Her gaze settled upon a new exhibition, Magic and the Mind—Science and Spiritualism in the Twentieth Century. The accompanying photos showed Victorian lantern slides and a ghostly figure spewing ectoplasm. “This looks cool.” She turned it toward Ruben.
“Moderately.” Ruben peered up in thought. “My colleague Anastacia has been involved in curating this exhibition. I believe it does not open until next week.”
Carla scanned the copy. “It says here that there’s a preview taking place tomorrow evening.”
Ruben waved the idea away. “There are more interesting items in my itinerary.” He was about to continue, but paused, watching as Carla wrinkled her nose in annoyance. “Though, of course, we shall do whatever you would like to do. I am most flexible,” he added.
“I’d love to go to the exhibition,” she confirmed.
He was a kind man, but there was no romantic interest from her side, which made it easier for Carla to cut their agenda short for the day. She’d be going to see Magic and the Mind tomorrow, and Ruben was welcome to join her.
They stood outside the café together and Ruben took hold of her elbow once more. “We shall meet again tomorrow, dear Carla. But if there is anything you require that is not in your room tonight, do not hesitate to contact me.” The light glinted off his spectacles, so she couldn’t see his eyes.
“Thanks, Ruben,” Carla said uncomfortably, extricating her arm from his grip. “I’m sure I’ll get by.”
Sixteen
Butterflies
It was a relief for Carla to wake up the next morning, knowing she would have the daytime to herself. Her previous day of traveling, sightseeing and conversing with Ruben had drained all of her energy. All she wanted to do was have a peaceful, relaxing day, with the freedom to escape her thoughts about fortunes or men from her past for a while.
After eating breakfast alone in a local café, she took a tram to a butterfly pavilion on the outskirts of the city.
The building was from the Victorian era and had a curved roof with hundreds of panes of glass. Lush plants and tropical flowers filled the warm space with a sweet, exotic aroma, and terrapins swam in swallow pools, perching on rocks jutting out of the water. A rainbow of butterflies fluttered above her, some settling upon small wooden stands, where they feasted on melon and berries.
Carla felt her pulse slowing as she walked along the maze of narrow pathways, past all the lush emerald vegetation. Lucinda believed butterflies were a symbol of joy, change and good fortune—especially the blue ones—and Carla gasped when one with indigo and turquoise wings landed on the back of her hand. She raised her fingers to admire its delicate legs and antennae, carefully taking her phone from her pocket to take a photo. The butterfly stayed with her for a while before fluttering away, flying higher until it almost reached the ceiling.
She peered into glass cases where chrysalides hung in rows, their translucent cocoons pulsing and splitting open to reveal butterflies emerging with their wings wet and crumpled. A sign next to the cabinet informed her that they lived for only two to four weeks on average, and her heart sank. What would she do, and who would she spend her last precious moments with, if she only had such a short time to live? On the other hand, perhaps an overly long life gave people too much time to dwell on unimportant things.
She sent a photo of the butterfly sitting on her hand to Tom. My new friend, she messaged.
She promptly received a picture of a dead fly on his hotel windowsill in return.
You’re beating me in the beautiful pet competition. Sorry we haven’t managed to chat for a few days x
Carla could berate him for his lack of contact, but instead she sent him a shot of the butterflies breaking free from their pupas.
They’re supposed to be lucky.
Is this in Portugal? he texted back. I wish I was with you 
Carla clicked her jaw, realizing she hadn’t updated him on her latest travels. I’ve moved on to Amsterdam now, she replied.
Oh, cool! I’ve always wanted to go there. Don’t they put mayonnaise on fries, though?
She liked how he took her announcement in stride, not questioning why she was there or who she was with. In return, she didn’t ask him anything more about Sara, though she longed to know if his ex-girlfriend was still taking showers in his hotel bathroom. Before she could reply, Tom sent her another message.
Keep me posted on your trip. Got to shoot to a meeting now. Love you x
Love you too x, Carla replied.
Later that evening, Carla stood with Ruben in the museum foyer waiting to be admitted into the Magic and the Mind exhibition. A poster featured a wild-eyed man whose turban and crystal ball reminded her of Vadim the eerie mannequin. It said, Alistair, Crystal-Seer. Knows all, sees all, tells all.
Ruben looked handsomely formal in a dark blue suit, and he’d changed his glasses to tortoiseshell-rimmed ones. Carla wore her black linen dress with a pair of Babs’s ballet flats, and a slick of red lipstick. The other guests around her wore an eclectic array of clothing, from jeans and T-shirts to long floral gowns. Ruben took two glasses of red wine from a tray and handed one to Carla without asking if she’d prefer white.
They filed inside and he greeted several people, shaking hands and bowing his head as he received compliments about his research and theory work. “Too kind,” he said humbly, but Carla saw the flicker of a self-congratulatory smile on his lips.
She’d have been happy to circle the room on her own, peering into the glass cabinets and paying closer attention to a glass-topped séance table. She glimpsed a wooden Ouija board and an ear trumpet used by mediums to supposedly listen to spirits. Might these things confirm that some of her family’s beliefs and superstitions were hokum?
Her thoughts were interrupted when Ruben took her elbow and led her to the corner of the room, reminding her of the times she’d accompanied him to dinner, theater productions, lectures and galleries. He always used to lead the way, pointing things out to her as if she was his pupil.
Carla’s eyes were drawn to a ceramic head with markings and words, used for phrenology. She traced her hand across her own head, feeling the bumps on her skull as she looked at the corresponding model. She was about to mention it to Ruben, but he steered her toward a group of people he’d spotted instead. “Bram was once shortlisted for the Nobel Prize,” he whispered into Carla’s ear. “Floris is a landscape artist who had a piece commissioned for the National Gallery in London.” Each time Carla pointed out a magician’s prop to him, Ruben fixated on yet another professor or dignitary he wanted to engage in conversation.
She watched as a young woman, perhaps a student, approached Ruben while twirling a finger through her hair. Ruben placed his hands behind his back and listened intently while the woman stood on her tiptoes to speak to him. He launched into an explanation about how and why Norwegian prisons had a low recidivism rate. His body loosened and his eyes shone, as if the woman’s attention gave him a shot of energy.
Carla half-listened to the conversation, hearing the gush in the woman’s voice. It struck her that she used to look at Ruben with the same intensity of admiration while he lapped up her attention. She noted again that they’d been more like professor and student, a symbiotic relationship rather than a romantic one.
Eventually, a man wearing a scarf so long it reached his knees interrupted the conversation, taking Ruben’s elbow in the same way Ruben moved Carla along. Carla used this opportunity to excuse herself and she moved quickly across to the other side of the room. She took another glass of red wine from a waiter’s tray and stood reading a framed article that told of three supposedly clairvoyant sisters who fooled their clients by using apples on strings to make banging noises.
“Congratulations,” a voice said beside her. “I have seen you trying to skip Ruben’s company for some time.”
Carla’s mouth parted in surprise and she turned to find a woman with short bobbed tangerine hair and thick black Perspex glasses perched on her nose. She could be aged anywhere between forty and sixty and was dressed from head to toe in black clothes that rustled when she moved. There was a sprinkle of small star tattoos on her right wrist.
“Oops,” Carla said, feeling guilty at being found out. “Was it so obvious?”
“Not to him.” The woman winked and offered her hand to Carla. Her fingers were full of silver rings with skulls, ankhs and gemstones. “I am Anastacia.”
Carla recognized her name. “One of the curators?” she asked. “I haven’t managed to see many of the exhibits so far, but they look fascinating.”
