shattered on the ground where they had fallen off. A kind of faded grandeur had settled over the city. Thomas drank too much wine at the Consul’s house and had to be put to bed by Ernie. He had a dim recollection of his half-walk back through the sandy streets of Belém, past low houses with no windows, and the jeers and laughter of the people who sat outside them. He woke up the next day with a heavy weight in his head. He was appalled to find that he had vomited on himself, made worse by the fact that Ernie lay in his hammock and complained about the smell.
The little house was beginning to resemble a museum. Ernie’s stuffed birds crouched on top of the bookshelves; others lay neatly in rows in the boxes he had brought with him, their feet tucked under them and their bodies in a sleek diving pose. Although he preserved most of his smaller specimens in jars of formaldehyde, George had also stuffed some iguanas and other lizards, inexpertly. They had so much stuffing they appeared fatter than they should have been, and all their wrinkles were smoothed out, like old women with babies’ skin. Ernie offered to help him, but he refused, and concentrated on his beetles instead.
Thomas awoke one morning to find that his first batch of butterflies was smothered with ants, and there was little left of the pristine insects he had caught. The others had already had trouble with rats and mice, so a complicated system of booby-traps was set up, with the aid of George, who said he had lost many a specimen in his early days.
They hung drying cages from the rafters, and covered the ropes that held them with a bitter vegetable oil to deter the ants. This didn’t stop the mice from running down the ropes and attacking whatever was in the cage, so they hung inverted bowls halfway down the ropes. This prevented the rats and mice from having a decent running surface, and they had nowhere to go but back up the rope.
Sometimes they pulled their tables outside and worked in companionable silence, pinning insects or painting intricate likenesses of their collections for their journals. The garden was alive with dripping flowers; hummingbirds flitted between them like fat bumblebees; dark-haired girls adorned with gold earrings collected blossoms on the side of the road and waved to them. George, still clad stiffly in his waistcoat and jacket, when the other men had long since stripped down to simple flannel shirts, turned his back to the women when they walked past, but Ernie was quick to smile and wink. Even John, on the few occasions he joined them, would call out one or two words of greeting in Portuguese. Thomas just watched, feeling the warmth of the coffee spread through his blood, and the tingling in his face from the cigarettes. On afternoons such as this he couldn’t imagine ever leaving Belém.
One evening, they were caught in the daily downpour, and the rain came down in impenetrable sheets. They huddled under the branches of a low tree beside a great tract of cleared forest that had been burned away; what remained of the charred trunks of trees protruded like cancerous bones from the brown landscape. Great muddy pools lay like dark stains on the earth. Thomas could only stand and stare through the roar of the rain and hope that all of the life inside had escaped from the torching, but even as the rain began to ease, he saw a small, torn red butterfly floating a delicate circle inside a blackened puddle.
Belém, November 15th, 1903
I’ve not written in this journal for a few days. Between collecting, preserving and documenting, there seems to be little time for writing in here, even writing letters. Poor Sophie must be hungry for news of me, but other than a description of my catches, which I fear will bore her, there is little to tell. I have told her about the boa constrictor, but have left out my shameful experience with too much wine.
It is imperative, I know, to keep this journal up, for didn’t the great
The little house was beginning to resemble a museum. Ernie’s stuffed birds crouched on top of the bookshelves; others lay neatly in rows in the boxes he had brought with him, their feet tucked under them and their bodies in a sleek diving pose. Although he preserved most of his smaller specimens in jars of formaldehyde, George had also stuffed some iguanas and other lizards, inexpertly. They had so much stuffing they appeared fatter than they should have been, and all their wrinkles were smoothed out, like old women with babies’ skin. Ernie offered to help him, but he refused, and concentrated on his beetles instead.
Thomas awoke one morning to find that his first batch of butterflies was smothered with ants, and there was little left of the pristine insects he had caught. The others had already had trouble with rats and mice, so a complicated system of booby-traps was set up, with the aid of George, who said he had lost many a specimen in his early days.
They hung drying cages from the rafters, and covered the ropes that held them with a bitter vegetable oil to deter the ants. This didn’t stop the mice from running down the ropes and attacking whatever was in the cage, so they hung inverted bowls halfway down the ropes. This prevented the rats and mice from having a decent running surface, and they had nowhere to go but back up the rope.
Sometimes they pulled their tables outside and worked in companionable silence, pinning insects or painting intricate likenesses of their collections for their journals. The garden was alive with dripping flowers; hummingbirds flitted between them like fat bumblebees; dark-haired girls adorned with gold earrings collected blossoms on the side of the road and waved to them. George, still clad stiffly in his waistcoat and jacket, when the other men had long since stripped down to simple flannel shirts, turned his back to the women when they walked past, but Ernie was quick to smile and wink. Even John, on the few occasions he joined them, would call out one or two words of greeting in Portuguese. Thomas just watched, feeling the warmth of the coffee spread through his blood, and the tingling in his face from the cigarettes. On afternoons such as this he couldn’t imagine ever leaving Belém.
One evening, they were caught in the daily downpour, and the rain came down in impenetrable sheets. They huddled under the branches of a low tree beside a great tract of cleared forest that had been burned away; what remained of the charred trunks of trees protruded like cancerous bones from the brown landscape. Great muddy pools lay like dark stains on the earth. Thomas could only stand and stare through the roar of the rain and hope that all of the life inside had escaped from the torching, but even as the rain began to ease, he saw a small, torn red butterfly floating a delicate circle inside a blackened puddle.
Belém, November 15th, 1903
I’ve not written in this journal for a few days. Between collecting, preserving and documenting, there seems to be little time for writing in here, even writing letters. Poor Sophie must be hungry for news of me, but other than a description of my catches, which I fear will bore her, there is little to tell. I have told her about the boa constrictor, but have left out my shameful experience with too much wine.
It is imperative, I know, to keep this journal up, for didn’t the great
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