Frozen Butterflies Read online

  Frozen Butterflies

  A Novel

  Simona Grossi

  Pipes & Clouds

  A Gift To My Readers

  Dear Reader,

  * * *

  Thank you for purchasing Frozen Butterflies. I hope you’ll enjoy it and hope you will continue to read my stories. As a small token of my gratitude, I would like to give you a copy of my novella, Like Still Water.

  Check the section at the end of this book to learn how to get it for free.

  * * *

  simona

  If I could only warm my hands and

  make them fly again . . .

  S. B.

  Night One

  I don’t know why I keep waking up in the middle of the night. I’ve tried every possible remedy. Pills, therapy, pills again, meditation, hypnosis. Nothing seems to work. One of my teachers used to say that “everything happens for a reason.” Well, I’ve yet to find that reason.

  During the day I teach. Sometimes it’s hard to stand in front of my class after a sleepless night. My legs shake, my vision blurs, I can’t hear students’ questions and have to ask them to repeat themselves two, three times . . .

  I wear heavy glasses and I don’t like them. They cover my face. But I haven’t been able to wear contacts for a long time. My eyes are too tired after nights spent reading and writing, and so I’ve given in. And after all, the glasses hide the bags under my eyes and help hide my misery.

  I could wear makeup, but makeup has never been my thing. It would make me look like a scary clown.

  Am I sad? I don’t know. I feel lost. The therapist I saw last year called it depression. He said we should meet twice a week for six months. If we were lucky, we would find the right dose of this or that drug, and I would be cured. Wasn’t that easy? I felt so empty in that room as he was talking to me. Empty and lost. Yes, that’s how I felt. I left thinking I would never let him treat me. Then I met with two other therapists. They were also useless, so I eventually gave up. After all I should know how to treat myself, as that is what I do. For a living.

  I teach psychology at a university in Los Angeles. I wrote a book on midlife development that was praised as one of the most innovative works of the year when it came out. It’s about midlife transitions: Boredom with a life or lifestyle that no longer provides fulfillment. Feeling restless and wanting to do something completely different. Questioning decisions already made and the meaning of life. Daydreaming. Persistent sadness. Increased sexual desire and sexual affairs. Increased or decreased ambition.

  I don’t know why I chose this topic. I was only twenty-six at the time. What did I know about these things? The book was a success.

  Recently I have started reviewing my book. At night the hours feel endless, so I had to find something to do, and I thought about my book. I didn’t read it to help me sleep. I knew that would have not worked. In fact, hardly anything does.

  I do sleep sometimes though, but mostly during the day, and only for a few hours at a time. And that is what I did today. My class was at noon. I taught for two hours, collected my things from the office, took the bus, and returned home.

  I live by myself, and I’m not in a relationship with anyone at the moment. Or, I should say, I haven’t been in a relationship for the past four years. I turned thirty-five this year, and I think I must be going through some sort of crisis. But I can’t say exactly what it is, when it started, or why. And I don’t think my problem would technically fall within the categories I describe in my book.

  As soon as I got home, I looked for something to eat and poured some scotch into my glass, but before I ate anything, the scotch kicked in, my head started spinning, and I crashed on the sofa. At five p.m. I woke up, and I haven’t been able to go back to sleep since then. My stomach is craving food or sleep. I’m not sure. It’s one a.m.

  My book is open to the chapter on “Boredom with Life or Lifestyle.” The topic seems perfect at the moment. I leaf through the pages but feel uninspired. I’m bored by my analysis of boredom, and this is unexpected. I still have six hours before getting ready for school. What will I do now?

  I open the window in my living room and look outside. It’s dark. In my neighborhood there are no street lights. That should help people sleep, but it doesn’t help me. If my street were illuminated and there were a few stores and bars open, I could perhaps go out, meet someone. I’m sure there must be other people like me who can’t sleep and would appreciate street lights, street life, at this time. Yes, that’s a shame.

  I wander around the house with no precise idea or plan. I make some coffee, go to the living room, and push my big couch close to the window. I start sipping my coffee and look outside. I’m not sure what I’m hoping to see in the darkness. In fact, I’m probably not even looking outside. Who knows what I’m looking at?

  A taxi catches my attention as it pulls up on the other side of the street. I expect someone to get out. Instead someone gets in, and the car leaves. It’s a woman, but I can’t see who she is. It’s the third night this happens. For no reason, I feel I should follow her, but now it’s too late; she has disappeared.

  Night Two

  I had no doubt I would be awake tonight too. I used to get surprised when, two years ago, I would wake up at two or three in the morning. But at that time, insomnia wasn’t the routine that it now is for me. And I feared it. I remember waking up in the middle of the night and being scared. Hard to say why. Now, I’ve somehow surrendered.

  It’s almost two a.m. I go to the bathroom, and rather than the usual routine—mirror, sigh, toilette, mirror—I take a shower, avoid the mirror, go back to my room, and get dressed. I’m not sure I know what I’m doing. My instinct is controlling my actions, and I let it.

  I make coffee, place my wallet and my coat on the kitchen table, and prepare to leave as soon as I hear the taxi. Before my coffee is ready, I see the car. It came again. I turn off the stove, and I’m dragged to the door by an inexplicable euphoria. The taxi’s still there. The woman is late. She sees me waiting across the street but doesn’t acknowledge me. She enters the car, and it leaves.

  I remain motionless for a while, considering options. I could take my car and follow the taxi. I could call a taxi. But I don’t do any of these things. Instead I turn and go home. I wonder what she could be doing at night, always at the same time. And now I’m curious to see when she comes back.

  I turn on the stove again and finally make the coffee I didn’t make before. I’ll sip it close to the window, read something, and wait for her to return. I push my couch closer to the window, take a soft blanket, some photography books, my coffee, and lay back. At five a.m. she hasn’t returned, but I might have fallen asleep at some point, and now I’m not sure. I’m mad at myself for falling asleep. I should have stayed awake. And I’m mad at myself for not sleeping, and for seeking stupid ways to get through the night. Who cares what she does or doesn’t do with her own life? Who cares whether she comes back late? It’s none of my business, and certainly it won’t help me sleep again. I have a problem, and she has nothing to do with it.

  Night Three

  I woke up again. This time a little after two a.m. I have no intention whatsoever of following anyone. But, again, I witness the same scene. The taxi arrives, she gets in, and the car leaves.

  I leave the window open, not to check on her, just to let the fresh air enter the room and maybe slowly put me asleep. After an hour or so, I hear another car approaching. I return to the window. It’s a taxi. It stops across the street. And it’s her again. She pays the driver and walks to her door. I can see her. She’s crying.

  It’s after six, and although the sun is about to rise, I close my eyes. In less than thirty minutes, the alarm will go off
and I’ll have to prepare for class.

  Dawn One

  It’s one thirty in the morning, and I’m wide awake. I browse the internet looking for ideas, places that might be open now. I go on Yelp and filter the clubs by “open now,” but nothing comes up. I keep looking and finally find a place called the Red Moon. It seems like a jazz club or a bar that stays open all night, but the information I find is not clear, and the photos on the website don’t help either. I call. The place is open. A woman answers but is dismissive. She says they’ll be open until 5 a.m. I hang up and stare outside my window, trying to decide whether I am brave enough to go. The woman I keep seeing would go. I know she would. I’m home, wondering about her and the Red Moon.

  I get dressed and call a taxi.

  It arrives before I can think things through. After I give the driver the address, he turns to check me, and that makes me once again question my choice. What am I doing? Before I change my mind, we are on our way.

  We drive through unfamiliar streets and alleys. The city is deserted.

  “Do you know the Red Moon?” I ask the man, wondering whether I might have dreamed the call, the whole thing.

  He looks at me through his rearview mirror and smiles. Before I decide that what I’m doing is not completely stupid, that everything will be fine, the car stops.

  “Here you are,” he says. “Good luck and be safe.”

  I want to ask him to wait for me, tell him I will pay for his time, but I don’t. I pay for the ride and just go.

  There is only one building on the street, but there is no name on it, no sign of a club or a bar or anything like that. The building looks like an old factory and takes up the entire block on the fringe of the art district. From the outside, you would never guess that the factory could host a nightclub—assuming that is where I’m going. The place is made of old, fired bricks. I stop to look at them. The night is crisp and warm and bitter and inviting. It tastes like scotch. No, I am not afraid. I know that taste and like it. It is somehow familiar.

  I go closer to the bricks and press my nose into them. They smell like the past, I can almost touch it.

  I can see two floors, but the top one looks empty, as there’s no light coming from the big windows, one of which is broken. But the ground floor seems deserted too. I can hear no music or noise coming from there. It’s silent all over, as if something is trapped in those bricks, perhaps the present too.

  I walk around the building. There’s no one there. After some wandering, I am in front of what looks like a door beneath a tangle of ivy. I knock, and a man wearing a black suit and tie appears. It’s hard to say whether he’s from the present or the past. He looks elegant. His demeanor does. I am in a safe place. I will be fine.

  He asks me if I need help. I say I’m looking for the Red Moon. He asks for my ID.

  “Susan?”

  I like the sound of my name, it also feels familiar. But then he gives me a smile similar to the one the driver gave me before, and that smile turns him into an untrustworthy stranger. What is it that I am missing?

  He asks me to follow him, and we go down the stairs, perhaps two floors. I’m still confused or maybe still inebriated from the bricks.

  He doesn’t speak, and I feel more uncomfortable. But talking to him seems inappropriate, so I don’t.

  We reach a room lit by a few feeble candles. He’s standing in front of the entrance, so I can barely see anything. But then he moves to show me the place and says, “Welcome to the Red Moon, Susan.”

  After I watch him disappear up the stairway, I turn to the room, and I can finally hear some music.

  There’s a jazz trio in the left corner. I try to see who is playing, but I can’t. I can only see the instruments, and they seem to be playing on their own.

  I enter the room and sit at the bar. The bartender asks me what I want, and I order scotch, trying to make the place taste more familiar. A stranger seated not far from me starts staring at me. I take my glass and look around in search of another, more comfortable, place to sit.

  There are a few couples that seem intimate with each other, others that seem to have just met. And there’s a woman sitting on her own, wearing a minimal, dark mask. Odd—or perhaps not so much. I look around more, and now it seems that everyone is wearing invisible masks. It’s the way they move and talk that gives me that impression. The man who was staring at me before has disappeared, so I return to the bar and take my old place.

  “Do you like it here?”

  I turn and see a man wearing a dark-blue shirt, the collar opened, the sleeves rolled up.

  I like what I see.

  “Let’s drink together. I’ll order another one of these if you finish yours.”

  I smile, and he comes closer to offer his hand.

  “I’m Nick.”

  “Susan.”

  “Are you a regular?”

  I pause and look at him. “No, this is my first time,” I say. “You?”

  “I’d like to say the same, but, no. I’m pretty much a regular.”

  “Are you by yourself?”

  “Yes,” I say, while it looks like he’s examining me, his eyes piercing mine. I feel uncomfortable, almost naked in front of him, and I look elsewhere to catch my breath. But yes, I like what I see.

  “What do you do?” I then ask.

  “I’m a writer. Actually, a blogger.”

  “Isn’t a blogger a writer?”

  “Not everyone thinks so.” He looks down at his drink, forces a smile, and then looks at me, questioning something—me. I must look out of place, and perhaps I am—or maybe I just came unprepared.

  “You? What do you do?”

  “I teach.”

  “What do you teach?”

  “Psychology. Personality and cognition.”

  He remains silent for a while, and I feel even more uncomfortable.

  “What do you write about?” I ask.

  “Stories.”

  “Stories of what?”

  “Of people. Stories that I find interesting, hoping my readers will agree with me.”

  “That’s why you come here? To find stories?”

  He laughs and sips his drink.

  “I do come here for inspiration. Idea hunting, that’s what I call it. But it doesn’t always work. When it does, then I go home and write.”

  “So that means you write at night?”

  “Preferably. I don’t have to. I could write during the day, but I prefer the night.”

  “Why?”

  “The night is more intimate. You dare, you wander. There’s silence, no distraction. Your entire body craves any sort of creation.”

  I look at him. I can hardly speak, and I fear he could leave at any moment. Please don’t leave. I can do better than this. I try to push some questions out of my mouth, but my mind seems disabled, not responding. He’s magnetic, hypnotic. His eyes are dark, deep. I feel I can reach him, reach deeply into him, through them, and that distracts me even more, almost nullifying my efforts. That is unusual. It scares me, and it scares me to think that he might be doing the same thing to me, just better. And if he is, what does he see? Does he like what he sees?

  His hair is dark. Wavy, slightly covering his eyes. He’s tall, thin, and a bit round shouldered. He seems almost consumed by something, someone—or maybe just himself. In his forties, I would say, early or late forties. Or maybe I’m wrong. It’s too dark to see things clearly. It’s truly too dark.

  “If you write at night, then when do you sleep?”

  “During the day, a bit now and then.”

  “And do you feel OK?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t you feel tired, exhausted, after being up all night?”

  Are we similar? It feels like we are.

  He smiles.

  “After I finish my piece, I go to bed, and when I wake up I feel rested and ready for a new night.”

  He looks more deeply into my eyes, and I start shaking. And then I feel al
most frozen, trapped in him or by him, as if he can control my mind, my movements.

  “You know, we’re breaking the rules here,” he then says.

  “Which rules?”

  “If we want to have sex, we shouldn’t talk about ourselves so much.”

  Did I hear that right? Did I really? I swallow my excitement to hide it, but I can’t stop the sweat that drops from my forehead onto my lip. He notices and follows the drop with his eyes. I should turn, say something, but I can’t.

  “I think I’d better go home.”

  “I’ll give you a ride.”

  “No, thanks. I’ll take a taxi.”

  “Here’s my card. Call or email me if you feel like it.”

  I take the card, free my eyes from his, and leave.

  It’s almost seven, and I should probably try to get one hour of sleep or at least some rest before getting ready for class, but I can’t. I keep thinking about his eyes. I’m obsessing about them. It’s like they’re gripping my stomach. I feel so stupid. I don’t know him, but my entire body craves him. I take a long, hot shower and masturbate thinking about him.

  Day One

  I called him after work. He didn’t seem surprised, but he did his best to make me comfortable.

  “How was your day?” he asked, as if we were old friends or had been dating for a while. I told him about my class, the struggle to keep my eyes open, and my losing both focus and the thread of my lecture at some point.

  “Do you think you’ll be able to have dinner with me tonight? I’d like to take you to dinner.” His voice was as deep as I recalled.

  “I’d like you to.”

  I could sense his smile, but I wished I could see it. After I hung up, I made some tea, turned on the radio, and started daydreaming about the night. Finally, exhausted, I gave up and fell asleep. When I opened my eyes a little before nine, I rushed through a shower, shaved, and with my hair still wet, put on a simple black dress and left. Only once I was out of the house did I realize I had a long, thin cut on my right upper thigh. My dress covered most, but not all, of it.