Cantonese Butterfly

Pondering humility and grace through the eyes of a butterfly...I guess.

 

Cantonese Butterfly

By Tony Woods

 

    Trent sat beneath the shield above his balcony in the summer Hong Kong rain. The streets were bare, void of the usual vehicle and pedestrian traffic which crowded their surfaces.  In place was a glaze of water dripping from the edges of his balcony to the balcony below, in a chain like a rice terrace, cascading to the ground sweeping along the debris of a formerly busy street into the manholes of the sewers below. He absorbed the thump of the droplets, beating like a fine drum against the concrete slabs and opened umbrellas near his flat. He heard the occasional car horn, blurts of pedestrian chatter, and doors ringing their bells when opened or closed. It was quieter and though less picturesque, peaceful.

 

    He lit up a cigarette. He was alone. He waved the cherry around like a conductor with his wand, listening to the sounds of the rain and the street as a product of his symphony. The smoke hung about, lingering soft and silent, assimilating into the atmosphere around him. He was not from Hong Kong, nor from any country or territory through which Hong Kong was affiliated. He was here on a vacation of sorts, for inspiration, for novelty; for answers. He glanced at the grey sky looming overhead, muddied and in need of a wash. Below through the thin steel gate at the ledge of his balcony he studied the streets, the sidewalks, the parked cars and the square buildings. He followed the buildings from the ground floor to the tops which blocked his view of the harbor. He read the colored signs in Cantonese, faded and worn, mixed with English to solve their mysteries. He stamped his butt in the ash tray, he smiled at the sizzle, and he dumped its remains in the soil of his plant. He found his thirst overwhelming; he opened his screen door and migrated to the fridge.

 

    When he returned to the balcony, Red Horse in hand, he noticed he had a visitor. Perched on the steel gate was a butterfly, powdered white from its body to the edge of its wings, with dabs of orange and black painted on their upper folds. The rain had slowed to a light drizzle. He slowly sat in his chair, taking a swig from his beer. The butterfly fluttered its wings, never lifting from its perch, finally resting when Trent’s body was still. He no longer felt alone, he was now a host for one of nature’s most majestic guests.

 

    “Hello,” Trent said greeting his guest. “Don’t be afraid, I’m just going to sit here and enjoy my drink.”

 

    The butterfly didn’t move. 

 

    “It’s not really a nice day,” Trent continued. “But I like the quiet.”

 

    Trent felt as though the butterfly agreed with him. He had nothing to base this theory on, other than intuition, but something was telling him that both he and the butterfly enjoyed the quiet of the rainy streets. He drank his beer again, slowly pulling out another cigarette and lighting it. The butterfly flew off the rail and hovered around his balcony until he put his lighter away. It landed on the rail again.

 

    “It’s just to light the cigarette,” Trent told it. He chuckled. “I’m not going to set you on fire.” The butterfly turned its head toward him, its antennae twitching. “It was a joke,” he assured. “I think this is the first conversation I’ve had since I’ve been here…I don’t want to end it by senselessly lighting you on fire.” 

 

    The butterfly rose from the rail of the balcony and flew closer to Trent, landing on the dry table in front of him. Trent felt the invitation was implied.

 

    “Good idea,” he said. “It’s dryer on the table.” He kept his cigarette hanging low near his legs, underneath the table. “I’m not sure if you’re into second-hand smoke,” he said. Trent took a drag of his cigarette, watching the butterfly. His smoking didn’t seem to offend it. “I haven’t really done anything today. I went to Cinta-J for breakfast, at like, I don’t know, ten, and now I’m sitting here. What about you?”

 

    What hast thou done?

 

    Trent wasn’t crazy. Trent was aware that he was talking to a butterfly. He didn’t know what a butterfly would do in the rain; how often they flew around in inclement weather. Can it understand me? He thought.  Does it only understand Cantonese? No. Hong Kong used to be part of the commonwealth, most people around here speak English too. He imagined a day in the life of a powdered white butterfly. He imagined beginning the day from its nest, or burrow, or wherever it lived, flying away when the sun rose. He’d see it dancing in the green mountains of Victoria’s peak, trailing the tram ascending the tracks; finally perching atop the silver rails above the shopping mall; watching over the city as nature’s guardian. After that the little butterfly would descend back into the city, following the train tracks once more, crossing the street of the tram station into Hong Kong Park to mingle with the other butterflies. It would drink the nectar of the flowers and the pond, passing the stones where it seemed hundreds of turtles gathered, stacked on one another like Lego blocks. It would avoid the carp, analyzing their swim patterns and adjusting accordingly. It would fly over to the palms and perch for a minute to enjoy the scenery, the scores of tourists and townspeople alike all gathered to bask in the sunlight, protected by scores of skyscrapers built on knolls overlooking the valley. It would fly under the foot bridge, onto the gravel, to visit the ants and other pedestrian insects forging their homes along the banks of the pond. It would be weary of the lily pads, the pressure of the waterfall, and the birds on the trees, vigilant, but happy. 

 

    In the afternoon it would catch the ferry to Lantau Island, napping to the water gently splashing against the hull of the boat. It would fly onto the island through the foliage and up the bluffs to Buddha resting on the steps, mediating with nature, one with nature, shutting his eyes and becoming the little butterfly that mediated along with and adversely became him. They would ask themselves, as the Hong Kong sun beat down onto the humid landscape, water vapor rising from the hard ground: Is everything nothing? Is life to be enjoyed or loathed? Tolerated or shunned? They would bind together and swap lives to live as the other, temporary in being, permanent in nature. They would become themselves once more, and ponder the great question of Zhuangzi: Was I before a man who dreamt of being a butterfly, or am I now a butterfly who dreams of being a man?

 

    At night it would fly back into the city, to rest atop a lamp post on the corner of a busy street.  The smells of fresh food Market vendors would invade its little nostrils, observing transactions and absorbing the shouts of advertisement. It would fly off again to the squeaking brakes of a double-decker bus, meandering underneath its chassis around another corner to the tables of a coffee shop, honing in on the conversation of lives lived and lost, hearts pouring their sorrows to mix with the bustle of bars and drunks transitioning from tavern to tavern. It would sip on the drops of coffee spilt by the impatient men and women hustling to socialize in another setting. It would lift from the table and glide over the median in between passing cars, to the basketball courts of a downtown park, observing the vagabonds catching Z’s between staggered meals. It would perk its antennae under the glow of the building lights, their windows lit in the inconsistent patterns of office work ongoing; of those whose living has yet to be earned. It would breathe in the air of the city once more before resting its head amongst the solitude of the trees.

 

       Art thou holy young butterfly? Trent thought to himself. Art thou a soul? A kindred spirit lost among the living? Dost thou bear a message; a truth? Art thou happier young butterfly? Art thou content? I am you butterfly. I become you when I pass. We trade young butterfly, for eternity we trade.

 

    Trent put out his cigarette. The butterfly flapped its wings and lifted from the dry table, hovering above his head, twirling in circles and ascending to the roof tops and the heavens. It became a memory to him, an impalpable wave of humility. He stared into the concrete of the building across his balcony; his train of thought had run dry. 

 

    “Goodbye,” Trent softy spoke as he rose from his chair and opened the door into his flat. All that remained was his wet cigarette butts and his beer bottle tipped over, its contents running through the steel mesh of the table onto the concrete below. 

   

               

 

                       

Author's Note

Thanks for Reading!

Reviews

[Vague]

I really enjoyed the imagery and flow of this piece. My one small gripe would be that I'd have probably left out the paragraph that's in full italics. Not because it's not good, it's perfectly fine. I just think you did a well enough job with the philosophical hints beforehand. I felt like adding that in took a little bit away from the subtle and mysterious vibe you had going on. Please take that with a grain of salt.

An excellent story I will definitely return to.

[WriterMe]

That was beautiful =] So well analyzed. Thank you for entering my contest =]

[richard hurndall]

I have to second Michael here- the imagery in this story is brilliant. I have never been to Hong Kong before- obviously you have and I'm glad you've been inspired by the city.

I think the last story I read of yours was about a guy who wanted to eat human flesh- I guess you could say this is a departure!

I always like to offer some form of criticsm- please feel free to take it or leave it. I felt you could revise the second and third paragraphs- there's a lot of 'he did this, he did that, he noticed he...' which I noticed on first reading. I guess the way to rectify this is by having the narrator note the detail instead of the character. Great detail though.

[Michael Carr]

I liked this tony. what stood out most was the striking imagery, not in a practical, flowery way but the depth and voice of your character as he takes in this amazing envionment is very striking.
I especially loved the monologue that trent recounts as he watches the butterfly.
a unique, visual, and emotive work.

fantastic job tony.