Kiss of the Butterfly

Dedicated to Phyllis Levitt, my Baci.

Füsun Atalay ~ Copyright 2002

She called me her "delicious dumpling"; I nicknamed her Baci- after the exquisite Italian chocolates offering wisdom on slivers of paper enclosed in their wrapping. Such were our terms of endearment. I liked being called a dumpling because when she said it, the words sounded so warm and genuine and filled me with an unfamiliar tenderness.

My Baci was quite a character. She was exact in her tastes. Purple was her colour and butterflies- her objects of love. Dazzling butterflies of all sizes decorated her large living room. She had butterfly shaped place mats and butterfly napkin rings. Purple and white butterflies hung from the mirror in her dining room, their numbers augmented by their reflection ; another trio looked from her bay window out onto a church across the street. Dainty butterflies clustered on the African violets in terra-cotta pots on both sides of the purple velvet sofa dominating the living room.

She could read tea leaves from a certain type of small leaved, loose tea. On one occasion she told me that I was torn among distractions. She saw in my cup that I was being pulled in several different directions- one way by my sense of duty, in another by my desire to start a new life away from the hurtful memories I had left behind, in yet another by financial realities.

I was at a tumultuous period of my life then, on the heels of an affair that ended abruptly. Thus, validation in any form was welcome. But then, how many affairs can boast of happy endings? Aren't passion and pain often mutually inclusive?

Baci was psychic. She could perceive an aura from some of the people she encountered. Not from everyone though, which made it feel more like a privilege to be read by her. I introduced her to some of my other friends who had by then heard so much about my unconventional cohort who loved the colour purple, and dressed in solid colours from top to toe.

When Baci got her psychic inspiration flowing, she’d raise her index finger in the middle of a conversation, lift her chin up, close her eyes and declare "Hold it, wait! I’m getting some vibes from you, dear.." The lifted index finger with its painted finger nail was our cue to stop in mid sentence to hear what she might divulge.

Once, she had told a married friend of mine that the latter did not seem to be all in her space as if she was distracted by something, like a marital quarrel or something. I had known for a while that Agnes and her husband didn’t see eye to eye on many things.

Agnes was ticked off; I could tell. First of all she was rather cynical about auras and fortunes and people who claimed to be psychic. Secondly, I don't think she had really warmed up to Baci right from the start. But then, Baci could have that effect on some. It was easy to misinterpret her prescient words and dramatic gesticulations as being phoney. But she was not.

My first encounter with her occurred in the produce isle of Sobeys. I was trying to decide between two shiny, large eggplants for a new recipe I wanted to try .

"Forget the one in your right hand, sweetheart. Females are full of bitter seeds."

I turned around to see who called me sweetheart. She was tall and statuesque with silver hair gathered under a rimmed felt hat, attired in beige from her purse to her slacks to her fringed poncho. The only other colours on her were her bright pink lipstick and the enormous purple and gold butterfly broach pinned on the upper left of her rather large bosom.

"How can one tell if an eggplant is male or female?" I asked, bemused.

"The correct name is aubergine, dear. Look at the ends. Not the stem, the other end. See how the one in your right hand has an indentation and one in the left slightly protrudes? The protruding one is the one you want. Has far fewer seeds."

Yes, indeed. They were just like she said, indented and protruding. Intrigued, I placed the unwanted female back.

"Is that for moussaka or aubergines au gratin?" she continued.

"Neither. I was going to try something new, eggplants New Orleans style," and immediately realised I should have said aubergine instead of eggplant.

She put up her arms like an opera diva, her palms turned upwards, her large purse dangling from her elbow. "

"Oh, oh! Don't tell me- another gourmet cook! I could feel your vibes all the way from the fruit display. "

After our chance encounter before the aubergine stand of the supermarket, Baci and I became friends. For a while, until I got to know her a little better, I didn’t know how to take her. She was everything my much coveted anonymity warns me to avoid: flamboyant, vocal and picky.

Whereas I would settle for what was offered by the merchant just to avoid confrontation at the cheese or the meat counter of the market, Baci would insist on exactly which salmon filet or what fried chicken piece she wanted even if it exasperated the people serving her.

She managed to draw attention to us wherever we went. For her, it was a matter of principle to get the quality for which she paid, and as such a very natural behaviour to return a dish because it lacked the amount of spices indicated in the menu, or if its temperature was not warm enough for her.

Unless one knew her well, it was difficult to size her up and decide whether she was the truly refined lady as I got to know her, or simply an arrogant eccentric. In any case, she was to me like the mother I lost when I was barely eight years old. A mother figure and a jovial friend all rolled up in one. What more could one ask for?

She knew St. John's like the inside of her palm. Although she was born and raised on the mainland, she had lived here over thirty years . That was more than half of her life, and almost all of mine! When I picked her up from her house on Patrick Street to go out, she became the navigator. My terrible sense of direction and unfamiliarity with the city at that time disappeared when she sat next to me. She knew every point where a street changed name and which lane I had to keep in order to follow a road. She also knew the few good bakeries in town as well as all the coffee shops on Water Street.

In her prime, Baci had catered for weddings, bar mitzvahs, and office parties. She was a first class cook and she knew how to select the finest ingredients. It was so nice to know someone who understood gourmet terms such as deglaze, blanch, sear, and so on. I treasured exchanging recipes with her and my joy was immeasurable when she tasted a sampling of my cooking and closed her eyes in ecstasy. "To die for!" was her term for approval.

I loved to pick her up just to go to the Avalon Mall on weekends or sit in her parlour and chat with her over tea. She was open minded and understanding. She always cheered me up even when my life seemed to be in pieces. Her positive outlook flowed through her words when she started by, "You know dear, we are so blessed with good friends and..." Her life, as I pieced it together over time, had not all been a bed of roses.

After she lost her husband in the plane crash at Gander, she had given up the idea of retiring in a warmer climate for her arthritis. Over the years seeing her friends succumb to various illnesses and mortality had made her more determined to live her own life fully, reaching out to others with a pleasant word or a thoughtful gesture.

Sometimes, when her pain was unbearable, and she could not sit or stand, she'd remain in bed, legs raised on a fat pillow and she’d ask if I could keep her company after I got out of work. I remember our laughter as I lay on my belly at the foot of her king-sized bed, my palms supporting my chin, reading out sentimental stories, or leafing through a book of Pratt or Monet with her.

On the Mothers' Day following our first encounter, we packed sandwiches, some fruit and a thermos full of tea for a picnic in Bowring Park. She was dressed in chartreuse in honour of spring. After we found a parking space and were ready to seek out a nice spot, it started to rain.

We scrambled back into the car and waited for the rain to stop and the sky to clear. Watching other people scamper to find shelter diminished our hopes. So we decided to enjoy our bounty inside the car. I wonder if things could have tasted better that day had we eaten them sprawled in the shade of a tree facing the ducks and the swans.

As I wiped the steam of our breath fogging inside the car windows, I pointed to a white butterfly that alighted briefly on the rear view mirror Baci told me that was a good sign. According to her if the first butterfly one saw in spring was white, that meant a year of happiness and joy. A speckled one was a sign of success and adventure. A blue butterfly symbolized freedom. I was intrigued.

"What about a yellow butterfly?"

She looked a little anxious at my question.

"That signifies illness and death. Don't seek them out; you won't see them often," she snapped. I felt awkward because, in all likelihood, I had touched a sore spot in her memory. Sensing that, she had already changed the topic.

Baci and I greeted four springs heralded by white and silver-speckled butterflies; summers with infinite patches of pink and purple lupins covering the hillsides; autumns with pumpkins and home-made chutneys.

We spent winters mostly indoors by the fireplace talking or reading books. I sent her birthday cards and friendship notes in purple envelopes. She shared with me her partridgeberry pies and stories of her youth growing up in a place called Tamworth in Ontario. I felt so at home in her cozy house with high ceilings and hardwood floors, and with Felix the ginger cat napping on a window sill.

One Saturday morning in June I went to pick her up to go to the farmers' market at Churchill Square for local strawberries and bakeapple. We were planning to make jam and the strawberry mousse she saw in a Canadian Living magazine.

When she opened the door, I saw that she didn’t look her usual chirpy self. She was trying to hide her pain, but I knew right away that her arthritis must have been acting up.

She said she didn't feel like going out after all, so I thought I’d stay and keep her company. She wanted to take a nap while I offered to make lunch. I cooked fresh green beans in olive oil and plum tomatoes-- the way she liked them. I made some chicken noodle soup, sliced the bread and set the table.

Just before peeking into her room to see if she was awake and ready for lunch, I threw a final glance at the table to ensure her approval. The setting lacked her unique touch, but it was acceptable. At that instant a movement at the window of the dining alcove caught my eye. I approached to investigate. There was a saffron butterfly caught between two windows, its velvety wings worn out by futile attempts to break out. I opened the outer window quietly and waited for it to flee, but the poor moth remained motionless on the dusty windowsill.

Baci's words resonated in my ears : "A yellow butterfly signifies illness. . . "

I felt a queasiness in the pit of my stomach. I picked up the lifeless butterfly gently and took it out to the back yard. There, under the curious supervision of Felix, I dug a little hole by the blue corn flowers and buried it.. Then I washed my hands and went to knock on my friend's bedroom door.

Baci had already gotten up and changed into her silk dressing gown. She looked rested and in less pain, although I could not be sure since she always managed to hide her distress .

"Hello, my dumpling," she said when she saw me. "That bit of rest was just what I needed. Something smells good. What goodies did you make for lunch?"

First I hugged her and then led her to the table. She looked pleased when she saw the plate of green beans.

"Baci.." I started, but my words were interrupted by the shrill alarm of a fire truck summoning drivers to yield.

A mellow, afternoon breeze filled the room swelling the lace curtains like the sails of a boat.

"Baci, do you remember what you had said about butterflies?" I helped her ease into her chair.

"What, M’love?"

"About different coloured butterflies symbolizing different notions?"

"Of course, dear. But what makes you think of that ?"

"Well," I avoided a direct answer. "I think the yellow ones stand for faith and hope." Before she could speak further, I hugged her again inhaling her familiar lavender scent, and continued. "Because, just a while ago, while you were napping, I was kissed by a yellow butterfly. And it revealed to me that miracles do exist. We must have hope and never undermine the power of faith."

"Well I can drink to that!" Baci raised her water glass with ice cubes and fresh lime slices waltzing in it.

"Me too! Here is to our friendship, and love, and faith, and spring, and . . ."

".. and — to butterflies of all colours," she summed up my thoughts.

That night when I finally got into my own bed I thanked to a power, unseen and unknown. Just when I thought I'd lost my dear friend, she’d come back to me again like a butterfly just out of her cocoon. And I promised to myself that I’d celebrate every minute of her life even after she flew far away. Because that would be her will and greatest legacy.

Copyrighted Material ~ Copyright © 2006 All Rights belong to Füsun Atalay