The Butterfly Box(209)

Finally he was able to struggle into his coat and leave the office. He struggled against the wind to his car, then struggled with the traffic to drive home. But most of all he struggled with the impulses that implored him to drop his defences and beg her to come home. Every day was a battle, but so far his determination had won.

It was dark when he arrived home. Gloomily he wondered what he was going to eat that night. He pictured a bowl of cereal or a plate of cheese and biscuits and speculated on the television schedule - there was rarely anything worth

watching. Then he noticed the lights on in the house. The cleaner who came twice a week had obviously forgotten to switch them off, which was the least she could do seeing as there was so little work to be done. Helena had needed tidying up after her; Arthur did not. The place was as neat and as dead as a museum. How he longed for his wife’s chaos to ruffle the life back into it.

He put his key in the lock and the door. When he stepped inside the aromatic smells from the kitchen reached his nostrils and he recognized at once the familiar whiff of Helena’s roast chicken. His breath caught in his throat as his heart accelerated with hope and reserve, in case he should find it a dream and wake disappointed. Without taking his coat off he walked unsteadily up the corridor. He could hear the sound of footsteps and the light clatter of utensils as someone walked about behind the closed door. He dreaded opening it and his trembling fingers hesitated on the handle, aware of the terrible anguish that would follow if he were to discover not his wife but the cleaner, or his daughter or anyone else.

Then he assembled his courage and opened it. When he lifted his eyes he found Helena peering into a steaming saucepan, dressed in a pair of suede trousers and silk shirt protected by her grubby cook’s apron. He blinked at her

in amazement. She replaced the lid and turned to face him. Her heavily applied mascara could barely conceal her remorse. She smiled at him nervously. But when she recognized the longing in his expression she regained her confidence and walked over to him and drew him into her arms.

Neither spoke. They didn’t need to. Arthur pulled her against him and breathed deeply into her softly perfumed neck. They held each other for a long time, appreciating as never before the power of their love. Finally Helena pulled away. She looked into Arthur’s shiny eyes and whispered tearfully, ‘I’ll never behave like that again.’

Arthur stared down at her with intention. ‘I know,’ he replied gravely, ‘because I won’t let you.’

Ramon waved as the car carrying Federica to Santiago airport disappeared up the sandy track, leaving behind it a cloud of dust and a cheerful sense of accomplishment. He smiled at her until she was long out of sight and recalled that heartbreaking moment twenty years before when she had waved tearfully goodbye not knowing when she would see him again. But now she was a grown woman she would decide when she would return. He was deeply proud

of her and grateful, for they had embraced not only as father and daughter but as friends. He had handed her his manuscript to give to Helena and told her she could read it on the plane. She had embraced her grandparents, Ramoncito and finally Hal. But her tears hadn’t been of sorrow but of joy because they had all found each other again and as Mariana said, ‘Chile isn’t the moon’ - it was farewell not goodbye.

Then Ramon drove up to the cemetery to talk to Estella. Ramoncito didn’t want to go because he was in the middle of a highly competitive chess game with Hal. Tell her I’m with my brother,’ he said proudly and Ramon smiled at him and nodded. Chess was a language they both understood.

Ramon parked the car in the shade and walked across the long shadows towards Estella’s grave. It was early evening and the rich smells of grass and flowers rose up on the air to mingle with the intangible sense of death that haunted the tranquil cliff top. He paused as he often did at the graves to read the inscriptions chiselled into the stone. One day I’ll come up here, he thought, and never go back. The certainty of death didn’t frighten him, on the contrary, it gave him a feeling of peace. After all, in an uncertain world it was the only thing one could be sure about.

As he approached the tall green pine tree he saw Pablo Rega sleeping against the headstone with his chin tucked into his chest and his black hat pulled low over his eyes. He greeted him cheerfully with the intention of waking him. But Pablo didn’t stir. He remained as still and lifeless as a scarecrow. Then Ramon knew that he had made his final journey and crossed himself. He crouched down and felt the old man’s pulse just to be sure. There was no movement in his veins, for his spirit had left his decrepit body and joined those of the people who had gone before him, like Osvaldo Garcia Segundo and, of course, Estella. At that thought Ramon felt an acute twinge of envy. He was aged and alone. His sons would no doubt fall in love just like he had, but Ramon was too old to love again. Estella had tamed his fugitive heart and it would always belong to her.