The Butterfly Box Read Free

Señora, but she’s a good housekeeper, too,’ said Lidia fondly, the large black mole on her chin quivering as her face creased into a wide smile. ‘She cleaned up all the breakfast by herself.' she added in a mildly accusing tone, for Señora Helena always left everything to her daughter.
    ‘I know.' Helena replied. ‘What I would do without her, I can’t imagine,’ she said nonchalantly, flicking her cigarette ash into the bin and leaving the room. She walked upstairs. She was weary. Her heart weighed her down so that even the stairs were an effort to climb. She walked along the cool white corridor, her bare feet padding over the wooden floorboards, her hand too disenchanted even to deadhead the pots of pale orchids as she passed. In her bedroom the white linen curtains played about with the silk breeze as if they were trying to open all by themselves. Irritably she pulled them apart and looked out across the sea. It lay tremulous and iridescent, beckoning her to sail away with it to another place. The horizon promised her freedom and a new life.
    ‘Mama, shall I help you tidy your room?’ Federica asked quietly. Helena turned around and looked at the small, earnest face of her daughter.
    ‘I suppose you want to tidy it up for Papa?’ she replied, grabbing an ashtray and stubbing her cigarette into it.
    ‘Well, I’ve picked some flowers . . .' she said sheepishly.
    Helena’s heart lurched. She pitied her daughter for the love she felt for her father in spite of the long absences that should have made her hate him. But no, she loved him unconditionally and the more he went away the happier she was to see him when he returned, running into his arms like a grateful lover. She longed to tell her the truth and shatter her illusions, out of spite because she wished she still shared those illusions. She found the world of children so blissfully simplistic and she envied her.
    ‘All right, Fede. You tidy it up for Papa, he’ll love the flowers, I’m sure,’ she said tightly. ‘Just ignore me,’ she added, wandering into the bathroom and closing the door behind her. Federica heard her switch on the shower and the water pound against the enamel bath. She then made the bed, scenting the sheets with fresh lavender like her grandmother had shown her and placed a small blue vase of honeysuckle on her father’s bedside table. She folded her mother’s clothes and placed them in the old oak cupboard, rearranging the mess that she found there until all the shelves resembled a well-organized shop. She opened the windows as wide as they could go so that the scents of the garden and the sea would spirit away the dirty smell of her mother’s smoke. Then she sat at her dressing table and picked up an old photograph of her father that grinned out at her from behind the glass of an ornate silver frame. He was very good looking with glossy black hair, swarthy skin, shiny brown eyes that were honest and intelligent and a large mouth that smiled the crooked smile of a man with an irreverent sense of humour and easy charm. She ran her thumb across the glass and caught her pensive expression in the mirror. In her reflection she saw only her mother. The pale blonde hair, the pale blue eyes, the pale pink lips, the pale skin - she wished she had inherited her father’s dark Italian looks. He was so handsome and no doubt Hal would be handsome just like him. But Federica was used to getting a lot of attention because of her flowing white hair. All the other girls in her class were dark like Hal. People stared at her when she went into Valparaiso with her mother and Señora Escobar, who ran the sandwich shop on the square, called her ‘La Angelita’ (the little angel) because she couldn’t believe that a human being could have such pale hair. Helena’s best friend, Lola Miguens, had tried to copy her by dying her black hair blonde with peroxide, but had lost her nerve half way through so now she walked around with hair the colour