Butterfly Winter

by W. P. Kinsella

  “I would be grateful for any help you could offer,” said Julio carefully.

  This was the third time in a month he had been invited to dinner with the President. He did not know what to make of it.

  The President smiled again, picking up one of the linen napkins that Julio noticed were heavier than most of the drapes on the windows.

  “Our problem is, as international politics goes, we do not have a solid reason to invade Courteguay, even temporarily.”

  “I still think we can use repression of human rights,” said the Attorney General.

  “Courteguay is no worse than, in fact in many ways it is much freer than, many nations in Central and South America. Dr. Noir persecutes only baseball players and some priests, so far as we can gather.” The President looked to Julio for confirmation.

  “The economy has certainly improved under his dictatorship,” said Julio. “But he has murdered children for playing baseball. He uses his skill as a chiropractor to personally mutilate his enemies, to break their backs and limbs and rearrange their bodies in grotesque shapes. Is that not reason enough to intervene?”

  “Not according to international protocol. During the off-season when you are in Courteguay, are you or your brother’s lives at risk? You’re somewhat of a national treasure. The death of one of you two might be excuse enough.”

  “But which one?” asked Esteban, proving that he had been listening after all. “I would suggest Julio, since I have already been murdered twice.”

  “Dr. Noir is intelligent,” said Julio. “He knows what will create an international incident and what will not. After our retirement it is another matter. Once we are not in the public eye of the United States Dr. Noir will kill us like dogs. We will not be able to retire in safety to our homeland.”

  “If he would just consummate diplomatic ties with Cuba or some other of our enemies. But he rejects all their offers. Bulgaria sent its national soccer team to tour Courteguay. They even offered Dr. Noir box seats for the World Cup final in Brazil,” said the secretary of state. “Just to be safe he’s deported every American from Courteguay, even the three who had become Courteguayan citizens. He takes no chances.”

  “I would like to help with his overthrow,” said Julio. “I have personal reasons for hating Dr. Noir.”

  “And your brother?”

  “Esteban lives life on a more ethereal plane. He is opposed to violence. He turns the proverbial other cheek.”

  “Being referred to in the third person is always a pleasure,” said Esteban.

  “Would you consider becoming President of Courteguay?” the President asked Julio. Then glancing at Esteban, he added, “Perhaps co-presidents?”

  “Neither of us have political aspirations, other than removing Dr. Noir from power. But we have a friend, the man who discovered us so to speak. We will refer to him as Jorge Blanco, and I assure you he will continue in the tradition of all Courteguayan El Presidentes. Looting the treasury and pocketing foreign aid for his personal gain will be his most endearing qualities.”

  “I believe I have met your Mr. Blanco,” said the President. “He dresses in a rather flashy manner, if I remember correctly. Yes, I think he has leadership qualities.”

  Later it would be determined that it was because of Julio that the Wizard became President of the Republic of Courteguay.

  SEVENTY-FOUR

  THE GRINGO JOURNALIST

  When Julio and Esteban returned to Courteguay in retirement, they decided for their own safety to take whatever American aid was available and start the process of overthrowing Dr. Noir.

  As he discussed the overthrow of Dr. Noir with the Wizard, Julio noticed that the Wizard was dressed in a new silk robe with red embellishments brighter than scarlet, purer than vermilion.

  “I want to visit the Hall of Baseball Immortals,” said Julio.

  The Wizard’s eyes shifted rapidly for a split second. He produced a baseball from thin air, tossed it to Julio.

  “Of course you should familiarize yourself with the baseball greats of the past. I should like to see the Hall of Baseball Immortals myself. If you could see fit to pay my way I could accompany you. It is in a place called Cooperstown in the great state of New York. Just before the season starts would be a good time.…”

  “I mean the Courteguayan Hall of Baseball Immortals.”

  The Wizard’s eyes reflected pastoral sunsets. He picked up a silver table lighter from his desk, flicked it and a rainbow-hued parakeet appeared.

  “There is no Courteguayan Baseball Hall of Fame. Where did you get such an idea?”

  “You must remember that I loved Milan Garza’s daughter,” said Julio. “Everyone knows he was murdered and his body is on display there in a crystal coffin.”

  “Are you losing your mind?” asked the Wizard. “Milan Garza had no daughter. He was the most wasted talent in Courteguayan baseball history. He died of alcohol poisoning, on a cot in a flophouse when he was only twenty-nine.”

  SEVENTY-FIVE

  THE GRINGO JOURNALIST

  There are certain protocols even to a revolution. El Presidente, even when it was Dr. Noir holding the office, was given sufficient notice of his overthrow that he had time to make an unhurried escape to the jungle, taking with him a sufficient amount of treasure and cash to eventually finance his return to power.

  There were other protocols to follow concerning the Insurgents, whose forces were in a particularly pitiful condition, consisting of only a few dozen physically and mentally ravaged soldiers, short of courage, weapons, and leadership. Dr. Noir had done something unprecedented. When he overthrew El Presidente, he had also killed the Insurgent leader General Bravura and his highest ranking lieutenants. One of the escaped baseball martyrs, Jose Rincon Valenzuela, had taken command of the Insurgents almost by default. He had not even promoted himself; he was still Sergeant Valenzuela, and his piteous group had no plans to attack Dr. Noir and friends.

  Julio called the President of the United States who promised five hundred military advisors, who united with Julio, Esteban, and their friends, along with Sergeant Valenzeula’s bearded and moldy two dozen, should be able to turn out Dr. Noir.

  But the Doctor did something else unprecedented; he gathered his army and his secret police and determined that they would defend the capitol to the death. This had never happened before. No matter how often the government and insurgents changed places, all warfare was conducted in the jungle. San Barnabas never suffered any damage. Both El Presidente, whoever he might be, and the leader of the insurgents were gentlemen and an outmanned El Presidente retreated safely to the jungle and awaited his turn at power to come.

  The Wizard remained in the background, letting Sergeant Valenzuela lead the Insurgents; the Wizard wanted no part of responsibility for a failed coup, if it indeed failed, and the prospects of success diminished one hundred percent when the American advisors failed to arrive as scheduled. Someone in the CIA forgot that Courteguay was landlocked. The advisors were turned away at the border of first Haiti and later the Dominican Republic. They had to retreat to a hastily summoned aircraft carrier, where forty-eight hours after their estimated time of arrival, they took off in a fleet of helicopters for San Barnabas.

  Dr. Noir in one of his most resplendent uniforms stood on the balcony of the Presidential Palace and appeared to unleash spirals of smoke from his short, black fingers. The helicopters froze in position where they circled the palace. The aircraft idled absently, as they became fixtures in the sky.

  The squads of secret police and soldiers sworn to loyalty to Dr. Noir prepared to attack Julio and Esteban and their ragged collection of baseball martyrs.

  SEVENTY-SIX

  THE GRINGO JOURNALIST

  “They say there are no atheists in battle,” said Esteban. “Have you had a change of heart?”

  “I see no reason to change my beliefs simply because my life is about to end,” said Julio. “I will take as many of Dr. Noir’s secret police with me as po
ssible. Where is that damned Wizard?”

  “This will be my third time to die,” said Esteban, “and I think I may be turning more to your point of view, particularly the premise that there is no need for God in a warm climate.”

  As Dr. Noir’s soldiers moved forward, Julio and Esteban raised their weapons, and their compatriots, already sensing the best option was to live to fight another day, had already begun retreating when a mammoth spiral of butterflies darkened first the sun, then the windows of the Presidential Palace.

  The Secret Police understood firepower, but not the silent river of butterflies. The hired help fled like thieves as the butterflies piled in drifts against the doors and windows of the Presidential Palace until a latch gave way and a spiral of spun gold the size of a muscled arm bore into the palace. Hour after hour the unending horde filled the palace to overflowing. Window after window groaned, cracked, glass toppled inward and a flat tunnel of butterflies the circumference of the missing pane plunged into the palace.

  Dr. Noir in his scarlet and white general’s uniform with the crossed bandoleers full of bullets, stayed on the balcony as long as possible, urging his forces to annihilate the scrubby army led by the Pimental brothers.

  But for the first time in years there was a tinge of fear in Dr. Noir’s heart as he paced the empty palace, batting aside the onslaught of butterflies. They must be harmless, he thought. Not poisonous. What could butterflies do to Dr. Lucius Noir? Still, their sheer numbers frightened him. Could they take up all the air? Her remembered stories of cats curling on the faces of babies, sucking the air out of them. Suddenly a butterfly entered a nostril. Dr. Noir swatted his large nose. The fluttering stopped. He blew the dead butterfly onto the marble floor of the palace.

  SEVENTY-SEVEN

  THE GRINGO JOURNALIST

  Dr. Noir died, not at all as he deserved to die, not at all in keeping with his life, but smothered by millions of curiously soft and beautiful butterflies. With his death Courteguay was in momentary chaos. Until someone remembered the Wizard’s dictum that “It matters not what your qualifications are, it is only important that you look like a leader,” and it was looking like a leader that led to the Wizard becoming President of the Republic of Courteguay.

  The Wizard loved to tell the story of the Chinese warlord who was so huge and scary in his full military regalia that armies often bolted when he came into view. The warlord was stricken, perhaps with cholera, and died a few days later, just as his army was preparing to face yet another battle and feared defeat without the old warlord to lead them. Desperate, his officers dressed the corpse in its finest regalia, strapped him to his horse, and set him at the head of their army. The opposing army stared across a small valley at the imposing figure of the warlord, turned, and quietly slunk away.

  With Dr. Noir dead, the army and civil service was in chaos. General Bravura was gone, in fact all of the military who showed any signs of leadership were gone, so tight had Dr. Noir’s grip been on Courteguay. The Wizard sent a message for Julio and Esteban and Hector to meet him at his home. There, the Wizard had all three help him dress in his finest and brightest uniform.

  “Once, in America, I saw the world covered in snow,” said Julio, “and it was not as white as the linen of your uniform.”

  The Wizard beamed.

  “These crossed ammunition belts are heavy,” grumbled the Wizard, “but it is what is expected of me. Politicians have to sacrifice so much for their country.” His tunic had a scarlet sash that put fresh blood to shame. His epaulets were of flamingo feathers, his cap the ice blue and white of an airline pilot. The Wizard preened in front of his mirror, which no longer showed the reflection of Dr. Noir.

  SEVENTY-EIGHT

  THE WIZARD

  The tabloid story, so far as I know strictly a rumor, which I may have had some small something to do with, stated that when Julio returned to Courteguay he was accompanied by four women, all beautiful, all former models, all natural blondes, none of whom could speak a word of Courteguayan, all of whom were pregnant.

  Fernandella was happy at the prospect of a houseful of grandchildren. Fernandella’s youngest, Jorge, was nearly two years of age, and she often lost track of the number of her children all together, as Hector had never stopped hoping for and trying to produce another set of magical offspring.

  The Wizard, even though he was now President of the Republic, still booked bets on baseball games, and still cheated Hector out of his allowance, even though he now had the ability to steal from the public purse, which he was not hesitant to do. The Wizard calculated that his winnings from Hector Pimental paid for the precious metals on his uniforms.

  “IS THERE LIFE AFTER BASEBALL?” a reporter asked Julio.

  “It leaves a great void,” said Julio, making a circle of his arms, to show how his insides were missing. “But we must go on. My brother is still tuned to the mysteries of religion for solace, although not so much as before. While I have taken on a far greater challenge; I have turned to the mysteries of women.”

  “There are many rumors about your women,” said the reporter.

  “Most of them created by the Wizard,” replied Julio.

  “Rumors are so much more wonderful than truth. I’ve heard that you have five wives, all pregnant, that you bring your women to the office of the President of the Republic so he can examine their bellies. And that his fee for the examination was enough for him to add another balloon to his fleet.”

  “I notice,” said Julio, “that you speak of the Wizard and El Presidente in the same breath as if they are one and the same.”

  “I am a slow learner,” replied the reporter.

  WHAT THE TABLOIDS reported is this.

  “An infield,” said the Wizard, smiling broadly, after he had poked and prodded the quartet of taut-skinned beauties.

  “First base, second base, third base, shortstop,” he proclaimed. “The greatest infield in the history of baseball. And they will be born on the day their father is inducted into the American Baseball Hall of Fame.” The Wizard’s epaulets fluttered about the room, beat enthusiastically against the window for a few seconds before returning to their place on the shoulders of his uniform.

  “But I am not eligible for induction for nearly five years, if I’m elected on the first ballot,” said an alarmed Julio.

  “The infield will be worth waiting for,” said the Wizard, ending his audience.

  The tabloids also reported that Julio called his women, not by name but by their place of origin: I-owa, I-DA-ho, Tenn-Essee, and the Blessed Virginia. The women grew to full term, and waited, and waited, and waited. They went for a walk each afternoon in the rose garden of the Pimental mansion, and blurry photos of what might have been four pregnant women in a row in a garden appeared on the covers of more than one magazine. The tabloids reported that they walked in single file, led by Julio, the women pale and beautiful, looking like magazine models displaying maternity clothes.

  The Wizard who claimed the Presidency upon the death of Dr. Noir knew the secret of adequate government. In addition to his spectacular appearance there was the delegation of authority; he also knew that there was no such thing as good government. He knew that eventually he would be overthrown, and deciding that he was too old to head for the jungles and become the guerrilla leader, his policy would be to make hay while the sun shone, so to speak. The Wizard loved foreign bank accounts. He felt that anything Ferdinand Marcos, Idi Amin, or Baby Doc Duvalier could do, he could do better.

  “TELL ME THE TRUTH about your women,” The Gringo Journalist said. “Better yet introduce me. Can it be true that they are all pregnant? Can it be that the births have been postponed until you are elected to the American Baseball Hall of Fame?”

  “That all could be,” said Julio, smiling enigmatically. “Of course the Wizard and I might have also dreamed the whole thing up, with the help of a few tabloid journalists. As someone once said, my mother’s mansion has many rooms.”

  The Gringo J
ournalist was allowed to stay in a wing of Fernandella’s mansion that faced on acres of vegetable gardens. His meals were sent to him and Julio came for an hour each afternoon to continue their interview.

  Though he asked many times, he did not see Julio’s women, until one midnight a sound awakened him and he walked to the window to see an acre of cabbages waltzing in the moonlight, pair by pair, rock solid, so green they appeared blue in the moonglow. As the cabbages swirled to the unheard music, the Gringo Journalist heard a giggle and noticed four women standing at the edge of the dancers, they were young and lithe, dressed in trailing dresses that appeared to be made of gossamer. All were extravagantly pregnant. The women murmured, giggled. Julio appeared, smiling, and one after another waltzed his women about the garden, swirling to the ethereal music, as if dancing in a marble-floored ballroom to a Strauss waltz.

  The next day when Julio arrived for his interview the Gringo Journalist brought up the subject of what he had seen the previous night.

  “Are you going to believe your eyes or what I tell you?” asked Julio. “I have only one woman, Celestina, whom I have known for many years, though she is able to take on many forms. She is a Gypsy girl with a green scarf in her hair, she is a revolutionary in fatigues, dirt smeared on her beautiful face, a bazooka pressed against her shoulder, she is pregnant with a quartet of my handsome sons. When I make love with her she is Quita Garza and no one else, although she does not know that. The rest is rumor. Or so they say.”

  AS THE TIME FOR JULIO’S ELECTION and induction into the Hall of Fame approached, there was a frenzy of activity around both San Barnabas and San Cristobel. The Wizard hissed from one edge of the country to the other making plans for the celebrations. He granted amnesty to hundreds of political prisoners. He announced that the surviving priests were free to come out from behind their chain-link fences, though the priests hastily declined, having found life much easier when not having to deal with parishioners except through protective fencing. Since their incarceration the incidence of sex crimes in Courteguay dropped to practically zero, although the Wizard did his best to suppress that information. Though when it was seized upon by the scurrilous tabloids, he did not deny it.