William Vollmann - Butterfly Stories

Vanna's husband didn't believe any of it yet. He remembered so many other false alarms.

There had been that night outside the hotel when a cyclo driver came to him and said that he and the photographer were in danger. So he had to buy the cyclo driver orange juice.

What sort of danger are we in? said the husband. I haven't noticed any danger.

So much the worse for you, Monsieur. Pardon me, but I speak frankly; excuse me, Monsieur, but so much the worse for you.

Well, what do you want, exactly? I'm only a poor stupid American. We Americans cannot understand mysteries.

Ah, tomorrow I will bring you a souvenir, Monsieur. No obligation, but I am a very poor man. Five sons. My situation is intolerable.

That is sad; I'm sorry, but I can't save the world. What is this souvenir? You say you speak frankly; then speak frankly. I give you five more minutes.

The situation is grave, Monsieur. Very grave for you. What do you do tomorrow?

I go to work.

With the Ministry of Foreign Affairs?

Yes.

I would not get in the car, Monsieur.

Why? This is very fatiguing for me, complained the husband. Your French is full of obfuscations. .

You quit me now?

Yes.

So much the worse for you.

I think I've heard that before.

The husband went back to the hotel and told the photographer. The photographer agreed with him that it was probably nonsense but wondered where he could hide his film. The next morning they stood on the hotel balcony together, watching bright-green uniformed police gathering on the sidewalk. The official car did not come on time. It was the first instance of the car not coming on time. The husband went and called the Ministry and they said they knew nothing about it. Then the car came and nothing had happened and everything was fine. .

He had a sore throat.

This is a libation to Jupiter the Liberator. Look, young man! For you have been born (may heaven avert the omen!) into an age when examples of fortitude may be a useful support.

Claudius Tharasea Paetus, upon opening his veins (AD 66)

In the empty house silent within the night winds he scraped a can of dinner into the saucepan and stood waiting for it to cook while his hands held one another on the white enamel coolness of the stove not far from the burner, and he wondered how the stove could stay so cool when the chili was already boiling. He swallowed his pill, in much the same spirit of obedience as when at the board table restaurant in Phnom Penh he'd drunk a fruit shake because that was religious food. He ate dinner, and put the saucepan in the sink to wash later. He picked up the newspaper and read Khmer Rouge sees opening in Cambodia chaos and he thought of the place where they'd suffocated babies by the hundreds, hanging them from the branches to choke inside plastic bags. He thought of the scars on Vanna's back.

On the marriage bureau wall, dozens of green lizards waited, light green with silver legs. They waited for him because he'd married her.

He was so alone! With his other wife he'd been resentful when he did what she wanted and guilty when he didn't, and after either failure, once she'd driven off into the night screaming and weeping so that in the middle of his anger he was terrified that she might get into an accident, then he'd lie down on his stomach on their double bed, waiting for the trembling and the sickening stabs in his guts to go away, and then when he felt a little better he'd go into his study to find his address book — he had to find someone who could help him; he had to! — it was the infatuation with wise men all over again — and he'd lie back on the double bed with his heartbeats almost shattering his chest; he was speeding through the pages like an addict: his two best friends in San Francisco didn't answer; in New York it was too late now; he devoured the numbers for Arizona and Nebraska but there was nobody anywhere; he was so alone! — that was the worst part of those arguments, the dread in the middle of the shouting that afterward, no matter what, he'd be so alone. .

But something had changed in him. He knew now what he wanted. The other girls had helped him; the hypnotist had revivified his desires; the disease had given him a directness and urgency which he'd never had before in his life. He loved Vanna and no one else. One way or another he was going to be with her.

The reception room at CBS on that slow summer Friday was like some dream too stuporous to be affected by doom, the security guard's martyred face personifying the hum of lights, the black leather swivel chairs waiting for buttocks, the old reception man shaking his head in weary amazement, saying: I tell ya, George! while ladies with legal pads and sodas wandered in past the metal detector and messengers trudged out bearing big square boxes of disbelief on their shoulders. A man whose slacks were composed of some spongy effete material leaned over the reception desk, offering an almost alarming view of his fat ass. Grizzled cameramen strolled out yawning, their scuffed leather shoulderbags resting easy in place now that continued use had worn a hollow in each scapulum.

I tell ya, George! the reception man said again. All right, she says you can go up now. Second floor, first right. What's that you said, George? 'Scuse me but I got interrupted.

You don't look well, Padgett said to him. You've got to get over it. I've been divorced twice, and the second one was just as hard as the first, but I got over it. I hate to say this to you, but your work is slipping.

I'm fine, he said. Maybe a little tired is all. So you can't use me?

I hate to have you put it to me like that, Padgett said, neatening papers on her desk. I really thought you understood.

I understand now. Do you have any advice for me? Seems like lately I've been asking everyone for advice. .

I know how it is, Padgett said. It's hard to be alone again, isn't it?

I'm not alone. I just got married.

Well, congratulations. Who's the lucky lady?

Someone I met in Cambodia.

That's fabulous, Padgett said. Why didn't you send me an invitation? Listen, I've got a meeting I have to go to. Thank you so much for dropping by -

He picked up the newspaper and read Khmer Rouge officials return to Phnom Penh and there was a photo of someplace blurry; he thought he recognized the place where the English teacher's friend, another fatherless boy, said that his girlfriend, who died of a headache in 1989, was cremated.

He said to himself: For me to get through this, I'm going to have to stop reading the papers.

He said to himself: I'll be a fine one then. A journalist who doesn't read the papers.

He picked up the newspaper and read More rioting in Phnom Penh.

He picked up the newspaper and read Bloody Clash in Cambodia.

It was lunch hour at the Time-Life Plaza and he lurked among the people squeezing balls of aluminum foil in their hands, sitting on the edge of the pool whose row of fountain-foams resembled the heads of asparagus. He was waiting for an editor from Asia Today to come outside. Maybe the editor would give him a job. Businessmen in amazing shoes strode past cigarette butts, and golden monograms glittered on their heels. The businesswomen in "burgundy" dress suits — the standard color — dangled their high heels. Then the editor from Asia Today came out, and he looked into the editor's face while the editor looked into his face and he saw that there was no sense in even asking.