Whenever the master saw him, he would say: "And how's the young entomologist, today?" and Karl would flash him a smile. When Karl was older it was almost certain that he would be given a position as a footman. He would be the very first Cape Colored footman in this district.
This evening it was very hot and the master and mistress were entertaining a large party of guests to dinner. Karl sat behind a screen and pulled on the string which made the fan work. He was good at his job and the motion of the fan was as regular as the swinging of a pendulum.
When his right arm became tired, Karl would use his left arm, and when his left arm was tired, he would transfer the string to the big toe of his right foot. When his right foot ached, he would use his left and by that time his right arm would be rested and he could begin again. In the meantime, he daydreamed, thinking of his lovely butterflies and of the specimens he had yet to collect. There was a very large one he wanted particularly. It had blue and yellow wings and a complicated pattern of zigzags on its body. He did not know its name. He knew few of the names because nobody could tell them to him. Someone had once shown him a book with some pictures of butterflies and the names underneath, but since he could not read he could not discover what the names were.
Laughter came from the other side of the screen. A deep voice said: "Somebody will teach the Boers a lesson soon, mark my words. Those damned farmers can't go on treating British subjects in that high-handed fashion forever. We've made their country rich and they treat us like natives!"
Another voice murmured a reply and the deep voice said loudly: "If that's the sort of life they want to. preserve, why don't they go somewhere else? They've got to move with the times."
Karl lost interest in the conversation. He didn't understand it, anyway. Besides, he was more interested in butterflies. He transferred the string to his left toe.
When all the guests had withdrawn, a footman came to tell Karl that he might go to his supper. Stiffly Karl walked round the screen and hobbled towards the door. The dinner had been a long one.
In the kitchen the cook put a large plate of succulent scraps before him and said: "Hurry up now, young man. I've had a long day and I want to get to my bed."
He ate the food and washed it down with the half a glass of beer the cook gave him. It was a treat. She knew he had been working hard, too. As she let him out of the kitchen, she rumpled his hair and said: "Poor little chap. How's your butterflies?"
"Very well, thank you, cook." Karl was always polite.
"You must show them to me sometime."
"I'll show them to you tomorrow, if you like."
She nodded. "Well, sometime... Goodnight, Butterfly."
"Goodnight, cook."
He climbed the back stairs high up to his room in the roof. The two houseboys were already asleep. Quietly, he lit his lamp and got out his case of butterflies. He would be needing another case soon.
Smiling tenderly, he delicately stroked their wings with the tip of his little finger.
For over an hour he looked at his butterflies and then he got into his bed and pulled the sheet over him. He lay staring at the eaves and thinking about the blue and yellow butterfly he would try to catch tomorrow.
There was a sound outside. He ignored it. It was a familiar sound. Feet creeping along the passage. Either one of the housemaids was on her way out to keep an assignation with her follower, or her follower had boldly entered the house. Karl turned over and tried to go to sleep.
The door of his room opened.
He turned onto his back again and peered through the gloom. A white figure was standing there, panting. It was a man in pajamas and a dressing gown. The man paused for a moment and then crept towards Karl's bed.
"There you are, you little beauty," whispered the man. Karl recognized the voice as the one he had heard earlier talking about the Boers.
"What do you want, sir?" Karl sat up in bed.
"Eh? Damn! Who the devil are you? "
"The punch-boy, sir."
"I thought this was where that little fat maid slept. What the devil!"
There was a crunch and the man grunted in pain, hopping about the room. "Oh, I've had enough of this!"
Now the other two boys were awake. Their eyes stared in horror at the hopping figure. Perhaps they thought it was a ghost.
The white man blundered back out of the room, leaving the door swinging on its hinges. Karl heard him go down the passage and descend the stairs.
Karl got up and lit the lamp.
He saw his butterfly case where he had left it beside the bed. The white man had stepped on it and broken the glass. All the butterflies were broken, too.
— Won't it wash off? asks Karl.
— Do you want it to come off? Don't you feel more free?
— Free?
You are escaping from an enemy. You have climbed along the top of a sloping slate roof, several stories up. It is raining. You slip and manage to hang on to the top of the roof. You try to get back, but your feet slip on the wet tiles. Below you, you can see a lead gutter. Will you risk sliding down the roof while there is still some strength left in your fingers and hope that you can catch the gutter as you go down and thus work your way to safety? Or will you continue to try to pull yourself back to the top of the roof? There is also the chance that the gutter will break under your weight when you grab it. Perhaps, also, your enemy has discovered where you are and is coming along the roof towards you.
5
Liberation in Havana: 1898:
Hooks
"You may fire when ready, Gridley."
— There, it's dried nicely. The black man runs his nail down Karl's chest.—Are you religious, Karl?
— Not really.
— Do you believe in incarnation? Or what you might call "transincarnation", I suppose.
— I don't know what you're talking about.
The nail traces a line across his stomach. He gasps.
The black man bares his teeth in a sudden smile.
— Oh, you do really. What's this? Willful ignorance? How many people today suffer from that malaise!
— Leave me alone.
— Alone?
Karl is ten, the son of a small manufacturer of cigars in Havana, Cuba. His grandfather had the cigar factory before his father. He will inherit the factory from his father.
— Yes-alone... Oh, God!
... The black man's tone becomes warmly sympathetic. What's up?
Karl looks at him in surprise, hearing him speak English slang easily for the first time. The black man is changing.
Karl shudders.—You've—you've—made me cold...
— Then we'd better tuck you into bed, old chap.
— You've corrupted me.
— Corrupted? Is that what you think turns me on? The Corruption of Ignorance! The black man throws back his handsome head and laughs heartily.
Karl is ten...
The black man leans down and kisses Karl ferociously on the lips.
KARL WAS TEN. His mother was dead. His father was fifty one. His brother Willi was nineteen and, when last heard of, had joined the insurgents to fight against the Spaniards.
Karl's father had not approved of Willi's decision and had disowned his eldest son; that was why Karl was now the heir to the cigar factory. One day he would be master of nearly a hundred women and children who worked in the factory rolling the good cigars which were prized all over the world.