Black Butterflies Page #4

And then you went away.

And I got rid of it.

I killed it.

Why didn't you tell me?

Because you would have

married me for the wrong reason.

When I'm better,

I'm going to leave here...

and go to Europe.

Been dreaming about it.

You, me, and Simone in Paris.

I love you, Jack.

I'm taking these.

You have to sign for them.

Sir?

"I thought I should come upon

my heart, where I kept the two...

...brown butterflies of your eyes."

Quite brilliant.

"Sewer, oh, sewer.

I lie trembling, singing....

how else but trembling?...

...with my blood child

under your water."

I think you should open with...

- "On all the faces of all people."

- No, it should start with

"The child that was shot dead

by soldiers in Nyanga."

I disagree.

That poem is too politically pointed.

So?

Why start with that?

start with something gentler, like

On all the faces of all people...

Look.

Look.

Uys and I have a surprise for you.

Come on.

You may want to change

a few things.

We could never agree

on the order of the poems.

I've also edited some.

I hope you don't think

I've butchered it too much.

Come.

It's bedtime.

I'm going to pick you up

and bring you to bed.

Jack.

They're going to publish

smoke and ochre!

They've offered me an advance

of 2,000 Rand. Look.

Brilliant.

Fabulous man!

Keep the wine flowing, please.

This is going to cost

an ram and a leg.

Who cares?

If you win the APB prize,

you must go to Europe.

- You know you're up against Eugene.

- With what?

Because he doesn't have

a new novel coming out.

It's being printed as we speak.

I got a look at the manuscript.

What's it about?

It's called Lust.

Well, that's direct.

- Well, I hope you win, Ingrid.

- Me too.

You must go to Paris

and Amsterdam.

Spain.

you write like Lorca.

You'll fit Barcelona like a glove.

I, uh...op.

I want to make a toast.

I was going to wait for

smoke and ochre to come out,

but I can't wait any longer.

I decided to dedicate the book

to Uys and Jack,

without whom none of this would

have ever happened.

So,

to my two oldest...

and dearest friends.

Uys and Jack.

- Uys and Jack.

- Uys and Jack.

Uys!

- reviews are out.

- What's the verdict?

Glorious.

"Sensational New York of verse

infused with powerful emotion.

- Rew, eruptive..."

- To pass as the prose of a new generation."

"A leading light of die Sestigers,

which include..."

- Even you're in here.

- I should bloody well hope so.

- your father will see you now.

- Thank you.

Thank you.

You didn't have to come here.

You could have called.

Sorry.

I'm sorry.

What is it?

I won the APB prize.

I heard.

They're flying me up to Johannesburg

to receive the award,

and I was wondering maybe

if you would...

if you would accompany me.

It'd be a great honor for me, Pa.

Ingrid.

I wanted to ban the book,

but my colleagues convinced me

otherwise not because they believed

it had any artistic value,

but because of the scandal it would have

caused, considering I'm your father.

"My blood child lies

in the gutter. "

That's disgusting.

"I am with those who abuse sex"?

You can say that again.

According to my sources,

you are having sexual relations with

everyone and anyone:

Jan Rabie, Uys Kriger, Andre Brink,

Jack Cope, Eugene Maritz.

- Stop it, Pa.

- The list goes on and on.

I'm the laughingstock of parliament

because of you.

You're a slut.

I never want to see you again.

Ingrid's on the phone.

She says her wrists are sore and damp.

- You'll come with me to Europe, won't you?

- Well, you know them.

They refused to give me a passport.

You have to get me out of here.

Hello, Jack.

Eugene.

"My darling Jack,

you said Amsterdam

would be filled with flowers,

but everything here is gray:

my feelings,

the people, even Eugene.

Europe is nothing but a false promise.

Half of me is missing, Jack.

Write and tell me you love me."

I stopped over at Barnard's.

He's throwing a party for us

tomorrow night.

Everyone's invited,

Pierre, Albie, Lionel,

and Nkosi's coming up from paris.

A new poem.

It's not finished.

Don't be coy.

Let me read it.

- No, it's not finished.

- Let me see it.

- Let me read it.

- It's not finished.

"Half of me is missing, Jack.

Write and tell me you love me"?

Well, half is certainly missing now.

Hello, Ingrid.

Nkosi.

It's good to see you.

How's Paris?

Beware of Europe.

For an african, it can never become home.

Are you writing?

No.

I'm dried up,

waiting to become the child your poem,

waiting to raise the fist and

shout, 'AFRICA.'

You're drinking too much.

I've decided...

I'm not coming with you to Paris.

- We leave tomorrow.

- I have to finish my novel.

- I have to deliver it by the end of the month.

- But with me, you're not getting it?

Frankly, you drain me.

What?

What's so funny?

Jack used those exact same words.

He said I drain him.

I'm pregnant.

You...you can't be.

What...what...

what you doing?

I'm miscarrying.

- Or do you want our child?

- you can't do this to me.

Dr. Jonker? This is Dr. Verraine

from the Paris sanatorium.

- Did you receive my telegram?

- Yes, I did.

Well, I cannot proceed with the electroshock

therapy unless I have your permission.

You have my permission.

I missed you more than sunsets.

I missed you.

Come.

I called Pa.

He's hunting in the southwest.

Of course.

Good to see you.

How are you all?

Well, well.

- Where's home this time?

- At me.

Thank you.

You look well.

How are you?

I'm tired.

Everything will be fine.

You've been working on a new novel.

Mhmm.

Like never before.

It's gushing out of me like a ripe well.

I want you to read it.

I can't write anymore.

Perhaps you should take off

your shoes.

I want you and Simone to move

back into the Bungalow with me.

- I don't think so, Jack.

- Why not?

I'm not good for love anymore.

Higher.

Auntie, higher.

Push me higher.

"If I had a world of own,

everything would be nonsense.

Nothing would be what it is,

because everything would be what it isn't.

And contrariwise, what it is,

it wouldn't be,

and what it wouldn't be,

it would."

Why does mummy never smile

anymore?

I don't know, darling.

Mummy, I've got a secret

to tell you.

What is it?

Nothing.

That's the secret to everything.

I have something for you.

Come off with your jacket.

It's your prize.

Open it.

Read this.

"To dear Jack,

with all my deepest love, Ingrid. "

Yes, but read the poem.

It's 'WHITMAN.'

"If we go anywhere, we go together

to meet what happens.

Maybe we'll be better off and

blither and learn something.

Maybe it is yourself now really

ushering me to the true songs.

Who know?

Maybe it is you, the mortal knob,

really undoing, turning.

So now, finally, good-bye

and farewell, my love."

What are you doing?

Going home.

- Well,...Ingrid.

- I'll be fine.

Ingrid.

Hello, miss.

You all right?

In the dark days...

...when all seemed hopeless...

in our country,

when men refused

to hear her resonant voice,

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