The Butterfly Park
A Short Story
There was no jolt but the loss of motion was enough to wake Richard. He lifted his head from the table across which he was resting to see Anne smiling down at him.
“We’re here,” she said.
Richard turned to look outside. The tinted windows of their air-conditioned carriage had turned the Malaysian sky grey, seeming to fill it with clouds that threatened rain.
“Not another goat on the line, then?”
Anne was standing. He did the same and they walked to the end of the carriage. Richard’s legs felt stiff and unfamiliar. The train had moved at a walking pace all the way north from Kuala Lumpur and his legs felt as though he had made the journey on foot.
They had spent the night in Kuala Lumpur and then taken the early train north to the Cameron Highlands. Their departure had been spoiled by an argument with the taxi driver who had taken them from the Hilton to the station. They had fled to the platform followed by multi-lingual abuse. The anger of the driver stayed with them on the train and they found themselves snapping at each other, antagonists by proxy.
Richard had enjoyed the release brought about by an argument triggered by a fresh source of resentment. Finally, the pace of the train and the dullness of the view from the windows had lulled, first Anne, and then Richard to sleep.
Their cases lay in racks behind the last seat. Anne went to pick hers up.
“I’ll get these, “ Richard said. “You get the door.”
When the door of the train opened it was like an unveiling. The shock of the light made Richard stumble on the steps down from the train and his ankle twisted under him as he stepped onto the platform. He remained upright only by leaning heavily on the cases he carried.
“Are you all right?” Anne landed gently beside him and put a hand on his shoulder.
“Yes.”
No other passengers descended and after a shout from a man they couldn’t see, the train eased itself once more into motion. They had to watch it leave before they could cross the tracks to the station building and the exit. Richard looked for some sign of the hills but tall trees crowded the small station and gave no scope for a view. Clouds massing in the sky to the north were the only indication of any local changes in altitude. Real clouds this time.
The station building itself was closed but they simply walked past it to the road beyond. A line of five taxis stood waiting. For what? thought Richard. The receptionist at the Kuala Lumpur Hilton had told them it was out of season in the Cameron Highlands and their lone descent from the train seemed to confirm this. These taxi drivers obviously waited from habit.
Four of the drivers stood smoking by the lead car, a black Nissan. The fifth driver stood by his car, wiping a damp rag against the white walls of his front nearside tyre. The car was a 1950s Mercedes, with a powder blue body beneath a white roof that was echoed in the white-walled tyres. Richard put down the cases. The smoking drivers were casting their cigarettes aside and making towards them. Anne had begun to move towards the Nissan.
“Wait a minute,” said Richard.
“What?”
“The Mercedes.” He pointed.
“Is he a taxi?”
“Let’s find out,” said Richard.
Richard picked up the cases once more and began walking towards the Mercedes. The four taxi drivers began walking more quickly towards them.
“Taxi, please?” said the lead driver.
The driver of the Mercedes looked up, saw Richard and his cases, and snapped a few words in Malay at the other drivers. There were a couple of groans and some finger snapping and hand gestures but the drivers stopped walking. Anne ran up beside Richard.
“Nothing like making a good first impression with the locals,” she said.
Richard and Anne stopped beside the car and Richard put down their cases. The driver continued to wipe at the walls of the tyres. Anne nudged Richard and they shared a quick smile.
“Excuse me,” said Richard.
The driver stood upright and turned to look at Richard. Then he looked at Anne as if noticing her for the first time. He smiled a grin that kept getting larger until Richard found himself starting to smile in response.
“Hello,” said Richard, because there didn’t seem to be any way to get past the smiling.
The driver nodded but kept looking at Anne. Richard turned to her and gestured for her to speak.
“We’re going to Strawberry Park,” she said.
“Fields,” said Richard.
“Park,” said Anne.
“Park,” said the driver.
“Yes. Sorry,” said Richard.
The driver wiped his hand on the rag he’d used for the tyres and held it out to Anne.
“I am Othman,” he said.
“Hello,” said Anne. She took his hand.
“I’m Richard and this is my wife, Anne,” said Richard. He offered his hand to Othman. Othman took a while releasing Anne’s hand before swiping it cursorily across Richard’s palm.
“Get in,” said Othman.
Richard moved to pick up a case.
“Leave, leave,” said Othman. He opened the rear door of the car and ushered them onto the leather of the bench seat. Once Richard was seated Othman shut the door and went to the boot and raised it. He made the cases look childishly light when he carried them to the boot.
The gap between them on the back seat felt large but Richard made no move to close it. He didn’t feel like relinquishing his place at the window: he was looking forward to the views as they climbed into the highlands.
Othman closed the boot with a sharp snap and walked round to the driver’s door. Before he got into the car he directed one more salvo of Malay at the other drivers, who had begun to walk closer again, like a circling pack of hungry scavengers. This time they nodded and a couple of shouts were returned, accompanied by smiles. Othman opened his door and got in.
“Bastards,” he said.
His bulk was more apparent when he was seated and Richard was glad that he had sat on the opposite side of the car. Although he guessed he was perhaps only half the weight of their driver, he would provide some necessary ballast to help in the cornering.
The car started and the breeze from Othman’s open window swept into the back, slicing through Anne’s hair and then along the back ledge and onto Richard’s neck. There was something thrilling about the sensation of this air suddenly playing about them. For the first time on the trip, Richard believed they would come out of it OK.
“OK window?” said Othman.
“Are you OK with it?” said Richard.
“Loving it,”said Anne and she smiled at Richard.
“Yes,” said Richard. “Please leave it open.”
“Good,” said Othman. “I go slow.”
* * * * *
A small stream ran under the road as they swung right for the next ascent. Some stalls were set out beside the road in a passing place and Othman drove the car into a space beyond the last of these. He looked over his shoulder at Richard. They had been driving for no more than fifteen minutes.
“Legs,” he said. Richard nodded.
They crossed to the other side of the road. Below them the river dropped steeply in its gorge and there was a series of small falls. A kingfisher dived in and out of one of the pools at the foot of a fall. Richard touched Anne on the arm and pointed to the bird.
“It doesn’t seem to be catching anything,” said Anne.
“Maybe it’s just having fun,” said Richard.
A number of shacks clung to the almost sheer bank of the gorge under the level of the road. They were in the shadow of the trees that rose tall from the opposite side of the road and their walls sat in a constant mist of moisture thrown up from the falls.
“Shall we buy something?” said Anne.
“Why?”
Anne pointed across to the shacks. Richard shrugged and thrust his hands in the pockets of his shorts. He looked away from the stalls and began walking to the car, aware that Othman and the stallholders were watching.
“You must need something.”
Richard stopped. “Nail clippers.” He didn’t look at Anne.
While Anne let Othman lead her into the group of stalls, Richard stood by the car and looked into a gully beyond. There was no flashing brilliance of a hunting kingfisher on this side. The slope leading from the stopping place to the floor of the forest beyond was strewn with rubbish. Discarded boxes and other packaging from the trinkets and tat on view in the stalls. Richard turned away.
* * * * *
The sign at the bottom of the drive promised a resort but it was was no more than an ugly hotel. Only the view consoled Richard. Their room was bare, a minimal coat of paint covering concrete walls, a patina of linoleum the concrete floor. In the bathroom a solitary threadbare towel hung from a broken towel rail. Richard placed his new nail clippers — which looked as if they might have come from a Christmas cracker — on the bare glass shelf attached to the wall below a mottled mirror and a chipped hand basin.
“It’s only for two nights,” said Anne.
“At least it’s too cold for mosquitoes,” said Richard.
“I’m sorry. I thought this would be special.”
“It is. I can’t remember being anywhere quite so special.”
He walked out onto the small balcony. Their room was at the front of the hotel and he could see the top of the road up which they had come from the station. He wondered if Othman was heading back down but remembered their train had been the only one stopping there today. And when he peered over the balcony railing and down to the front of the hotel, he saw the Mercedes parked as it was when they left it. No sign of Othman, though.
Anne joined him on the balcony.
“Is it strong enough for both of us?”
“You saying I’m fat?” said Richard.
Anne laughed and pushed an arm around his waist and rested her head against his shoulder.
“Peaceful,” she said.
“Very,” said Richard.
“It was nice of Othman to offer to drive us tomorrow.”
“Yes,” said Richard. “But I suspect money and a quiet time of year may be the main motives.”
“Still,” said Anne.
“Still.”
Habit led them to take a siesta. The altitude meant that for the first time in weeks they could sleep without air-con. Richard woke free from sweat and found he felt refreshed. He left Anne still dozing and took a shower, hoping the towel wouldn’t fall apart before he managed to dry himself.
Darkness fell suddenly and they went down to the bar for a drink before dinner. They had booked a table at check-in but they were the only diners when they entered the restaurant.
“Perhaps it’s self-catering,” said Richard.
“Ha.”
Choices were limited but the staff friendly and the service quick and the food tasty enough. Richard found little to complain about and on his third beer finally felt like he was ready to relax. He even thought he might tell Anne some of the things that had been worrying him.
“Shall we go out to the terrace?” said Anne.
“Sure.”
Richard turned to the waiter and signalled for another beer.
“You want something?”
“No, I’m fine,” said Anne.
Anne led the way and chose a swing seat that looked out over the sweep of land towards the golf course. The nearness of the forest, with its cackles and coughs and noises seemingly created in the imagination of a horror film sound effects technician, gave the place an artificial air that Richard enjoyed. The darkness helped, too.
They sat. Richard accepted his new beer from the waiter and downed what was left in his old glass before placing it on the waiter’s tray.
“Thank you,” said Anne.
The waiter nodded to her and backed away into the restaurant. Richard sipped from his fresh beer and looked at Anne.
“Why did you do that?”
“What?”
“Say ‘thanks’ to the waiter.”
“I was being polite,” said Anne.
“I was finishing my beer.”
“Does it matter who says ‘thanks’?”
Richard switched hands. The beer glass was cold. He looked for a table but the only flat surface was the top rail of the low fence in front of them that marked the edge of the terrace. It was just out of reach. He stretched forward but his movement just pushed the swing seat backwards. Some beer spilled from the glass onto his arm.
“Fuck,” he said.
“It’s just a little beer,” said Anne.
Richard stood up.
“Stupid seat. I’m going inside.”
“Right,” said Anne.
“Coming?”
“Not yet. I’m enjoying the view.”
Richard walked back into the restaurant and sat back at their table. He smiled at the waiter.
“One more beer, sir?”
“Yes,” said Richard. “Thank you.”
* * * * *
Anne was asleep when he got back to the room. Or pretending to be asleep, which was fine with him.
After a couple more beers, the waiter had disappeared into the kitchens and left Richard alone in the restaurant. He sat for a while and finished the beer. He didn’t see Anne leave. He had had half hoped she would come in from the terrace and join him, or at least suggest they went upstairs. The thought of the following day with Anne and Othman in this very dull place made him feel suddenly very alone. He stood and decided to go and look for the waiter in the kitchens.
The staff were watching a football match on a small black and white television set. The signal was grainy and the picture shifted as though the players were being buffeted by strong winds. They made space for Richard to pull up a stool. One of the men handed him a fresh beer.
The game went into extra time and the beers kept coming. Richard found it hard to follow the match, partly because of the low quality picture, partly because the beers were now causing him to nod off for moments at a time, and partly because the men seemed to be supporting both teams at the same time. Finally it finished, the television dimmed, lights in the kitchens went off, and Richard found himself walking up to his room.
The balcony door was open. He stepped out and sucked in the air. Cool with a hint of forest decay. Not a wine he’d want to taste. He looked down at the front of the hotel. For some reason he had expected to see the Mercedes still waiting. No doubt Othman had family to return to. He would be lying beside his wife and breathing the deep breaths of the overweight and satisfied man. Richard envied him.
* * * * *
Richard drank a coffee for breakfast while Anne ate beef strips that tried to look like bacon. She didn’t seem to be enjoying them. She refused to speak and Richard was happy to do his bit to maintain the silence.
Othman was standing by the Mercedes. The tyres looked as if he had cleaned them again. Richard worried that he would wear out the side walls before the tread went.
“I think he may have a bit of OCD about those tyres,” he said.
“Sh, he’ll hear you.”
But Richard smiled and waved and put his hand out to Othman as they reached the bottom of the steps. Othman nodded and touched Richard’s fingers but he reserved his smile for Anne.
“How is the beautiful lady this morning? Did you sleep well?”
“Yes, thank you,” said Anne.
“When I let her,” said Richard.
Anne turned to him and twisted her mouth in an expression of distaste. Othman simply turned away to open the door for Anne.
Richard opened the door on the other side of the car for himself and had barely settled in the seat before Othman pulled away from the parking spot and headed down the hill.
Anne kicked him on the side of the calf.
“What was that comment about?” She tried to keep her voice low and the words were almost hissed at Richard.
Richard shrugged.
“I just wanted to remind him that you’re with me,” he said.
“Pathetic.”
Richard turned away and looked out at the rhododendrons. Fucking rhododendrons everywhere. And behind them, the tea plantations in the terraced slopes up to the forested hilltops.
“Where are you taking us this morning, Othman?” said Richard.
“Shiitake first, then tea.”
Richard looked across to Anne.
“Didn’t you takashit already?”
Anne tried to look angry but Richard could see she was smiling as she turned away and looked out of the window at the rhododendrons on her side of the road.
“As I said, pathetic,” she said.
* * * * *
The shiitake farm was a hut filled with logs in which the mushrooms grew from slits made in the sides. He wondered at Anne’s ability to feign interest and to no doubt make Othman feel that he had done well in bringing them here. Richard had never enjoyed the taste of shiitake mushrooms and seeing them growing in their damp logs did little to change his opinion.
Richard’s hangover was easing a little and he wondered if there would be beers available at the tea plantation.
There was not even tea available. Not to drink, anyway. A passionate Chinese woman explained the Scottish past of the plantation and then showed them sacks of dried leaves of various quality. The air was full of tea dust and Richard found his mouth getting drier and drier as the morning progressed.
Back in the car, Richard leaned towards the front seat and tapped Othman on the shoulder.
“Yes.”
“Is there a bar near here?”
“A bar?” Othman looked up into the rear view mirror.
“A bar, yes,” said Richard. “I would like a beer. Mushrooms and tea make for a dry mix.”
“Richard,” said Anne.
Othman nodded.
* * * * *
The car stopped in front of a small hut. It stood outside a patch of land that appeared to have been hacked from the forest and then covered with a large net. A small sign announced that this was The Butterfly Park. Othman explained that if they visited the park, there was a small shop at the exit. It sold beers from a fridge.
“Do you want one?” said Richard.
Othman looked at Richard and said nothing.
“Sorry,” said Richard.
Othman nodded and turned away. Then he turned back and spoke to Anne.
“I will bring the car round and wait by the exit.”
“Thank you,” said Anne.
Richard took her hand.
“Come on,” he said.
But Anne held back.
“What’s wrong?”
“Butterflies,” said Anne.
“Yes.”
“I don’t like them.”
Richard laughed.
“I’m serious,” said Anne.
“Butterflies?”
“Yes.”
Richard stepped back from her. His mouth was very dry and he didn’t feel like talking. The sound of the Mercedes came to him as it wound its way up the short stretch of road to the top of the Butterfly Park. It would take longer to walk by road than through the park itself. He looked at the tickets in his hand.
“I’ll look after you,” he said.
* * * * *
The first part of the park was simply a corridor lined with cases in which butterflies were pinned to samples of the foliage from their likely habitats. A few signs explained in convoluted English what they were seeing in the cases. Anne seemed inclined to linger and look at the cases but Richard was impatient to reach the shop, grab a beer, and then head back to the hotel.
A single door took them from the corridor to the outside. A path of crazy paving wound through bushes and trees under the great canopy of the black netting. The air seemed heavy with scent and butterflies. Richard strode onto the path, pulling at Anne’s hand and felt her follow.
He was indifferent to the butterflies and walked ahead with purpose.
“Richard.”
He realised Anne’s hand was no longer in his and he stopped and turned. She was a couple of yards of behind him, looking directly at him as if he was a stranger.
He looked down at his shirt. The sleeves puffed and shimmered with butterflies, their wings applauding silently. More butterflies crawled across his hands like an animated tattoo. He could feel nothing.
“Richard,” said Anne. “Please.”
He looked at Anne and the butterflies moving across her clothes and round her neck, and at the tears that fell down to them. Then he looked over her head and across to the canopy of the jungle that followed the rise of the hills above them and he rested his eyes there and slowly let them close.
THE END
