Thomas Rutherford, for patiently sharing me; lastly, and most importantly, Peter Rutherford, without whom writing this novel really wouldn’t have been possible, and to whom it is dedicated.
The Sound of Butterflies
Winner of the NZSA Hubert Church Award for Best First Book of Fiction at the 2007 Montana New Zealand Book Awards, and translated into seven foreign languages.
In 1904, the young lepidopterist Thomas Edgar arrives home from a collecting expedition in the Amazon. His wife Sophie is unprepared for his emaciated state and, even worse, his inability — or unwillingness — to speak.
Sophie’s genteel and demure life in Edwardian England contrasts starkly with the decadence of Brazil’s rubber boom, as we are taken back to Thomas’s arrival in the Amazon and his search for a mythical butterfly. Up the river, via the opulent city of Manaus — where the inhabitants feed their horses champagne and aspire to all things European — Thomas’s extraordinary, and increasingly obsessed, journey carries him through the exotic and the erotic to some terrible truths.
Back home, unable to break through Thomas’s silence, Sophie is forced to take increasingly drastic measures to discover what has happened. But as she scavenges what she can from Thomas’s diaries and boxes of exquisite butterflies, she learns as much about herself as about her husband.
Reviews of The Sound of Butterflies
‘Rachael King has written a wonderful novel … which sets a new standard for first-time writers in this country.’ Herald on Sunday
‘So lucidly does she write you can easily imagine the sweat dripping down your back and the night noises in the jungle. She knows how to tell a story too … The story hums along. I read this book in two d
ays, such was the grip it had on me.’ North & South
‘Not just readable but entertaining, imaginative and funny.’ Sunday Star Times
‘Engaging and tremendously well imagined [and] … a ripping yarn. A natural-born writer, King’s prose flows as strongly as the Amazon, rich with easy lyricism … This is a complete meal of a novel, ambitious and well planned.’ The Australian Literary Review
‘[Rachael King’s] mesmerizing combination of narrative, diary pages and letters reveals the true terror that Edgar experienced in the Amazon, where he witnessed one man’s inhumanity to his own people … a captivating story.’ The Washington Post
‘King’s easy narrative moves back and forth from the stultifying social confines of early 20th-century England to the sultry and seductive world of the rainforest … Rich and evocative, The Sound of Butterflies is an enjoyable debut.’ Financial Times
‘There’s a potent array of material here: a love story, exotic settings, sex, travel, colonialism, some disturbing scenes of abasement and brutality, and, at the heart of the book, the mystery of Thomas’s silence. Tension builds and as the novel goes on, King’s narrative is well paced.’ The Listener
‘With her first novel, Rachael King proves herself one of our most promising writers. Her intelligent gaze snags on quirky details of personality or place or on mostly forgotten history, and spins captivating and provocative stories from them.’ Next Magazine
‘… an impressive novel filled with lyrical prose and clearly defined characters. The seductive setting gradually draws the reader into the hot, dangerous world of the Amazonian rainforest … The portrait of a man driven mad by his quest for perfection … is most convincing and had this reader up until the early hours. I look forward to King’s next novel.’ The Christchurch Press
‘The Sound of Butterflies fuses Edwardian gentility with obsession, murder, and a glimpse of the giddy excess of the Brazilian rubber boom … It’s convincing, told in prose as opulent as one of Thomas’s specimens.’ The Observer
‘In this debut novel about love, betrayal and devotion, King offers a vibrant portrayal of a jungle inner-world and the characters who roam within it… Sensuous descriptions and multidimensional characters carry the novel. Gross displays of wealth, intense bloodlust and the immense beauty and danger of the jungle enrapture, providing a sharp contrast to the tightly-corseted society of early 20th-century England. As Thomas’s quest for his perfect butterfly becomes a symbol for flawlessness that does not exist, both he and Sophie must learn to live with their imperfections and adopt a more real, honest love. As lush and captivating as the jungle in which it is set.’ Kirkus Review
About the Author
Rachael King has worked for various media, including Rip it Up, Staple, Pavement and 95bFM, and as a researcher for television. She played bass guitar in several Flying Nun bands until the mid-nineties. In 2008 she was the Ursula Bethell writer in residence at the University of Canterbury. This is her second novel; her first, The Sound of Butterflies, was a bestseller and in 2007 won the NZSA Hubert Church Award for Best First Book of Fiction at the Montana New Zealand Book Awards.
Copyright
A VINTAGE BOOK published by Random House New Zealand, 18 Poland Road, Glenfield, Auckland, New Zealand For more information about our titles go to www.randomhouse.co.nz A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of New Zealand Random House New Zealand is part of the Random House Group
New York London Sydney Auckland Delhi Johannesburg First published 2009
(c) 2009 Rachael King The moral rights of the author have been asserted ISBN 978 1 86979 288 6
This book is copyright. Except for the purposes of fair reviewing no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.