‘Was he a butterfly collector?’
‘A businessman. He had many beautiful things.’
‘That much is clear.’ He eases the mount out of the case so he can see the underside of the wings. ‘These are from the Pieridae family.’
That’s as far as I got to when I researched them because of their yellow markings, their black spots. But I couldn’t identifytheir species or sub-species. I crane my head out of the door so I can hear what he’s about to say.
He is tilting the display case this way and that. With each flick of his wrist, he is making hundreds of observations.
‘What are they?’ asks Mama.
‘Delias johor.’
‘Sorry?’
‘That’s their binomial, isn’t it?’ I say from the doorway. Mama told me to stay in the bedroom but I push the door open, step out.
He turns.
‘What’s a binomial?’ asks Mama.
‘It’s a classification of species using two names, one for genus, one for species,’ I reply quickly, stumbling over my words, because the look he is giving me is penetrating, without barriers or boundaries, a scrutiny I’ve never experienced before.
‘Lauren is passionate about plants, she reads about them, presses them,’ Mama says proudly. ‘I gave the butterflies to her.’
‘A botanist with butterflies.’ His stare is unbroken.
‘Come here, honey.’ I go over to where Mama is sitting, stand in front of the armchair opposite the sofa. Mama’s knees press into the backs of mine.
‘So, these are yours?’ He holds the butterflies out to me.
I take them from him, balance the mount on my palm.
‘Do you take them out of the case?’
‘Sometimes.’ I realise then, why he is looking at me like that, I’ve done something wrong, I’ve ruined them, devalued them. Behind me, Mama is thinking the same thing, she squeezes my shoulder, she is saying,You didn’t know, it’s all right.But it isn’t.
‘Ever off their pins?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because they’re fragile.’ Instinctively, I draw it to myself.
‘They’re special to you, aren’t they?’
I don’t want to admit it, I don’t want to seem childish or make Mama feel bad. But before the intensity of his gaze, I confess it, nod. The butterflies, like my plants, are life suspended and, in the theatre of my mind, only I have the ticket, only I can visit them again and again.
‘It’s okay. They are special.’
‘Really?’
‘Well, I think so. I’m a lepidopterist, butterflies are my life’s work. You’ve kept them well, I hope you know that.’
Mama releases my shoulder.
‘I wonder if you can help me with something. You’ve spent a great deal of time with them, more than I have. Could you tell me the difference between these two butterflies?’