BUTTERFLY LESSONS
Mari is right. The following Monday Sister Teresa announces in a disapproving voice that we will begin to have lepidoptery classes once a week. Mr Zamora comes to our first class clutching a sheaf of papers under one arm. It is like how he entered church all those weeks ago, except the sharpness of his gestures is exaggerated by how much weight he has lost. There are dark hollows under his eyes, shadows where once there was flesh. His shirt hangs loosely, a large gap between his collar and his Adam’s apple. He has tied string around the waist of his trousers to keep them up.
He clears his throat. Some of the boys at the back won’t stop talking. San and Datu and the other older boys have forgotten how mesmerized they were by the hatching and have gone back to acting like they don’t care about anything. When Sister Teresa announced the classes, they all rolled their eyes and Datu said, ‘Butterflies are for girls,’ though when Sister Teresa asked him why he thought so, he only spluttered and shrugged.
Mr Zamora claps his hands twice, but they still don’t stop. He holds up a hand and rakes his long fingernails across the board with a teeth-chattering screech. We hold our hands over our ears, and he smiles.
‘When I am ready to begin, you must be ready to begin. Anyone who does not behave will be punished. Understood?’
The boys mutter.
‘Good.’ Mr Zamora starts to line up his papers on the desk. He does this very, very slowly, and again I am taken back to Culion, with him lining up his magnifying glass and tweezers.
‘So, lepidoptery.’ Mr Zamora writes it on the blackboard, pressing too hard with the chalk. ‘I once met a stupid man who thought it was “leper-doptery”—’
I bristle. He’s talking about Bondoc, in Doctor Tomas’ house.
‘But in fact the words have the same root. “Leprosy” comes from lepido, meaning “scaly”.’ He grimaces. ‘Having encountered such people myself, I can attest to the suitability of the word. It is quite disgusting to behold.’
My face flushes with anger and a chair scrapes near the back. I turn to see Datu on his feet, his face thunderous. He is thinking of his father, I’m sure, just as I am thinking of Nanay. ‘How dare—’ the boy begins, but Mr Zamora looks up sharply, and smiles at Datu. It is as scary as a shout.
‘I think you had better sit down, boy.’
After a moment’s hesitation, Datu does so. The class lets out a collective sigh of relief.
‘And Lepidoptera, the word for the order of butterflies and moths,’ continues Mr Zamora, switching back to his official, class-teaching voice, ‘means “scaled wing”. Butterfly wings are actually made up of many overlapping scales – though I’m sure you will agree the effect is far more pleasing on wings than it is on faces.’
Datu makes another angry sound, stifled just too late.
‘Come to the front, boy,’ says Mr Zamora in a low voice. He still doesn’t address any of us Culion children by name. Datu slouches up to him. Mr Zamora takes Sister Teresa’s wooden ruler from beside the blackboard, and the nun starts up from her seat at the back.
‘I will not allow you to strike this child.’
‘I was not going to.’ Mr Zamora nudges Datu’s arms up with the ruler, until they are outstretched as if on a cross, then marks the wall beneath each arm with chalk. ‘You will stay with your arms up like that for the full duration of this lesson. If they drop below the line, you will be struck.’
‘Is this really necessary, Narciso?’ Sister Teresa sounds bewildered.
Mari nudges me. Narciso! she mouths. It would be funny normally, but his bizarre behaviour is making my stomach twist.
‘Discipline is necessary, yes.’
Mr Zamora rests his knuckles on the desk. He takes a deep breath, then fixes his bloodshot eyes on each of us in turn, and begins to speak.
‘Our first lesson is on the large tortoiseshell, the butterfly you saw hatch. This butterfly frequents European countries. I had my samples sent from London. I like to breed them from egg stage – something only a very experienced lepidopterist can attempt. They usually prefer to pupate in elm, and again it takes an expert to achieve what I did.’
Once he finds his rhythm it is impossible not to listen to him. His voice grows and strengthens like the butterfly’s wings, and he soon takes to pacing up and down as he did in church. Behind him, Datu’s forehead shines, and his arms begin to shake after only a few minutes. Every time they start to dip below the line, Mr Zamora hits the wall just below them with the ruler.
I am stuck somewhere between disgust and fascination. I feel horribly for Datu, but Mr Zamora is transfixing, speaking without notes in his low voice. I sneak a look at the boys at the back and even they are listening intently. At one point Mr Zamora explains how the caterpillar becomes liquid inside the chrysalis before forming its butterfly shape, and San whistles. Mr Zamora holds out the empty chrysalis and points out how it has lost all its colour, but that once it was a shade of rusty bronze. He holds up a colour sketch to show us. It is amazingly detailed, with shading underneath so it almost looks as if I could reach out and pluck it from the paper. Kidlat stretches his pudgy fingers out to it, but Mr Zamora jerks it away.
‘It even has metallic spots on the dorsal side, very characteristic.’
Sister Teresa clears her throat. ‘Mr Zamora, time’s up.’
Behind him, Datu collapses, hugging his arms to himself. Sister Teresa hurries to him, but Mr Zamora simply gathers up his papers, and steps around the boy and the nun crouching beside him.
The smell of Luko and Mayumi’s cooking wafts through the open door and we head for the eating circle. Mari and I are the last to leave the schoolroom and as we step into the brightness we see Mr Zamora disappearing into the shadows of his hut. He looks triumphant.
The next lessons pick up where he left off. Occasionally he remembers something that makes him flap his hands in excitement and rifle through his sketches to talk about a particular detail. Four weeks into butterfly lessons he has more samples to show us, but we are still only at the chrysalis stage. We are all very well behaved – the memory of Datu wincing at the wall makes sure of that – though once the shorter Igme had a coughing fit and Mr Zamora roared at her to get out. His temper sits below the surface like a second skin, fanged and quick as a snake. He still eats only fruit picked from the trees, and his hands are still raw, scoured and scarred red. When he paces, he gives off a smell of antiseptic.
I still send thoughts from the twilight cliff to Culion most days, and I empty Nanay’s basin of my clothes to put it under my pillow. It isn’t very comfortable but it makes me think of her.
She still has not written another letter. I am beginning to wonder if she needs to put something like a basin under her pillow to remind her of me.
‘I think she’s forgotten me,’ I say to Mari as we look out over the cliff. It is still our secret – we always make sure no one follows us.
‘Impossible,’ says Mari. ‘It’s just that it’s harder being left than leaving. She’s probably trying to get on with things.’
I listen to her words, but they don’t sink in. I have a feeling pressing into my skin, uncomfortable as a rash – an uneasiness. I end every thought with One step less! And also, Are you all right, Nanay?