The Butterfly Box

Chapter 1


Viña del Mar, Chile, Summer 1982

Federica opened her eyes onto a different world. It was hot, but not humid for the sea breeze carried with it a cool undercurrent from where it had dallied among the waves of the cold Pacific Ocean. Her room was slowly coming to life in the pale morning light that spilled in through the gap in the curtains, casting mellow shafts onto the floor and walls, swallowing up the remains of the night, exposing the regimental line of sleeping dolls. The constant barking of Señora Baraca’s dog at the end of the street had left the animal with little more than a raw husk, but he still continued to bark as he always did. Some day he’d lose his voice altogether, she thought, which wouldn’t be a bad thing; at least he wouldn’t keep the neighbours awake. She had once tried to feed him a biscuit on her way to school but her mother had said he was probably riddled with all sorts of diseases. ‘Best not to touch him, you don’t know where he’s been,’ she had advised, pulling her six-year-old daughter away by the hand. But that was the problem; he had never been anywhere. Federica breathed in the sweet scent of the orange trees that floated up on the air and she could almost taste the fruit that hung heavily like lustrous packages on a Christmas tree. She kicked off the sheet that covered her and knelt on the end of her bed, leaning out through the curtains onto a world that wasn’t the same as the one the sun had set on the day before. With the rising of the new sun a quiver ran through her skinny body, causing a broad smile to spread across her pale face. Today her father was coming home after many months travelling.

Ramon Campione was a giant of a man. Not only in stature - at well over six foot he was tall for a Chilean and tall for an Italian, which was where his family originated from - but in his gigantic imagination, which, like the galaxy itself, seemed never-ending and full of surprises. His adventures took him to the far corners of the earth where he was inspired by everything different and everything beautiful. He travelled, wrote and travelled some more. His family barely knew him. He was never around long enough for them to find the person behind the writing and the magical photographs he took. In the mind of his daughter he was more powerful than God. She had once told Padre Amadeo that Jesus was nothing compared to her father who could do so much more than turn water into wine. ‘My papa can fly,’ she had said proudly. Her mother had smiled apologetically to the priest and rolled her eyes, explaining to him

quietly that Ramon had tried out a new contraption in Switzerland for flying off the mountain on skis. Padre Amadeo had nodded in understanding but later shook his head and worried that the child would only get hurt when her father toppled, as he surely would some day, off the tall pedestal she had so blindly placed him upon. She should focus such devotion on God not man, he thought piously.



Federica longed for it to be time to get up, but it was still early. The sky was as pale and still as a large, luminous lagoon and only the barking dog and the clamour of birds resounded against the quiet stirring of dawn. From her bedroom she could see the ocean disappearing into the grey mists on the horizon as if the heavens were drinking it up. Fler mother often took them to Caleta Abarca beach, as they didn’t have a swimming pool to cool off in, although the sea was almost too cold for bathing. Sometimes they would drive to the small seaside village of Cachagua, about an hour up the coast, to stay with her grandparents who owned a pretty thatched summerhouse there surrounded by tall palms and acacia trees. Federica loved the sea. Her father had once said that she loved the sea because she was born under the sign of Cancer whose

symbol was a crab. She didn’t much like crabs though.

After a long while she heard footsteps on the stairs then the high-pitched voice of her younger brother Enrique, nicknamed Hal after Shakespeare’s ‘Prince Henry’. That had been Ramon’s idea - although his wife was English she had no interest in literature or history unless it was about her.

‘Darling, you’re dressed already!’ Helena gasped in surprise as Federica jumped across the landing and into Hal's bedroom where she was dressing him.

‘Papa’s coming home today!’ she sang, unable to remain still even for a moment.

‘Yes, he is,’ replied Helena, taking a deep breath to restrain the resentment she felt towards her absent husband. ‘Keep your feet still, Hal darling, I can’t put your shoes on if you keep moving.’

‘Will he be here before lunch?’ asked Federica, automatically helping her mother by opening the curtains, allowing the warm sunshine to flood into the dim room with the enthusiasm that belongs only to the morning.