Empire of Butterflies (Incipit)
Pankow-Niederschönhausen district, Berlin — 1,120 km from Geneva, Switzerland
To Juliette Lavalanche, women could only be as interesting as their melancholy.
Because melancholy inevitably turned to madness.
She had learned that lesson on a warm April afternoon during her fifth year, on a bus ride home with her mother through the streets of Reims. They were returning from two appointments: the first, at 2:30 p.m., was for her mother’s portrait session with a professional photographer; the second, at 3:15 p.m., was to submit a passport request at the town hall.
That morning, Juliette had sat in the hallway, breathing in the soap-scented steam that wafted from the humid bathroom, as her mother meticulously applied her face cream. From time to time, her mother would sit on the edge of the bathtub, nudging the door closed with her foot. A few minutes later, she would reopen it and proceed to the following step of her beauty routine. Occasionally, she asked Juliette questions about school, but for the most part, they shared a reverent silence, the little girl watching in awe as her mother painted on a second layer of skin.
“Maman, when will breakfast be ready?” Juliette had asked, clutching her stomach dramatically with every rumble. “I’m hungry,” she had continued, drawing out the final syllable as she whined.
“Soon, ma chéri. Soon,” her mother had replied dismissively, warming up a wax strip between her hands. She had lifted the towel wrapped around her body, her skin scented and glossy like the pages of a fashion magazine. She harshly pulled the strips, wincing every single time.
“Can I pick out your outfit, Maman?”
“May I pick out an outfit,” her mother had corrected gently, before clearing her throat and adding, “You may.”
Juliette had scrambled to her feet and rushed to her parents’ bedroom. The room was simple and tidy, resembling an Ikea showroom more than a lived-in family home. She opened the tall wardrobe, sliding its door to reveal rows of clothes, coordinated by season and color. She knew her mother would be upset if she disrupted the order, so she closed her eyes to visualize the outfit before pulling out the corresponding pieces.
The little girl had selected a green turtleneck and black floral skirt, hugging the clothes against her body. She had twirled in front of the mirror, smiling at how the colors complemented her own green cardigan and black dress. She had neatly arranged the pieces on the side of the bed, stepping back to examine her work, then grabbed a globular, orange necklace. She had smoothed down the fabrics and hurried back to the bathroom, whose door had been shut once more.
When her mother had opened it again, Juliette had slipped inside and settled on the closed toilet lid, her feet dangling above the tufted rug. Every few seconds, she would extend her toes to feel the soft material against her skin. “I think you’ll like it,” she had stated, her eyes disappearing behind her smile in the shape of two crescent moons.
“I can’t wait to see,” her mother had replied as she had pinked herself with carmine, like the box of biscuit rose she gifted Juliette’s grandmother every Christmas.
“Can I wear blush, too?”
Her mother had crouched down to meet Juliette’s eyes and had given her right cheek a playful pinch. “There you go,” she chuckled as Juliette frowned. She extended her hand, allowing her daughter to lead her to the bedroom to inspect her work. But after a moment of contemplation, she opted for a pink blouse and white pants instead.
Juliette had quickly forgotten her disappointment when her mother had allowed her to dance in the cloud of perfume she had spritzed around herself. Basking in the spellbinding bouquet of jasmine and roses, she could hardly be upset at her mother when she had allowed her, at the age of five, to feel like a woman.
On the bus, Juliette had noticed a woman seated behind her, a fur coat draped over her shoulders and a silk scarf wrapped around her head. Juliette had gazed at her wide-eyed, her innocence threatening to break the glass of grief glazing the woman’s eyes. “Hello, ma’am. Why do you look so sad?”
“Juliette!” her mother had hissed as she attempted to pull her back to her seat.
“No, it’s alright,” the woman had reassured, managing a feeble, disingenuous, smile. “Life can be quite difficult, you know?”
“Not really, no,” Juliette had answered simply, which had stretched the woman’s pursed lips into a soft laugh.
“I suppose you are right,” she had conceded and shook her head. “I had not laughed since leaving Vienna.”
“Where is that? Is it far?”
The woman nodded, her eyes somber. “It is,” she replied, “in a country called Austria.”
“And do people laugh more in Ostri—Austria?” Juliette had asked. “Because Maman says I already laugh too much.”
“There’s no such thing,” she had reassured solemnly, before rising from her seat and stepping off the bus.
Juliette had moved to follow her. “This isn’t our stop,” her mother had said, tugging her arm back. But what her mother had failed to realize was that Juliette would have followed the mystery woman anywhere in the world. Because in the back of her mind, she had known that the passport her mother had just applied for would only serve the purpose of leaving her behind.
. . .
Guillaume stepped into the apartment quietly, knowing he would find Juliette in the middle of preparing for her weekly night out. There she was, perched cross-legged on the worn blue armchair, painting her toenails a loud lime green, her head bobbing along to Alanis Morissette’s Jagged Little Pill album. She didn't look up when he entered, merely tilting her head and acknowledging his presence with a soft, "Hey, Sal."
He leaned down and planted a kiss on the crown of her head, inhaling the faint notes of shampoo that still clung to her from her shower. But when he straightened up and took in the space he had been sharing with her for the past three months, his mood quickly soured. The sink overflowed with dishes from Juliette’s breakfast, lunch, and dinner; her clothes were sprawled all over the couch and coffee table; and as he stepped forward, his foot landed on the chalky remains of a shattered eyeshadow palette that now dusted the parquet floors in shimmering pinks and purples.
“Juliette,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Why is it that wherever you go, it’s as though a hurricane’s swept through?”
She shrugged, absorbed in the arduous task of twisting the brush expertly along each nail. “It’s called living unapologetically, Guillaume. You should try it sometime.”
He rolled his eyes, feeling his patience wane. “Living, yes. But can’t you do it without wrecking everything in the process?”
Without a word, she capped the nail polish bottle, lifted her foot, and inspected her work with a satisfied nod. Rising from the armchair, she slipped out of her oversized band T-shirt and tossed it over her shoulder. Guillaume’s cheeks flushed as he instinctively averted his gaze to the cracked mirror by the front door.
“Good God, Juliette!” he stammered, shielding his eyes. “A little warning, maybe?”
“Oh, come on, you’re such a Virgo,” she teased, sliding into a vintage Calvin Klein slip dress. She gave herself a once-over in the entrance’s mirror, appreciating how the cracks gave the illusion of a deep scar running down her neck. She untangled her necklaces and adjusted the dress’s straps. Guillaume stole a quick glance out of the corner of his eye, both annoyed and transfixed by her. Oblivious to the mess she had left in her wake, she threw on a leather jacket. “Which one should I wear?” she asked, waving a pair of black kitten heels in one hand, and red Mary Janes in the other. “Should my shoes match my jacket or my purse?”
“Erm, I— uh, I don’t know,” Guillaume stammered, caught off guard.
But Juliette had no patience for his indecision and she tossed aside the kitten heels. “I’ll be taking off my jacket soon enough, anyway,” she explained, coyly.
Guillaume crossed his arms, his brow furrowing. “You know I don’t care about the mess that much. I just wish you’d think about how it makes me feel when you—”
“Guil-laume,” she interrupted, drawing out his name in a playful sigh. “Whatever you have to say, write it in a poem. You know how much I love those,” she said with a wink.
She swiped on a hint of pink gloss and reached for a bottle of Byredo’s Gypsy Water perched on the shelf, spritzing a feverish fragrance of pine needles and citrus over her shoulders and neck. Guillaume observed her from across the room, ignoring the nascent pit forming in his stomach.
With an approbatory nod, Juliette pulled open the door and, without a glance back, waved a quick goodbye. Guillaume scrambled to the balcony, looking over her as she walked out of the building. The girl glanced up and grinned, her skin dulled by the dim streetlights. “Don’t wait up, Sal!” she exclaimed in a loud whisper. “Who knows where the night will take me?”
Shutting the sliding door, he sank into a pile of her clothes. He sat there for a while, concentrating until he could no longer hear her heels clicking against the pavement; until he could no longer smell her perfume; until he could forget she existed.
