Translation - Excerpt from The butterfly month by Ariella Kornmehl
First published in Dutch as De Vlindermaand by Ariella Kornmehl
Copyright Ariella Kornmehl 2005
www.kornmehl.nl
Uitgeverij Cossee , Amsterdam, Netherlands 2005
www.cossee.com
Translated from Dutch by Faith Hunter.
English translation copyright Faith Hunter 2007
First published in English by Scribe, Melbourne, Australia 2007.
www.scribepublications.com.au
UK and Commonwealth Rights Scribe, Melbourne Australia.
For information regarding rights please contact Cossee or Scribe at the above web addresses.
Any reproduction, modification, publication, transmission, transfer, or exploitation of any of the content, for personal or commercial use, whether in whole or in part, without written permission from myself is prohibited. © All rights reserved~Faith Hunter 2000-2008 except as per contract with Scribe Publications Australia
Outside, my sweater was far too warm after all. It was usually quite fresh in the hospital, I ventured. She gave me a push.
‘Kkkk!’
I let myself fall full-length on the grass, stretched, and lay there. It looked as if leaves were falling from the trees, but instead of falling they were twisting in the air. Some moved upwards, even though there was no wind. Come to think of it, they weren’t even the colour of leaves: they were a cream colour. It was only then I noticed that there weren’t any bare trees — everything was still in full bloom. They were butterflies. With half-closed eyes I looked upwards to Zanele, who stood on the grass in the bright sunlight.
‘So many butterflies!’
She nodded. ‘Is butterfl y month,’ she said with a smile. It was the middle of November, spring had started only three days ago, and now it was already summer. I pulled my polo neck over my head and sat on the grass in my bra. Zanele came
and stood in front of me, bent over as if to block anyone’s view -anyone who mustn’t see my uncovered upper body. I pushed my fringe back where it belonged. ‘There is no one here. What does it matter?’
She said she would run and get a shirt. Slowly, she walked from the garden, through the open sliding door of the study on her way upstairs. There was no point in arguing with her. Once she had an idea in her head, there was no stopping her. But I didn’t want a shirt; I wanted to feel butterflies against my skin.
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