He spread her legs in one swiff movement and fell on her, probing his way into the centre of her being, jolting her back to consciousness. He rode her hard and selfishly as if he was aware that he was slowly losing control. That little by little she was loving him less. She opened her eyes and fixed them to a point on the wall. Then the strangest thing happened. She mentally withdrew
from her body, as if it wasn’t happening to her, as if it were someone else lying helpless on the bed. She projected her mind back to Chile, back to Cachagua, to the beach where the sand was warm and soft like Lidia’s flour and the sea was hypnotic and soothing, drowning out her discomfort and humiliation.
In the barren months that followed, the butterfly box became her only source of consolation. She opened it to escape her unhappiness, reading her father’s letters and floating far away on the memories that were evoked by the magic of the strange, sparkling stones. As Torquil’s lovemaking grew more brutal the butterfly box became more vital. It was her lifeline. It was the only thing that sustained her.
It was at her lowest ebb that Federica received an anonymous note, delivered by hand through her letterbox like an epistle from Heaven.
You shall be free indeed when your days are not without a care nor your nights without a want and a grief
But rather when these things girdle your life and yet you rise above them naked
She turned the note over in search of a further note explaining whom it was from. But there was nothing. Just a simple piece of white paper with the verse typed onto it. She sat down and read it again. She didn’t recognize it. She read it again slowly, thinking very carefully about each word. Whoever had sent it obviously wanted to help her, but remain anonymous at the same time. There was only one person she knew of who would have reason to hide his identity. Her heartbeat quickened and the adrenaline pumped through her veins awakening senses that had grown sluggish with sorrow. Ramon Campione. It could only be from her father. How typical of him to send an anonymous note. He had never announced himself. He had always just turned up unexpectedly. It had driven her mother mad, but it was his way. Then the content of the note was also very much his style. She remembered his stories, sometimes mystical, often spiritual. The turn of phrase was reminiscent of his own poetry, but above all it was his philosophy. He had always risen so far above every care and grief, risen so high that they had no longer touched him. He had been unaffected by cares even when his own family’s cares and needs had driven
them away from him. He had let them go. Once he had cared for her. In fact, there had been a time when she had believed his love to be unconditional and everlasting. But she had been disappointed, bitterly disappointed. Perhaps this was a tentative plea for forgiveness. Maybe he was trying to explain himself and his carelessness. But she hadn’t seen him for years. Why was he suddenly thinking about her now? Where was he? How come he knew of her unhappiness? Why did he bother?
Later, when she lay in the darkness next to the distant body of her husband, she pondered on the note that she had hidden at the bottom of the butterfly box. Her father cared. He wouldn’t have sent the note if he didn’t care. She smiled to herself. He knew she was suffering and he wanted to help. The note was a clear instruction. She had to learn how to rise above her problems. The trick was not to let them get her down, to take control. It was all a state of mind. Her unhappiness was because she allowed life’s struggles to burden her. For the first time since her marriage she felt a twinge of excitement as she took the initial cautious step in regaining control. She was tired of being a victim, it was time to take a stand. She was going to go on a diet, enrol in a gym
and rise above her cares naked and unbound. But most importantly she wasn’t alone. Once more she felt the sun on her face and basked in her father's love.
Ramon sat down at his typewriter and began to write. He hadn’t attempted to write a book since the death of Estella which was now over three years ago. He had only written poems. Long poems of tormented verse, venting his pain and his regret in each carefully written line. He hadn’t left Chile, preferring to stay with his son and near Estella’s grave where he would often go to feel close to her, although his reasoning told him that she wasn’t in the ground but in the realm of spirit. He had watched with pride as his son had begun to write his feelings down in a diary. Sometimes they would sit on the beach and Ramoncito would read to him the lines he had composed about his mother. They were at first faltering, often clumsy, as he seemed impatient to release a grief that saw no other avenue of escape. But little by little he had refined his style, taken more time and begun to produce poems of great clarity and beauty. Ramon was touched. ‘Mama will be so proud of you, Ramoncito,’ he’d say, ruffling his hair with his hand.