Butterfly Island

by Corina Bomann

  However, Diana looked in vain for a ceiling fan like those she had seen in the movies; it had been replaced by a modern air-conditioning unit.

  After tipping the bellhop, she closed the door behind her and drank in her surroundings. She went over to the window and its view of the sea and the harbour. A warm breeze brushed her hair and her face, melting her tensions a little. I’m on the right track.

  After unpacking, she took the cardboard tube that housed the palm leaf and put it on the desk. Michael had sent her copies of some photos which would help her to locate the library it belonged to.

  Maybe it would be better to keep it in the hotel safe, she thought.

  Although she was dog-tired, she decided to go out and explore the city a little.

  After showering and changing, she let Eva and Mr. Green know that she had landed safely in Colombo. Half an hour later, armed with the old guide and an up-to-date one to help her find her way to Mr. Singh, she tucked the cardboard tube under her arm and left her room.

  On the way to the reception lobby, she passed the Lotus Ballroom, where it appeared there was something going on. A shiny sign by the door told her that preparations were underway for a major event. The festive white seat covers with golden bows gave the impression of a wedding party.

  All at once she felt a tug inside. Her own wedding celebrations had been very modest. She had wanted a lavish wedding, but she had ultimately given in to Philipp, who was concerned about the costs of accommodating his horde of relatives. Now she felt a pang of regret that they had not had a more extravagant wedding. It wouldn’t have changed anything about the way their marriage ended, but she would nevertheless have had a wonderful memory to look back on.

  As more employees arrived with armfuls of tablecloths, she withdrew. You should be concentrating on the present, and the matter in hand, not regretting things that never happened, she thought. In the hotel lobby she took the old travel guide from her bag. She had marked with sticky notes the pages where places were underlined. Those that seemed particularly interesting to her were the fort, Chatham Street, and the Cinnamon Gardens, a district that now bore the totally unromantic name of Colombo 7. Would the cinnamon gardens still be there?

  After depositing the palm leaf in the safe, she left the hotel. Mr. Singh will be expecting me, if I know Michael. He’ll have driven him mad with his instructions. And the sooner I find something out the better.

  Although she had found out a lot about Sri Lanka and read through some illustrated travel books, Diana still did not feel sufficiently prepared for the contrasts that bombarded her as she walked through the city. On one side were skyscrapers and flashing billboards, cars, and phones, on the other, saris, ox-carts, houses from the colonial period, and wooden shacks.

  Walking along the street, she had to take care not to be run over by one of the red minibuses that carried passengers through the city at breakneck speed. There was even a man leading his richly adorned elephant through the crowds on York Street. A cacophony of tuk-tuk horns and shrill bicycle bells sounded impatiently behind him.

  Chatham Street, too, was thronged with people and bicycles. Many of the old buildings had given way to modern ones. Chinese silk merchants had taken over most of the shops, but there was still plenty of trade in the country’s treasures, especially the uncut gemstones sold at fairly reasonable prices.

  Diana thought of the large blue stone from the secret compartment, which she had left in her suitcase back at the hotel. Maybe I should have brought it with me, she thought, to have it checked and see if it’s genuine—and especially to find out what kind of stone it is.

  She stopped and took out her guidebook to look for the building that had housed the gemstone dealer. She found it after a while, but unfortunately there was no longer a gemstone dealer there. The shop windows were boarded up, with an old advertising poster fluttering from the façade.

  Two doors further down she found the display window of a small jeweller, proclaiming the word Sale in bold red letters. It’s probably like our carpet shops, who always claim to have a sale on, Diana thought with a touch of derision.

  As her search for the gemstone dealers had proved largely unsuccessful, she continued along the street until she finally found number 23. The colonial-style building looked a little run-down, but had not lost any of its former elegance. The modern bell and intercom system looked completely out of place. Beneath the names written in the characteristic curly script of the country, she saw a sign with a bilingual label. That was him! Maybe he would know whom she could see about the palm leaf.

  As her heart began to pound with anticipation, she pressed the button, then took a step back and looked up, in the hope of hearing movement somewhere.

  Nothing happened for a while. She was about to ring again when a window opened with a creak and a dark mop of hair appeared above her. The sun was in her eyes, causing her to shade her face with her hand, but even then she could not make out the features.

  “Are you wanting me?” he called down.

  “Yes, if you’re Jonathan Singh,” Diana replied.

  He paused for a moment, then said, “I’ll be right down!”

  The head vanished, the window closed. A blood-curdling honking sounded behind her, making her jump with shock. The guidebook fell from her hand and only narrowly missed landing in the rubbish that had collected in the small gully by the downpipe.

  As she bent to pick it up, the door opened. Diana straightened hastily and found herself looking into a pair of amber-coloured eyes in a light-brown face. The tall, dark-haired man, wearing light trousers and a white shirt, looked at first glance more like an artist than a fusty academic—the opposite of how she’d imagined Michael’s friend to be.

  “So you’re Mr. Singh.”

  A smile lit up the man’s face.

  “Call me Jonathan. You must be Michael’s friend. Diana Wagenbach, am I right?”

  “Yes, that’s right.” She nervously offered him her hand, not noticing something fall from the pages of the guidebook. She started in shock as Jonathan bent to retrieve it.

  “You’ve dropped something.” With a friendly smile, he handed her a piece of grey paper.

  Diana regarded it sceptically at first, then turned hot and cold as she turned it over and realised what she had come so close to losing. The photo of her great-great-grandmother! Or at least the copy she had taken before embarking on her journey. Now she remembered that she had tucked it between the pages of the guidebook while on the plane. She had intended to return it to her bag, but then she had fallen asleep and had simply put the guidebook away when she awoke.

  “Oh, thank you so much. I’d hate to have lost it.”

  The man glanced briefly at the blue-green book in her hand, and his smile broadened.

  “Don’t you think you should be using something a bit more up to date?”

  “Oh, I’ve got one of those,” Diana replied. “I’m only carrying this to compare the past with what’s here today.”

  “Are you a historian?”

  “No, a lawyer.” Hadn’t Michael told him?

  “Forgive me, but Michael was really mysterious about the whole thing, as though I might lose interest from the start if he wasn’t. It shows what a long time it is since he was here, if he’s forgotten how much we like to help people.”

  On hearing a few voices raised in protest behind them, he drew her a little closer to the wall of the building so they weren’t in the way of passers-by.

  “I hope he’s told you a little more about me, at least,” he said.

  “Only that you used to be an academic and now write books.”

  “That’s right. As my name suggests, I’m the son of an Indian father and an English mother. Your English is excellent, by the way.”

  Diana felt the blood rush to her face. No, she really hadn’t imagined Jonathan Singh to be like this. Not so charming, not so bewilderingly attractive from the first moment she met him . . .

  “My aunt . . . I
mean my great-aunt, lived in England. I have English ancestors myself.”

  “Then we’re practically fellow countrymen!” Jonathan replied warmly. “How do you fancy starting by going for a cup of tea? You can tell me more about yourself and your plans. I know a really nice tea room nearby.”

  “I hope I’m not disturbing your work,” Diana said hesitantly.

  “No. To be honest, I was waiting for you. My transition from researcher to author has meant that my circle of contacts has shrunk even further. I really appreciate the opportunity to be talking to someone of flesh and blood rather than being stuck with papers.”

  As they wound their way through the crowds on Baillie Street, he asked, “You’re looking for palm leaves, aren’t you? That was the only thing that Michael told me.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “In that case we ought to visit the National Museum. They have a wonderful collection of ola leaves there.”

  “Ola leaves?”

  “That’s the correct name for the palm-leaf books here.”

  Diana couldn’t imagine the prophecies being hoarded in a museum. After all, Michael had told her there were special libraries of them, kept by readers, Tamils who were familiar with the ancient dialects of their language. Had he been wrong? Did historical research now include the fates of individuals?

  “What’s written on these ola leaves?” Diana asked, to make sure they were both talking about the same thing.

  “Well, all the knowledge that they considered it worthwhile to write,” Jonathan replied. “The Tamils were a very literate people. Most of these writings were destroyed during the colonial era, but a lot of them can still be seen in the museums.”

  “In that case, I’m afraid they’re not the same palm-leaf books I’m looking for.”

  Jonathan gave her an enquiring look, then his eyes seemed to light up with recognition.

  “Oh, forgive me. You want to have your future foretold. That’s the kind of ola leaves you’re looking for.”

  “I’m not actually looking to have my future told.”

  Has Michael really not told him anything? she wondered. “Among the things my aunt left me, I found a palm leaf, which I assume was stolen a long time ago. I’d really like to give it back to the library it came from.”

  Jonathan was speechless for a moment.

  “A palm leaf in England?”

  “I hope it’s not an offence to have brought it here.”

  “No, of course not,” Jonathan replied with a shake of his head. “I was only thinking that the readers are vigilant and won’t let a leaf out of their hands.”

  “That’s what Michael thought, too,” Diana replied. “But it was in a secret compartment behind a bookshelf at my aunt’s. I think it came to England in the nineteenth century. Probably brought back by my ancestors who travelled over here. I’ve just learned that they owned a plantation here.”

  Jonathan looked at her, his eyes shining. “That sounds incredibly interesting. I don’t understand why Michael didn’t tell me all this before.”

  “It must be because he didn’t want to spoil your surprise,” Diana said a little uncertainly, immediately reprimanding herself. You’re a grown woman, not a nervous teenager!

  Jonathan stopped suddenly. “Look over there!” He pointed towards a house that looked even older than those on Chatham Street.

  Diana frowned as she noticed the inscription over the door.

  “That’s Dutch, isn’t it?”

  “Correct. It translates as something like ‘Destroyed on a whim, rebuilt by justice.’”

  “What does that mean?”

  “During the Dutch colonial period there was a governor here called Pieter Vuist. He’s said to have been one of the most terrible, cruel rulers of this country. On a whim, some say out of jealousy, he simply had this house demolished. His legal successor, who was a little more modest, had the house rebuilt, and that inscription put in place.”

  As he told the story, Diana felt a tingle on the back of her neck, as though the cold hand of fate had touched her and was now encouraging her to follow.

  With Jonathan Singh she could clearly do that with impunity.

  The little tea room on York Street looked as though it had been squeezed in between two buildings, although it was more probable that the other buildings had grown over time to tower over their modest older neighbour, hemming it in.

  The interior, painted in a strong russet colour, was narrow and crammed with all kinds of artworks. Indian music tootled from a radio, and a news broadcast could be heard from a TV somewhere. The usual images of Shiva, Ganesha, and other gods were lacking, but in their place Diana saw a wonderful piece of Arabic calligraphy, which looked more than a century old.

  “The owner is a Muslim,” Jonathan explained as they sat down on one of the cushions. “He’s proud to tell anyone who’ll listen that his ancestors came from Yemen to spread the word of Mohammed here. They succeeded to some extent, but Hinduism and Buddhism still predominate on the Butterfly Island.”

  “Butterfly Island?”

  “Yes, that’s what Sri Lanka is called. Because it’s shaped like a butterfly’s wing.” He emphasised his words with an appropriate hand gesture.

  “Something else I’ve learned today,” Diana said, but chose not to tell him about the butterfly that had awoken the angel in her dream about Beatrice’s grave.

  “Sri Lanka’s full of surprises,” Jonathan said before ordering two glasses of tea in Tamil from a passing waiter.

  “He serves the best in the area,” Jonathan said as the waiter hurried off. “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering a few pastries to go with it. I hope you agree it’s still a little early for lunch.”

  Diana’s head was spinning. Was it the jet lag kicking in, or did she simply need a while to take it all in?

  “Maybe I should tell you something about myself for a change, rather than interrogating you any more.”

  Diana nodded. “That would be lovely.”

  The waiter served them with two steaming glasses of tea and a plate of little pastries, and Jonathan began to speak.

  “I grew up in England. My father was an Indian of Tamil origin, which is how I come to have two mother tongues. He came to England as a professor of Indian history, and his interest rubbed off on me, the main difference being that I turned to Sri Lanka for my specialist field. You could say that it’s because of him that I come to be taking an interest in a palm leaf carried off to England in the nineteenth century.” He paused briefly, chewing his lip as though there was something he wanted to say and he was wondering how to put it. “You don’t happen to have your leaf with you?” he asked eventually.

  Diana shook her head. “No, I’m afraid not, but . . .” She hesitated. Could she simply invite him back to the hotel? What kind of impression would that give?

  The next moment she was shaking her head at herself. He wants to help you with the palm leaf, not marry you! Just be grateful that Michael gave you this contact.

  “It’s back at the hotel. I also have some photos of it, but it’s simply too valuable to be carrying around with me all the time.”

  “I understand.” Jonathan swished the tea around in his glass, then said, “I’m dying to see it. Unfortunately, I’ve got a meeting with my publisher tomorrow. He wants to discuss a new project with me.”

  Diana raised her eyebrows. “Oh, yes? Can I ask what it’s about?”

  “It’s about the conflict between the Tamils and the Sinhalese—its causes, effects, and history. The tensions between our two peoples have been simmering for decades, with the Tamil Tigers always more uncompromising in their actions. I’d like think my work can provide a little clarification.”

  Diana recalled the travel agent’s words of warning as she handed her the information leaflet. “It sounds like a very difficult, if not risky, subject.”

  “It is. But somebody has to tackle it. Silence won’t get us anywhere—only by finding a consensus can we one da
y bring peace to the island.”

  Diana was impressed.

  “But that doesn’t mean I don’t have time for you. We can meet in the evening if you’d like. That’s when the city’s at its best. What do you say to that?”

  “I’d love to,” Diana replied with a strange fluttering in her stomach.

  “Which hotel are you staying in?”

  “The Grand Oriental.”

  Jonathan pushed his bottom lip out in admiration. “You seem to be taking your research really seriously. In colonial times the Grand Oriental Hotel, together with the Mount Lavinia Hotel, was one of the best addresses in Sri Lanka for the English. It’s the ideal place to begin a trip into the past.”

  “I found the hotel underlined in my old travel guide. I don’t know for sure, but I like to think that it was where my ancestors stayed.”

  “I’ll see you there at eight tomorrow evening,” Jonathan said. “It will give me the opportunity to show off the city to you. Wherever you go, hotel restaurants seem to work on the basis that foreign travellers always want to eat the kind of thing they get at home. But you go to faraway lands to be led astray by the local culinary temptations.”

  With that, he tucked a pastry into his mouth.

  2

  The next morning, Diana prepared for her meeting with Jonathan Singh by taking a guided tour of the city, including the museum and some very beautiful temples, which she enjoyed photographing. As she had assumed, the palm-leaf manuscripts in the museum were not forecasts, but stories and historical records, as her guide, a Mr. P. Suma, explained. Although he spoke excellent English, Diana’s head was soon spinning with all the Tamil terms and names that he used when talking about the history of his country.

  In order to distract herself from the brief ride in one of the speeding red minibuses, Diana thought about the forthcoming evening with a thrill of anticipation.