The Killing of Butterfly Joe Read online

  ‘Be glad you ain’t so rich you have to search your guests, Rip. With great wealth comes great fear. Security guards. Electric fences. Insurance policies. Cameras and walls. The very thing you thought you were getting from money – freedom – gets lost. And then there’s the separation. The distance between you and your neighbour increases. You end up with no friends. No community. And then you have all that guilt about the people you squished to get what you got. Because there’s no success without squishing someone. No palace put up without a pauper put down.’

  ‘I agree, Joe. Just don’t say any of that to Mr Roth. Not if you want to sell him the collection for a decent amount.’

  ‘I ain’t being no sickiphant, Rip. I intend to be fully myself here.’

  Joe continued to share his views on economic relations between employer and employee and the travails of great riches. Joe asked the driver a few questions – how long you worked here, have you met Mr Roth? Does he pay you a fair wage? – but he answered with an ‘I’m just doing my job’ shrug. Unlike Joe, he lived in a world where the keeping of livelihoods trumped the speaking of the mind.

  It was a short ride to the ‘front door’, technically a lift taking us up to the house. As we ascended Joe allowed himself a little told-you-so smugness. The actual was beginning to outdo the imagined. Only an hour ago, at the first gate with the Mexican guard, I had braced myself for the underwhelming moment when this all turned out to be one of Joe’s flying fat pigs. But even Mary was impressed as we rose up through the mountain.

  ‘The guy’s got to be doing OK for himself.’

  When we stepped from the lift we found ourselves inside a very clean, very minimal entrance hall where a man in tie and tails stood waiting for us. He made a little bow and introduced himself as Foster. ‘Welcome to Hexapoda. Mr Bosco. Ms Bosco. Mr Jones.’ He knew our names and whose name went with whom and gave a little bow to each of us. ‘If you want to freshen up after your journey I can show you to some guest restrooms. Then, when you are ready, Mr Roth will take lunch with you on the terrace.’ Foster – who had a faint Scottish accent – had that egalitarian acceptance that the best staff have to have, that ability to treat any guest – however uncouth or dishevelled – like royalty.

  The restrooms had views across the spine of the Tetons towards Jackson Lake, a view framed by a wall of glass. The drop from the window was around five hundred feet to the rocks and river below. I felt too filthy to touch anything so I washed my face and wet my hair and then combed it with the tortoiseshell comb supplied. There was a knock at my door and it was Mary, washed and hair up but defiantly still wearing her vest and cutoffs, and proudly announcing that she weren’t dressing up for no man. She went to the window and looked out over the landscape. ‘I ain’t met a butterfly collector who ain’t a nut job.’

  ‘Credit to Joe though,’ I said. ‘For once, he wasn’t exaggerating.’

  ‘There’ll be a catch. There’s always a catch with Joe.’

  I joined her at the window and kissed her on the neck. But she was too on edge to reciprocate. Since that night in the motel she’d been distant.

  ‘You still mad at him?’

  ‘The sonofabitch knows the truth. When you asked him, you could tell.’

  Joe was calling our names and we joined him in the corridor. He’d gelled his hair and looked fresh. ‘Let’s keep it real and do this deal.’

  Truman Roth was waiting for us at the top of the staircase on the upper level of the house. He was a spry man, probably in his seventies. He was wearing a navy sailor’s peak cap, French blue blazer, slacks, espadrilles and darkened but not fully dark glasses. He looked like a character from a Jules Verne adventure, ready to set sail in some crazy transport that he had docked at the side of his mountain.

  ‘Welcome to Hexapoda. How was your journey?’

  ‘Swell, Mr Roth. We took in some sights. The greatness of this nation truly lies in its natural wonders.’

  ‘I envy you that. To feel the country through the wheel. I must do that again. Note to self.’

  ‘You should, Mr Roth. You should. No point in having all these riches and not being able to enjoy your life.’

  Roth paused and looked almost pained. I thought Joe had blown it already. But then Roth smiled. ‘That is so true, Mr Bosco,’ as though Joe had pronounced a wisdom he’d never heard before. ‘And please, call me Truman.’

  ‘Well OK, Truman. And feel free to call me Joe. This is my sister Mary-Anne. And this is my best friend and business partner Llew Jones although we call him Rip on account of all the sleeping he does. Rip is from the United Kingdom.’

  ‘My apologies if the security was a little zealous.’

  ‘No problem. You got a heap of things to protect, I’m sure.’

  ‘It’s not thieves I fear, Joe. No. It’s carpet beetles, which, as I am sure you know, are the plague of the collector. They find a way. You know there’s a plague of carpet beetles at the Natural History Museum in London right now? Which is why I house my collection underground, using the natural temperature, the lack of light, and the dryness. That said, it’s a mystery how these got in. We think the French ambassador’s wife had some in her luggage. It’s all futile really. The insects will do for us in the end, Joe, I’m sure you know.’

  ‘Anrivenum sarnicus!’ Joe said. ‘My sister Isabelle has nightmares about those critters. She’s the one who looks after the collection.’

  Roth’s face came alive at the mention of the collection. ‘Which I am very much looking forward to discussing with you. You have the aberrations?’

  ‘The freaks are in the house, Truman!’ Joe held up his attaché case. The sight of it seemed to throw Roth.

  ‘Good. Good. Yes. Well. I can’t wait. But lunch first. I am very fond of your country, Rip. Some of the finest lepidopterists come from Britain. Which part of the kingdom are you from?’

  ‘Wales.’

  ‘Ah. Now that is fascinating. You know the American painted lady?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Ah. There’s a great tale to tell. Pound for pound – or ounce for ounce I should say – the most epic traveller on earth. I’ll show you later. But we must eat. You must be hungry.’

  ‘We could all eat horses, Truman,’ Joe said.

  ‘Horse is available if you desire it.’ We laughed. Roth smiled. But of course horse would have been available if we had desired it. ‘We prefer to ride horses around here. Do you ride, Mary-Anne?’

  ‘Never tried, Mr Roth.’

  ‘Please, call me Truman.’

  ‘I don’t feel I know you well enough yet, sir.’

  ‘Mary’s got her own criteria, Truman.’

  ‘Call me whatever’s comfortable. You are here as my guests first, business second.’

  ‘We’re all God’s children, Truman. I mean look at us. Nothing to separate us. ’Cept maybe a few billion dollars. Plus, you got better nails than us.’

  Roth looked at his hands and smiled. I had noticed Roth’s nails when I shook his hand, which was smooth and cool as cream; they were immaculate with perfect half-moons. As we followed him through to the balcony Mr Roth explained that the house had been built to be as one with the mountain.

  ‘It was modelled after the temple of Queen Hatshepsut at Deir el-Bahari in Egypt. You enjoy art, Joe?’

  ‘Truth be told, Truman, when I look at art I realize that it won’t make a difference to my life no matter how long I stare at it. I still never seen a painting that could match nature, or colour that could compete with the radiance of a malachite. I like the way nature does it better.’

  ‘Well, that is hard to refute. As I am allowed one true obsession, I have limited my art collecting to one work per century.’

  Roth had something crucial from every era and culture, displayed in chronological order, and to walk from entrance to balcony was to pass through four millennia of artistic expression, at roughly a stride a century. A beaker from Susa. A ceremonial mask from the Belgian Congo. A bark d
rawing of Mimi spirits from Australia. Roth’s favourite piece was a little pencil drawing by Rembrandt; a self-portrait of the artist as an old man.

  ‘He looks lost, Truman,’ Joe said, gurning at the old chap. ‘Kind of like he’s saying, “How did I end up here, in the glass cabinet of this trillionaire, in a country that was not even a glint in the founding fathers’ eyes when I was alive?” ’

  Roth seemed to be coping well with Joe’s singularity so far. He laughed quite heartily at this and my nerves that Joe was going to blow this deal by offending our host and buyer began to settle.

  On one of the pedestals I saw a Greek plate carrying a depiction I recognized.

  ‘Dionysus?’

  ‘Yes!’ Roth was delighted, as was Joe, who beamed at me, taking vicarious pride in having employed such a well-educated fellow. ‘There are two opinions about what is happening in this scene. Dionysus Sailing on the Sea. Some think that Dionysus has just been captured by pirates and that he’s turned them into dolphins. Others say the god of wine is on his way to his own festival. I prefer the former story myself. I like to think the better story is usually the true story. You like wine, Rip?’

  I had almost forgotten what wine tasted like. ‘Yes. Very much.’

  ‘Well, I collect wine too but I don’t count it as collecting. Come. Let’s go up to the balcony, have a drink, take in the view. And talk about the most beautiful creatures on earth. I want to hear how you came to be the possessors of such treasures.’

  We walked from the gallery out onto the platform – the feature we’d seen from the car – and took in the view. We could see the road we’d taken all the way back to the first gate, fifteen miles away, where it joined the highway which ran like silver lining to the horizon. Our destination was, literally, the end of the road. There were no houses or people visible, just land, stretching to a horizon which Joe joked Roth probably owned too.

  Foster brought us cocktails. As far as I knew, Joe didn’t drink. I don’t know if it was nerves or a need to appease his host, but he took a Manhattan, slugged it back like a glass of milk, licked his lips and took a second from the tray, with Foster still standing there. ‘That was delicious,’ he said.

  Roth seemed amused. I think he was prepared to forgive this hick anything as long as he got what he wanted.

  Lunch I remember for many things: the view, which was vertiginous and not conducive to digestion; the fact that all of Roth’s food came pureed (‘A stomach condition. I cannot break food down’); Joe getting a little drunk which – despite having twice the surface area of a normal-sized man – happened quickly and had an endearing effect on his personality. His face became more plastic and rubbery. He and Roth certainly struck up a fine rapport that augured well for the sale but I did wonder if this drink was a tactic to soften us up so I took the cocktail slow.

  Joe was, commendably, his ‘authenticulate’ self throughout the encounter. I always envied this ability to see everyone as flesh-and-blood beings of equal worth. And Joe proved during that lunch that his equalizing eye was not a pose. Not even a man with the means to change his life affected his flight pattern.

  ‘Do you like being rich, Truman? ’Cos I been telling myself all these years that it ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. That money don’t make you happy. You know, just in case I get none. I can see it had its up sides. But when our Lord said it’s harder for a rich man to enter the kingdom he must have meant something by it. Is it the getting and the having the riches that keeps you out of the kingdom – all the squishing of the poor you have to do to get it – or is it the fact that you don’t get into the kingdom ’cos you got all you think you need? It’s not the riches that keeps the rich man out. It’s the not wanting for anything else.’

  For every person Joe offended upon first encounter (I’d put the proportion at around seven out of ten) there would be the one who understood him immediately, the person who was able to work out that there was more to him than the considerable amount that met the eye, and that his angle on life could prise open new realities. My hope was that Roth would be one of these.

  ‘You think all this collecting stuff is filling a void, Truman?’

  There was a bit of a pause. Roth looked quite serious and troubled again.

  ‘Well, Joe! You have asked the very question that keeps me awake at night! When I was a child I used to collect anything. Stamps. Cheese labels. Mersenne primes, swizzle sticks. I keep the stubs of cheques and I have the entire set of 1986 Philadelphia Phillies player trading cards. Yes. I think it gives me a sense of control. There’s a great thrill in having the ability to withdraw one member of a set and behold it singly. I’ll collect anything although with the butterflies it is different. I have fallen out of love with stamps, cars, even art. But not butterflies.’ Roth paused, as if aware he was making a confession. ‘And of all the collectors, butterfly collectors are the worst kind; the most obsessive. There are people who will go out into the field and collect sought-after specimens and rub their wings to make them uncollectible for other collectors. It’s a lethal affliction. There’s always something you don’t have. And I can’t abide the thought that someone – even you, Joe – has something I don’t. And then, when you get the thing you wanted, the joy of possession is soon lost to the sorrow of not having what you know still to be out there. There is always something I do not have. And it is the something I do not have – flying free in the world, or pinned in some dedicated collector’s collection – that eats away. It is not the carpet beetles that keep me awake at night, Joe. It’s the butterflies I don’t possess!’

  When he had finished his teeth were gritted and I sensed the initial warmth and tolerance had lifted off him for a moment.

  ‘Which is, of course, why you are here.’

  ‘Well, I confess that it’s sweet knowing that I got something that a man of your taste and wealth don’t, Truman.’

  Roth was probably surrounded by people who dared never make a joke, or challenge him on anything. And, like an emperor bored of obsequiousness, desperate for someone to answer back or disagree with him, he seemed to tolerate Joe’s undisguised critical remarks. I think Joe could have told Roth that he was the ugliest, dullest little man he had ever met and Roth would still have put up with him. By the end of lunch Joe was giving Roth financial advice and offering him a way through the needle.

  ‘I don’t mind rich people, Truman. But I do not like it when they forget about the poor. I hope you give some of this wealth away.’

  ‘Well, Joe. I do. But, let’s be honest, my giving is all about tax efficiency. All done by my accountants.’

  ‘Well, that’s not a heart decision, is it?’

  ‘No. But you are right. I have always consoled myself with the thought that my businesses employ thousands, which feeds tens of thousands; but perhaps that is not enough?’

  ‘I’d say it ain’t.’

  ‘So what do you suggest, Joseph?’

  ‘I work on a simple Jacob principle – of a tenth before taxes. That’s just the bottom line.’

  ‘And if I purchase your collection you will follow this law to the letter?’

  ‘To the last Zee!’

  After lunch Roth took us to see his collection, which was housed in the bowels of the mountain. At the entrance to the display galleries there was a sculpture of a caterpillar the size of a beer barrel and made from a single piece of amethyst. Roth paused for us to admire it.

  ‘It’s right we honour the caterpillar. The butterfly gets all the publicity but the caterpillar does all the work.’

  ‘So true, Truman. I always say the caterpillar has to munch a lot of leaves to become the thing it dreams to be.’

  The collection was set in a darkened gallery, like a bowling alley, with cases in simple glass desks, lit from within. Instead of sitting in hidden drawers, as they did back at the house or in a museum, everything was visible. It was divided according to the five faunistic regions, had all the major species and most of the minor. The room w
as one hundred metres long and had the luminous, subterranean brilliance of an aquarium.

  ‘Most collections, by necessity, must be hidden out of sight. As a consequence, the butterflies people see in museums are not the interesting ones. They see the most colourful ones perhaps but they generally see the second-rate bugs and the crown jewels are kept locked away. I want to be able to see everything.’

  Joe went from case to case, piecing the logic of the layout together, calling out the names of the wonders. His knowledge always surprised me and I think it impressed Roth.

  ‘Lobster moth! Look at this, Rip. It mimics the bird dung and then mimics the larva and the ant that eats that! Not only does it mimic a leaf, but look, it mimics the grub-holes so as to put other insects off! We got three of these, Truman.’ (Later Joe would tell me: ‘Rip, he had everything you’d expect; but I weren’t looking for what was there; I was looking for what weren’t.’)

  ‘I can see you only got a pair of Queen A’s here, Truman. Fine examples though, for sure. I’m looking for the zebra wings . . . no.’

  I’m not sure if Joe was being ingenuous, doing this deliberately, or if he was just a little drunk, but it started to piss Roth off. By the time we’d reached the end his face was saturnine.

  ‘Truman, this is wonderful. Truly wonderful. This is how butterflies should be displayed.’

  ‘I think it’s time you showed me what you have, Joe.’

  Joe had brought the catalogue of the collection and he handed it to Roth. He explained how Isabelle had taught herself the art of mounting butterflies years back, and that to date they had cased up over two thousand specimens. Roth sat at the lightbox, admiring Isabelle’s meticulous work and marvelling at the range, depth and rarity of the Bosco Collection. It could have been the florescence but Roth looked to be turning greener as he sat there.