Julie's Butterfly Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2013 Greta Milán

  Translation copyright © 2014 Alison Layland

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Previously published by the author as Julis Schmetterling in Germany by the author. Translated from German by Alison Layland and first published in English by AmazonCrossing in 2014.

  Published by AmazonCrossing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and AmazonCrossing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781477826065

  ISBN-10: 1477826068

  Cover design by bürosüdo München

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014910080

  For Mika

  CONTENTS

  START READING

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  FURTHER INFORMATION ON BUTTERFLY CHILDREN

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR

  One child in every fifty thousand is born with a form of the hereditary skin disease epidermolysis bullosa each year. Around half of these children have a severe form marked by skin so sensitive that even a light touch can cause serious harm.

  There is no cure for epidermolysis bullosa.

  PROLOGUE

  The kind young doctor watched the small boy hiding nervously behind his threadbare teddy. His green eyes seemed far too serious for his age, and the lively impulsiveness she saw in her own son was replaced by disciplined reserve in this child. She sat down carefully next to him on the examination couch in the harshly lit hospital room and waited for him to peek out from behind his bear.

  She gave him an encouraging smile. “Have you ever looked really closely at a butterfly?” she asked gently.

  He nodded hesitantly, in his characteristic way.

  “Then a clever boy like you is bound to have noticed how delicate their wings are,” she continued, her voice melodic and soothing.

  He nodded again but didn’t venture to speak.

  The doctor was not put off by his silence. “You have to be just as careful with your skin,” she explained. “It’s as fragile as a butterfly’s wings.”

  Not for the first time, he examined his skin closely. He was covered in wounds. Raw blisters had appeared wherever he had accidentally bumped against something. Some, the ones the doctor was about to treat, were filled with blood-streaked fluid. Others were crusted with scabs. Still others had already healed, allowing new pink skin to form mottled patterns over his feet and hands and up his arms. Though his joints were also badly affected, his torso and limbs bore relatively few scars since he hurt himself less often in those places—but it did happen there too, usually so quickly that he could do nothing but look on as his skin split and the wounds spread.

  Pain was something he knew well, along with the burning and itching that accompanied healing. He had never known anything different.

  The doctor watched the boy with patience as he dejectedly examined his bare skin. “Butterfly children are special,” she said softly. “But so is every other child.”

  His face showed his confusion as he looked up at her.

  The doctor gently stroked his dark hair. “Some children have big ears, some wear glasses, some have crooked teeth, and some hurt themselves more easily than others—as you do. Every child is unique and special,” she explained. “Never let anyone tell you otherwise.”

  That day, he didn’t understand the significance of her words. He had yet to know how cruel children could be.

  He imagined the butterfly he had seen the last time he went out, remembering clearly the small insect’s joyful, fluttering wings. He did not understand why his skin was made like those wings yet he was unable to fly.

  CHAPTER 1

  Cradling a bouquet, Julie entered the brightly lit foyer of the Schubert Gallery and took in the impressive surroundings. Ahead of her was the elegant main hall, with four separate areas partitioned off into smaller galleries toward the back. Attractive metal plaques above the entrances to each of the four areas announced the names of the artists whose works they housed. Beneath the crystal chandelier in the center of the spacious hall was a table covered with a variety of canapés. Attentive waiters were circulating with wine and champagne for the guests.

  Julie handed her coat to one of the friendly staff at the coat check and moved hesitantly into the room, which was already crowded with people standing in conversation and within reach of the buffet.

  She nervously tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and brushed down her close-fitting black sheath, which flattered her soft curves. She didn’t usually dress up like this, preferring jeans, baggy sweaters, and a simple ponytail for their comfort and convenience.

  But this was Isabelle’s big night. Her brash friend had come up in the world and was now a rising star in the art scene. This was the opening night of her first exhibit, presented by the most prestigious art dealer in the region. The gallery had made a name for itself through a series of successful auctions, but also prided itself in discovering and promoting new talent.

  Through a gap in the crowd, Julie saw Isabelle wave and make her way over.

  “You finally made it,” she called out.

  Julie couldn’t help but smile as her friend breezed toward her in an outfit made out of garish neon-colored latex. Her hair, currently tinted a fiery red, was cut in a severe bob.

  Isabelle enfolded Julie in a gushing embrace. “My first show! Isn’t it exciting?”

  “Congratulations,” replied Julie, smiling as she gave Isabelle the flowers. “I’m so proud of you.”

  “Oh, you shouldn’t have,” replied Isabelle, examining the collection of flowers Julie had selected for her. “How pretty,” she remarked, linking arms with Julie. “Now come with me, and I’ll introduce you around. You must meet my gallery dealer. Elena’s an absolute treasure. She’s really outdone herself tonight.” Isabelle grinned at Julie. “If she wasn’t around to keep an eye on me, I’d have passed out already from sheer excitement.”

  Julie giggled as Isabelle craned her neck to look for Elena.

  “There she is.”

  Julie followed Isabelle through the crowd as they made their way toward a woman in her late thirties. She wore an emerald-green evening go
wn that swirled down to her feet and perfectly matched her eyes. As soon as Elena spotted Isabelle, she gave a cheerful wave.

  When they reached her, Elena turned to the group of men she was standing with and said, “Gentlemen, allow me to introduce Isabelle Voltaire. She’s one of the four young artists whose work we’re presenting this evening. Her work is on display in the left wing.”

  Isabelle grinned effusively and curtsied. “Good evening, gentlemen.” She put her arm around Julie. “And this is my muse, Julietta Hoffmann.”

  Elena introduced the men in turn. “This is Daniel from Art Today magazine; Philip, my colleague; and Bastian, freelance photographer.”

  Julie smiled and nodded hello as she tried to memorize their names. Her eyes skimmed over each of them before settling on the man standing next to her. She guessed he was in his early thirties and tall; even in her heels, she hardly came to his chin. His athletic build was emphasized by his dark jeans and black turtleneck, which, despite its casual appearance, looked expensive and accentuated his broad shoulders. Julie found herself transfixed by the deep green of his eyes, which, in the light, appeared flecked with gray. His Grecian nose was long and straight, drawing her gaze to his slightly curved lips. His short black hair was tousled, and his jaw had a subtle five-o’clock shadow, but the effect was more casual than unkempt.

  A gentle tingle passed through Julie, like a butterfly dancing in her stomach.

  Bastian’s dark brows rose slightly under Julie’s gaze, and she felt a flush of heat rush to her cheeks. Then he took a barely perceptible step away from her and turned to face Philip on his other side.

  Julie frowned. Although she did not consider herself to be particularly beautiful, she was not used to being so summarily dismissed by a man. Her large dark-brown eyes frequently attracted compliments, and although her slight figure was more kid sister than dream woman, most men at least engaged her in polite conversation.

  “They’re really striking works, a successful combination of constructivism and affectivism,” said Daniel—the reporter—to Isabelle. Julie looked at him. A short, stocky man in his midthirties, he appeared to radiate self-confidence. Though his hair was sparse and his nose too small for his chubby face, his friendly blue eyes and winning smile made him immediately likable.

  “It’s always nice to receive compliments from an expert,” replied Isabelle.

  Julie noticed that Isabelle chose not to mention that she never gave a damn how the critics chose to categorize her paintings. Her work was chaotic and bold, just like she was. She had told Julie that each of them reflected her emotions at that time, whether elation or despair.

  A young waiter interrupted with a polite cough. “Champagne?”

  “Let’s all raise a glass!” cried Isabelle. Everyone reached for a drink. The leather glove that Bastian was wearing stood out among the flurry of hands.

  Isabelle let out a shrill cry of delight and nudged past Julie. Without the slightest hesitation, she took hold of Bastian’s free hand to examine his fashionable gloves more closely. “These are cool.”

  Bastian remained motionless as all eyes turned to him.

  “Are you hiding a wedding ring under there?” asked Isabelle.

  “No,” replied Bastian flatly, withdrawing his hand and putting it in his jeans pocket.

  “You could say they’re Bastian’s trademark,” said Elena, quickly coming to his rescue. “He never leaves the house without them.”

  “Of course.” Isabelle laughed knowingly. “We artists are eccentric. I should know.”

  Bastian remained distant as Isabelle scrutinized him, her lips pursed in a playfully mocking way. Julie could well imagine the questions filling her friend’s head. Clearly she had not yet decided whether she was purely interested in Bastian’s role as an artist or—as seemed more likely to Julie—she was more curious about his predilections.

  “Isabelle,” interrupted Elena in a businesslike manner. “I’d like to introduce you to Mr. Duchrow. He’s one of your greatest admirers.” Julie saw that Elena was just as perceptive as Julie herself when it came to Isabelle’s temperament and her potential for causing embarrassing scenes.

  Elena propelled Isabelle gently but firmly away from the group and threw Bastian a final amused glance as they disappeared into the crowd.

  Daniel cleared his throat to attract Julie’s attention.

  “Are you an artist as well, Julietta?” He smiled. “If I may call you Julietta? We tend to be more informal in artistic circles.”

  “Just call me Julie,” she replied.

  “Julie . . . how pretty.” Daniel sighed, a little too suggestively for Julie’s liking. “Well, can we admire your work around here?” he continued. His interest seemed genuine, but Julie couldn’t tell whether he was asking out of mere courtesy or as a journalist constantly on the lookout for new talent. After all, he knew which artists were on display that evening and that she was not one of them.

  “I’m afraid I’m not gifted in that way,” she said.

  Daniel gave her a knowing look. “It must be because your role as muse takes up all your energy.”

  Julie grinned. “You obviously like to exaggerate.”

  “I wouldn’t count on that.” A smug smile crossed his face. He obviously enjoyed playing the charmer.

  “Excuse me,” said Bastian. He bent down to the open camera bag lying at his feet, grabbed it, and disappeared into the crowd. His abrupt departure left Philip staring after him in apparent surprise before he regained his composure and moved closer to Julie and Daniel.

  “Has he left his card anywhere?” asked Daniel, nodding in Bastian’s direction.

  Philip shook his head lightly. “No, but you won’t need it. After we review them, we’ll make all the photos available for download on our website,” he replied. He turned to Julie to explain. “The management decided to hire only one photographer for the evening to preserve the exclusivity of the occasion.”

  “A bit over the top if you ask me,” said Daniel.

  Philip didn’t take the bait. “Of course, a true journalist would rather take his own shots, but you may recall that some less-than-complimentary photos were taken at the last opening.”

  Daniel grunted. “Small wonder that Rupert Feuerberg got smashed, but no one could have imagined he’d piss all over his own paintings.” He chuckled with malicious delight. “You’ve got to admit, though, it was hilarious.”

  “It was bad enough for those of us who were there,” replied Philip. “There was no need to share it with the public afterward.”

  “My task as a serious journalist is to portray the essence of artists and their work as accurately as possible,” said Daniel. Though he sounded apologetic, the wicked gleam in his eye indicated that he was anything but.

  “Regardless, the decision was made to hire one photographer for this event,” said Philip. “Bastian’s work during the press conference was excellent, and I think his photos from this evening will capture the spirit of the occasion. We’re lucky we were able to get him for tonight.”

  “He’s rather aloof for a photographer. Don’t you think?” asked Daniel.

  “Bastian prefers to work from the sidelines.”

  “Well, as long as we get plenty that are worth printing, it’s fine by me,” said Daniel. “Who do you think will make the most sales tonight?”

  “I’d say Isabelle and Sofia are the favorites. Abstract works are all the rage.”

  Julie let her eyes roam through the crowd while the men talked shop. She vaguely recognized a few faces, but she didn’t really know anyone apart from Isabelle. She caught sight of Bastian leaning casually against a wall in the left wing, indifferently sipping champagne. There’s something a little James Dean about him, she thought. Even from afar, she could see that his chin jutted out defiantly and his eyes hinted at an internal turmoil that made her want to know m
ore. What depths, she wondered, lie beneath his cool facade?

  As though sensing her attention, Bastian lifted his head. He suddenly seemed not so much cool as strangely vulnerable. Julie’s heart began to beat faster. She was unsure how long they stared at each other; though it was probably no more than a few seconds, it felt infinite. Then she watched as the warmth faded from his eyes. The lines of his mouth hardened as he tensed his jaw, raised his glass to his lips, and looked away.

  Behind Julie, Isabelle let out a theatrical sigh. “So sweet and yet so sullen. What a shame.”

  Julie started in surprise and glanced at Isabelle. Nothing more needed to be said. For someone who was such a mess when it came to her own love life, Isabelle had amazingly good instincts when it came to other people.

  Isabelle narrowed her eyes and smiled. “You like him,” she observed.

  “I don’t know the first thing about him,” said Julie, but she didn’t sound convincing.

  “You always did have a weakness for the dark, brooding type,” Isabelle said.

  Julie knew it was pointless to protest. “That may be, but I get the feeling he’s not particularly interested in me.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “He just doesn’t give that impression,” she said.

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake. Just because a man doesn’t fall at your feet with a bouquet, there’s no reason to jump to the conclusion that he doesn’t like you.”

  “Or that he does.”

  “Then I suggest you go over and find out,” said Isabelle, undeterred, pushing Julie in Bastian’s direction. “I’ve got to go and mingle anyway. Report back in half an hour at the main bar.” She gave Julie a peck on the cheek and disappeared into the crowd.

  Julie hated the uncertainty she felt as she made her way over to Bastian. Her mind was a jumble of possible topics of conversation, each of which she rejected as too silly or too dull. There was nothing to do but simply approach him and make it look like she was interested in the paintings around him. She was well aware that this was not the most original strategy, but it was harmless, and she couldn’t think of anything better.