Butterflies in November

FORTY

I settle the whole business over the phone and get the car dealer to take the old car back and send the box of chocolates that is included in the offer to my friend in maternity ward 22b.

We wait for the brand-new car to arrive across the desert before the evening, before setting off with some hot cocoa in the thermos. I get a thirty-five per cent discount off the hotel bill because of the pellet holes in the curtains, an extra fifteen per cent because of the noise caused by the ball during the night and another fifteen per cent because there were no staff available to enable me to change rooms, thus forcing me to move into the vet’s room for the night.

“Not that it would have changed much,” says the girl at the reception desk, “we were fully booked.” She then offers to wash and dry one load of clothes while we are waiting. The hotel manager hasn’t resurfaced yet, even though we’re well into the afternoon.

The boy shows considerable interest in the jeep when it arrives and gloats on it with the other men, kicking its wheels, as I transfer our things from one car to the other. He has slipped both hands into the pockets of his overalls. The hotel staff are very impressed by this exchange of vehicles out in the middle of nowhere. We don’t have much further to travel now; tonight we’ll be sleeping in the newly planted bungalow on the edge of a ravine.

“Thanks for last night,” a voice close to my ear says, “it was nice to meet you, are you leaving then?”

They all say the same thing, “Thank you for your stay.”

“Sorry about the bird,” I say.

“And the pellet shots,” he adds.

“Yeah.”

“The rest wasn’t so bad.”

“No, the rest wasn’t so bad.”

We formally say goodbye to each other by the car. The hotel staff form a semicircle at the bottom of the steps, like the servants of a manor bidding farewell to a distinguished guest. The boy stands beside me and stares up at us, looking from face to face. He seems anxious:

“Can animals be handicapped?”

Being his personal sworn interpreter, I translate the expert’s answers for my protégé:

“More often than not, they die shortly after birth. If not, they’re normally put down fairly soon. Some of them are stuffed and end up in a natural history museum. A lot of people are fascinated by the sight of two-headed Siamese lambs and five-legged pigs.”

I loosely interpret for him.

“What about deaf horses, are they stuffed too?”

“No, I don’t ever remember coming across that in my work. But some friends of mine have two handicapped dogs that they are very fond of, a mother who is blind and a female puppy who’s a dwarf. Their son is that boy who was with me yesterday.”

“Is he an adopted son?” I think I might have then asked him, but I probably didn’t, because I hear the vet asking me when we can meet again.

“I’m not sure that would be very sensible,” I answer. “I was thinking of spending a month on my own. Alone with Tumi,” I add.

“Well, if you happen to change your mind, I’d be delighted, my wife spends a lot of time away because of her work.”

Before saying goodbye he leans over my shoulder, as if he were peering at the sand desert ahead of us, and murmurs into my ear:

“I know what you’re looking for, but I wouldn’t stir anything up, if I were you. The past should be left in the past. But I can tell you that he has a gift for languages and is scared of heights. He hopes to study abroad one day.”