The Flower Plantation (15 page)

19

Father came home that night and told me my disease wasn't deadly. He said that if I took my medicine, I'd be better within a week – and I was. But being better didn't stop me from being angry with Mother. When she asked me in the lounge how I was, I simply turned my back on her, took down the dictionary and searched for “lepidopterist”. The definition I found felt as familiar as reading my own name.

Lepidopterist /
lɛpɪˈdɒptərɪst
/ n. a person who studies or collects butterflies and moths.

Over the next few months I read it over and over in my head, forming the words with my tongue: “A person who studies or collects butterflies and moths.” That was me! I was already a lepidopterist. Dr Sadler had given me hope. One day I would leave Mother and the plantation and study butterflies wherever I chose. And maybe, I thought, closing the dictionary and putting it back on the shelf, just maybe, I'd take Beni with me.

One Friday in April, when I was imagining Beni and I living together, surrounded by brightly coloured butterflies,
Romeo sneaked into my bedroom. He cowered down on his haunches next to my butterfly farm and inched his muzzle forward. I looked into the farm, and there, in the corner, lay my beloved butterfly – dead.

A deep, long groan broke out of me. I dropped down and stared at its tiger-like stripes and leopard spots. Romeo nuzzled up against me. I groaned again: a mournful, animal cry. Romeo pawed the farm. I placed my hand around it, guarding it from him. He got up and skulked away.

I don't know how much time passed before I finally managed to scoop up the butterfly, but the sun was low and the birds were quiet. Its velvet wings gently tickled my palms, and I could see its hairs and veins in minute detail. I felt a terrible sense of guilt for not having managed to release it at the crater.

When I was certain no one was watching, particularly Mother, I took my butterfly to the garden and buried it next to Monty. I placed a buddleia flower on the mound of earth and shed my final tear.

Later that evening Mother, Father and I went to the hotel. Father told me a ceasefire had been agreed and we were going to celebrate with a “slap-up meal by the pool”. I didn't feel much like celebrating. I could think only of my butterfly buried underground.

Mr Umuhoza showed us to our table, where I positioned my book so that as many people as possible might see it
and think that I was a lepidopterist. At eleven years old I felt certain I could pass as a grown up. That was until Mother said: “Arthur, how many times do I have to tell you, not at the table?”

I turned to Father, but he simply shrugged and tried to catch the waiter's eye. Mother took my book and put it in her handbag, saying: “You can have it after dinner, but not before.”

We were given plates by the waiter and pointed to the patio by the pool, where the buffet table was laden with every nice thing you could imagine. Seeing that table cheered me up a little.

There was a table for bread, cheese and cold meat, and one for starters, soups and salads. There was another one for potatoes – chipped, baked, mashed and roasted – and one for other vegetables. There were five different sorts of meat and fish dishes, and a chef who was barbecuing sausages, steaks and goat brochettes. But, best of all, there were two separate tables for puddings: cheesecake, triple-chocolate cake, pineapple mousse, ice cream in ten different flavours, coconut tart and fruit salad with fruits I'd never seen before. I didn't know where to start.

“Just take a little of what you fancy, Arthur,” said Father. “You can always come back for more.” I wanted to start with pudding, but, knowing better, I followed Father's example and began with some bread, cheese, meat and salad.

We sat down with our plates stacked high and looked out at the pool. The water was lit from below, and lights shone through the surrounding plants. It looked beautiful, even to a boy who had just lost his butterfly and didn't like to swim. We watched the ladies in their swimsuits lying on the loungers, talking to each other and giggling coyly at passing men.

I was about to go back for more food when a shout turned my attention to the bar. It was the witch again! Mother rolled her eyes and sighed. Father cleared his throat and concentrated on his food.

The witch was sitting by the corner of the bar, clutching a drink. Also at the bar was the lady with the pineapple hair, wearing only a bikini top and sarong and surrounded by men. Every time the witch shouted, the group of men grew smaller.

“Arthur, go and get something else to eat,” said Mother.

At the buffet table I dolloped several spoonfuls of mashed potato onto my plate. Then a waiter behind hot urns lifted each in turn, so that I could decide which meat dish to have. I pointed to the lamb stew.

Returning to my seat I saw Mr Umuhoza and Sebazungu arguing by the pool. I couldn't imagine why Sebazungu would be at the hotel on his time off – it was a place only Europeans and Americans could afford to go to – or why he and the hotel manager should be fighting.

Tucking into my stew I watched Mr Umuhoza leave Sebazungu and approach the witch. He stood in such a
way that he blocked her from the lady with the pineapple hair and the one remaining man. Whatever Mr Umuhoza said, it didn't appear to calm her down. The witch threw up her hands and slurred her words. After a while he gave up and came to ask Father for help.

“I'm sorry to ask,” he said, and Mother put down her cutlery and gave Father a severe look.

“Why don't you phone Dr Sadler?” said Father to Mr Umuhoza. This seemed to please Mother a little.

“Certainly, sir,” he said, and left the bar.

At that point a troupe of traditional dancers came in. They wore beads across their chests, wrap skirts, long grass wigs, held spears and had bells on their ankles. They began to dance in the centre of the room, in between our table and the bar. Through the thrusting heads and hair, brandished spears and arms held wide I saw Sebazungu go up to the witch. The drumming started, bells jangled, ladies ululated and spears pounded – all of which prevented us from hearing their conversation. Sebazungu stood, tall and strong, inches from the witch. His face was so close to hers it almost touched. He spoke quietly, his eyes fixed: he barely blinked. The witch, growing more and more irritated, tried to get out of his way. She moved from side to side and back in her stool, but he mirrored her moves. In the end she pushed him, jumped up and, just as the dancers and drummers paused for breath, shouted: “All poachers and pimps should be hung!”

Mother looked aghast. Father closed his eyes. I didn't know what a pimp was, but I knew about poachers and that the witch was one. I couldn't understand why she'd want to be hung. Before I could think of an answer, Dr Sadler arrived and led the witch away. They moved to the wicker seats. Sebazungu left the lounge.

After the fuss had died down, Mother handed me my book and gave me permission to have pudding. At the buffet I took the biggest bowl I could find and filled it up to the brim with every type of dessert. Then I went to the pool and sat down under the palm tree, where nobody could see me.

There I gorged myself until I was so full my sadness subsided and I couldn't manage another drop. I rubbed my belly and watched the ladies on the loungers, their breasts spilling out of their swimming costumes, then Sebazungu suddenly appeared with Beni. I was so thrilled to see her that I jumped up and started towards her. But as I got closer I saw that Beni didn't look the way she usually did. She looked thin; her eyes were small and her mouth tight. And she had make-up on.

Sebazungu had his hand on Beni's shoulder, but it looked as though he was steering her, not guiding her. He took her over to the lady with the pineapple hair, who had joined the other ladies on the loungers. She looked Beni up and down and turned her around, then held Beni's chin and moved her head from side to side, examining her face.

The woman nodded at Sebazungu, who held Beni close, kissed her forehead and touched her bum. She flinched. He then brushed his lips against her nose and lips and ran his hand over her small breasts, then rubbed her farther down, under the hem of her short skirt. Beni was stiff and tense, as if she wanted to resist but couldn't. Sebazungu stepped away and called to someone behind him. Out from the shadows of the trees came Sammy, who pulled Beni roughly away by the hand.

I was up and after them in an instant, through the bar and down the corridor towards the entrance foyer. I was aware of my grunting – anger and words trying to break out of me – but I didn't care. My gut told me I had to get Beni away from him.

“Arthur, where are you going?” said Mother, stopping me in my tracks as Sammy pulled Beni up the stairs to the bedrooms. I pointed in their direction.

“No, no,” said Mother, ignoring my grunting and gesticulating. “We're going home. Come on, your father's waiting.” She took me by the hand and led me away.

As I got into the car I was impelled, like never before, by a desire to talk, to tell my parents that Sammy had taken Beni upstairs, that we had to go after them. I grunted the words I fought to say, almost choking myself in the process. I even banged on the car window, but Mother and Father ignored me, just as they ignored each other.

By the time we arrived home I was so cross with my parents I couldn't bear to be under the same roof as them. Without thinking I picked up my torch, a bottle of soda, pulled on my jacket and went out back leaving Romeo behind. I hurried through the yard and took to the fields, where I stomped through Mother's flowers, deliberately damaging them, until I reached the clearing and the tunnel to the forest.

I didn't pause at the entrance – the soldiers had stopped fighting, the elephants didn't exist, the witch was at the hotel – the forest was hazard-free. I pushed on, farther from Mother and Father, through the trees and the gate, towards the top of Mount Visoke.

The fact that it was pitch-dark didn't bother me, nor did the fact that I was breaking the promise I'd made to Father not to go up the mountain, since he'd broken his part of the promise.

I scrambled up the steep ascent, which led to the witch's camp. When I arrived, I found it no longer looked the way it had before. The cabins were dilapidated; there were no Christmas lights and no socks or boots criss-crossing it. The bath was filled with empty bullet cases, the grass burnt out, and discarded bits of soldiers' kit were littered about the place.

Not wanting to hang around, I kept going up the path. My torch continually lit a circle of fern, moss and bamboo six feet in front of me. I felt nettles sting my ankles and
vines tangle round my shoes, but I tore my feet away and pushed harder.

I was growing short of breath when I slipped on something wet. I managed to catch myself from falling and swung my torch to the ground. There, in the pool of light, was what looked like dung – not the elephant dung I might once have imagined it to be, but what I could only assume was gorilla spoor. Gorillas were the only mammals that could survive that far up the mountain and produce such a large amount of excrement. And the spoor was wet, which meant it was fresh. I knew the gorillas must be close.

Stopping for a drink I noticed hoops of wire – spring traps – all around my feet, which were covered by only a light layer of dirt. I used my bottle to test one. It was snatched away instantly and hung, swirling above my head, from the noose attached to a bamboo pole. Within seconds footsteps approached, a poacher let out a cry, a dog howled, and the din of the clappers on its collar rang out. I hid behind some bamboo and held my breath.

Somehow it didn't surprise me when Sebazungu appeared and checked the snare. On seeing the bottle dangling above him he swore and looked over his shoulders. As he untangled the bottle, the tip of his glove caught in the wire and tore. He tossed both gloves into a hollowed-out
hagenia
stump and left.

When I was sure he was gone, I flashed my torch in the stump. Inside it were bits of wire and string, a knife, two
bottles of beer and a tobacco pipe. Maybe it was Sebazungu – and not the witch – who had snared Monty a few years ago, I thought, and a chill crept up my spine. Perhaps the witch didn't snare and cage gorillas, after all, perhaps Sebazungu did. Not wanting to dwell on the thought, I pushed on towards the crater, flashing my torch from side to side.

A little farther on, in a glade of brambles and thistles about thirty feet from the path, I happened upon a band of gorillas huddled in sleep. A baby suckled at her mother's breast. To one side sat the silverback, his fur bathed in moonlight that had crept out from behind a cloud. He woke and looked up. His smell was of sweat and manure. Our eyes met. “Agh-mmm,” he grunted. My breathing all but stopped. He looked away, scratching himself uninterestedly.

I don't know how long I stood watching those creatures. It felt like seconds, but it may well have been hours. In the end I broke away and climbed higher. The farther I went, the colder it got. Mist and drizzle clung to me as if I was climbing into the clouds.

Then, just as I thought my lungs might burst, the mist lifted and I found myself at Visoke's summit. I could see for miles, all the way to Nyiragongo. It was exhilarating to be up there alone, free from Mother and Father. The crater was filled with a silver lake that shone in the dark. It must have been over a hundred metres wide. Scraggly evergreens stood round its edge like worn-out sentries.

I sat on the grass, which was dotted with clover and wildflowers, and stared at the reflections cast on the lake. A crescent shadow on one side, like an eyelid, gave it the appearance of the silverback's eye. It was almost perfectly still. The only sound I could hear was the throbbing of blood in my ears. I lay down and stared into the stars.

And then, when I'd been lying there for a while, a great rabble of tiny blue butterflies appeared. At first, it didn't look real – an indefinable mass of blue. They flew like confetti fluttering in the breeze. It was so quiet on top of the mountain I could hear the movement of their wings. A sudden rush of sadness hit me. This was where my butterfly belonged, here on the mountain, not buried under a hydrangea bush. I wished more than ever that Beni was with me, and that we'd set our butterfly free.