5
For the first time in the three-and-a-half weeks that Wolfgang had worked at the pool, the blind girl wasn’t there. He didn’t give her absence much thought. It was the black butterfly wing that preoccupied him. He had almost called in sick that morning, simply so he could be at home when Dr Karalis answered his email.
It was December twenty-first, the longest day in the year. And the slowest. Wolfgang must have looked at his watch a thousand times before – finally! – the display showed six o’clock.
He rode home in a hurry, pedalling all the way, and went straight to his bedroom. He switched on the computer. But when he went online, only spam came up in the messages box. There was nothing from Dr Karalis. Wolfgang’s shoulders slumped. He opened the ‘Sent’ box and re-read his email to the scientist; then, just to be sure, he sent it again. Clicking on the attachment, he brought up the scanned image of the black butterfly wing he’d made the night before. Enlarged four times, it filled half the screen.
‘Check your emails, Doctor Karalis,’ Wolfgang muttered at the computer.
Sylvia was in the kitchen making a rice salad. She looked up and smiled when Wolfgang came out of his bedroom. ‘I thought I heard you come home. How was work, darling?’
‘Okay.’ He took a glass from the draining rack and filled it from the cold tap. ‘Were there any phone calls for me today?’
‘I don’t think so. Have you asked your father?’
As if he’d remember, Wolfgang thought. He gulped down the water and refilled the glass. He was still hot from his ride. ‘I was kind of hoping Doctor Karalis might have rung.’
‘The butterfly man?’ Leo said behind him.
Wolfgang turned and saw his father standing in the doorway. ‘Did he ring, Dad?’
The old man pulled on one of his over-large ears. ‘Not that I recollect. Have a look on the pad near the phone – I might have written it down.’
Wolfgang slipped past him into the hallway to check the message pad.
‘Anything?’ his father asked.
‘Nothing,’ he said. And there were no messages on the answering machine. ‘Dad, have you got a minute? There’s something I’d like you to look at.’
He led the way to his bedroom. It was more than a day since he’d found the wing and he couldn’t keep it to himself any longer.
‘What do you make of that?’ Wolfgang said, a tremor in his voice – seeing the enlarged image of the black wing on the computer screen was enough to make his heart rate increase.
Leo spent some moments studying the image. Butterflies were the one thing he and his son had in common. Or did have in common, before he began losing his memory.
‘One of the crows?’ the old man asked finally.
Wolfgang shook his head. ‘It’s too black, don’t you think? And look at the shape of it.’
‘Yes ... yes. Very much like the ... like the ... what do you call them?’
‘The jays?’ Wolfgang suggested.
‘No, no, no, no,’ his father said impatiently. ‘None of the jays are black. Are you colourblind?’
‘I was talking about the shape.’ You silly old fool! Wolfgang almost added.
‘The shape. Yes. It’s very much like the ... what do you call it?’
This time Wolfgang wasn’t going to help him. ‘I thought it might be a new species.’
‘A new species? Good heavens!’
Wolfgang sighed. Why had he bothered? ‘I don’t know for sure if it’s a new species, Dad. I only found it yesterday.’
‘You found it? But here it is on the ... um ...’ Leo waved a hand at the screen.
‘Computer,’ Wolfgang said. ‘I scanned it. It’s like taking a photograph,’ he said tiredly, explaining it for the hundredth time. He opened a drawer and brought out a small cardboard box containing the wing on a bed of cotton wool. ‘Here’s the original. It’s a little battered. I cleaned it up a bit on the screen.’
His father held the box in his lump-jointed fingers. He adjusted his glasses. ‘Is there a hind wing?’
‘No, that’s all there was. I found it in the radiator grille when I went out to wash the car yesterday.’
Leo set the box on the desk beside the keyboard. He turned on his son. ‘You didn’t wash the car!’ he hissed, a bubble of spittle forming in the corner of his lips.
‘I started to,’ said Wolfgang, ‘but –’
‘Do you think, boy,’ his father shouted him down, ‘that just because I’m forgetful, you can ignore whatever I say?’