“It’s a nice day, isn’t it? Perfect for a murder.”

She grins at me, making a toast in the salty sea breeze wafting through the deck.

Across the table, I blink swiftly. Once, twice, thrice. Until the undulating moonlight almost brims over her vivacious eyes.

“Yes.”

This is not something you would say to your dinner date, so she must be joking. Although we just met not long ago, I know she can be whimsical.

“The ocean is so peaceful as well. You can just dump the body right from here.” Out of a weird impulse, I follow up.

“That is true,” she beams even wider. “Now, shall we have some smoked salmon. They are fresh...from the fridge.”

“Sounds good.”

We giggle at the same time.

Her name is Mariposa, an exotic way of calling butterfly. Her flickering emerald eyes strike you with mystery and glamour in one single glance. All those faces you used to recognize do not matter anymore. The word Mariposa is given a new meaning whenever you think of it, for she has become the only worthy conception.

That is how beautiful she is.

Strangely, I never noticed her until I accidentally spilled my Burgundy on her dress.

“My god!” I gasped when I saw the stain. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Don’t apologize,” she waved her hand. “I hate this dress anyway. So hard to move in it.”

“Let me make it up to you,” said I guiltily.

She tilted her head to one side and thought for a few seconds. “You can buy me dinner then.”

Relief aroused inside me.

“Three times at least.”

After finishing our food, we spend the rest of the night on the deck, talking and laughing. No awkwardness comes between us as our shadows overlap in moonshine. I ask about the man escorting her here. He is strongly built and emanates aggressive dominance by walking one step behind her.

It is a casual question. But Mariposa falls silent, the light beneath her lashes coming and going in the nocturnal silence.

“He’s a friend and also the captain.”

Oh. That makes sense. The patriarch of the ship.

My untimely curiosity gets worse. “You two seem close.”

“He brought me here and gave me this job. If it hadn’t been for him, I would have been out on the streets.”

“Where are you from?” I feel sorry for her but could not help probing.

“Cuzco,” She says.

“Wow, I have always wanted to go to Machu Picchu. Never made it, though.”

“I can be your guide then,” suggests Mariposa excitedly. “Once we land, of course. Do you have a travel partner?”

I cannot think of anyone right now, so I say no. But when that word weights on my resonance cavity, a surge of emptiness stretches inside me.

And once we land? I am puzzled.

Where is this ship heading to again?

I embarked not long ago. The azure of the sky still feels fresh, and I do not recognize any sailor.

There is a banquet room aboard, not far from my cabin and filled with mingling travelers at night. Sometimes I could hear the music meandering across the hallway.

The rhythm goes like di, di, di......

Salsa or waltz? I could not tell.

I did talk to a gentleman once. He wore a vermilion suit--appalling taste--and approached me with proper courtesy.

“Good day, Ma’am.” Hat off. “Are you going to the ball?”

I shook my head, for I was occupied by something. Something important.

“It’s fine to enjoy your life,” said the gentleman. “You don’t owe anything to anyone.”

His words were abrupt but worked. I was convinced.

Following him to the banquet room, I exchanged dances with many kind men and women.

“What’s your name?” I asked a girl with vivid crimson hair.

“I don’t remember.” She shrugged as if it did not matter whatsoever. Her diamond earrings dangled as she flipped her hair, the sparkle cutting through the dim light from a vintage lamp.

“Where are you from then?”

Speechless. For seconds.

“I don’t remember either.” She offered me a sincere smile.

That was odd. But somehow I accepted her answer merrily. Like it did not matter. Like I did not care.

The rhythm reigned. And we danced again.

Mariposa is late for our second dinner. By the time she arrives, I have already finished one glass of wine.

She pulls out the chair and sits. I notice her long gloves, which do not match her dress at all.

The entrees are scallops with purees on the side. Cauliflowers, peas, and caramelized apples. They remind me of colorful pills.

“What do you think?” I ask her. They were ordered by me.

“Taste like stars.” Her imagination is as delightful as usual.

The mist above the waters hangs on to our cheeks, our bared skin, and our breath, cool as always, transcending the change of seasons. When our second dish is served, the unshelled lobsters, she becomes so confused.

“Do we pull off the shells ourselves?”

“Yes.” I feel a little embarrassed. What a savage I am! I must have been possessed by some siren to believe this was a good choice.

She curls her lips.

“OK.”

Taking off her gloves, she picks up the lobster and yanks off a claw. The cigarette burns on her arms catch my eyes immediately. Several, clear-edged, new. It must hurt.

Horror takes me hostage.

“What happened? Are you in trouble?”

“No...it’s just Hunter...he doesn’t like those men around me.”

“But that’s not your fault!” My fury escalates.

“I know.” She averts her glance. “Don’t worry, it was an accident.”

“If you need my help......”

“I am good, really.” She cuts me off and cracks a smile.  

That is an implication for moving on. We end up eating lobsters with both our hands, like Vikings, hiding the unsettled dust in the oblivion of moonshine.

Empty, full, empty, half full, empty again. The last drop of sauvignon turns into my hazy whisper. Mariposa tolerates it.

Others have long left. She cannot stay either. We hug goodnight, promise to see again, and part ways.

It is not easy to walk on high heels when drunk. I hold on to the handrails to gain my footing. The metal is smooth and cold, banishing the warmth of my palms.

Isn’t it supposed to be rusty or something? Perhaps they repainted it not long ago. White, classic, just like The Legend of 1900. Classic indeed. Kids did not get it, but there were tears.

Wait, what kids?

Spinning. I stumble and fall into the sea.

A car.

I was in a car. Back seat.

From the rear mirror, I could see two familiar faces. No eye contact.

Turning left, there was a little girl smiling at me.

“Granny, we will come visit you soon.”

Granny? Who? Me?

I wake up in soaking sweat.

The smell of disinfectant pervades in the infirmary. As I try to sit straight, the doctor comes in.

“Are you feeling alright?”

I nod.

The doctor smiles at me. He takes a handful of something out of his pocket and gives them to me.

Candies. Of all colors.

“Thanks.”

They are sweet, but I don’t like them. For some reason.  

Outside the infirmary, the sunshine is bright. On the deck. On the ocean. In the middle of nowhere, perennial winds ruffles the luminous blue, waves entangling every strain of my thoughts.

One after another. Overwhelming.

Who were those people in my dream? I couldn’t remember their names. But clearly, now is not a good time for nostalgia. I have a date with Mariposa tonight. I need to freshen up.

Maria was the one ordering this time. We thought it would be fun to take turns. So I paced myself but still arrive early.

Ten minutes left. I pull the chair and sit.

Seven minutes. I gesture to the waiter and ask for wine.

Three minutes. I hear music coming from the hall.

One hour later, I finish the whole bottle. She never show.

“Have you seen Mariposa?” I stop one of the sailors.

“I guess she is with Captain now.”

“Thanks.” Somehow I feel unsettled. The captain is still a stranger to me. And, I just cannot trust a 40-something man alone with a woman of my age.  

The sailor shows me the direction and wishes me luck. I run. My heart could have pumped and drained the water in Lake Baikal along the way.  

I’ve never been to her cabin, but the door looks like the ones of ordinary houses. Wooden, thick, dead locked.

“Mariposa!” I pound on the door.

“Help me!” She screams.

Even cracking her voice sounds sweet. Sweet like a little girl. Sweet enough to become horrifying. Rage engulfs me.

“Where the f*ck is he?” I shout.

“Upstairs. His office. But be careful, he --”

I run again. To the captain’s office. To confront him. To save Mariposa.

As passing the corridor, blurred faces flash by. They ebb to the sides to make way for me.

I rush into the room and find him sitting comfortably in candlelight. The punchy smell of alcohol and cigar fills the air.

“You can’t treat Mariposa like that!” I snap at the sight.

“Stay out of it!” He rises to his feet, his shadow immediately enveloping me. He’s tall. Taller when approaching.

But I’m not scared. “She is not your belonging! You bloody bastard!”

“She must behave!”

He seizes my throat all of a sudden and squeezes harder and harder.

“Let......go......” I struggle to fight back but the strength of my arms and fingers is slipping away.

“That ungrateful b*tch......just like her mother......”

His face turns purple with escalating anger. And I realize he is drunk.

With all my power, I kick him on his stomach and break away from his grab. He falls onto the ground and hits his head on the desk foot, toppling down the candlestick. The fire lights the curtain in a split second.

On the desk, there is a keychain shining against the silhouette of flames. And a knife alongside.

I snatch the keys and lock the room. Dead.

When the fire alarm goes off, Mariposa has already got out. She is wounded all over.

The night is cold, the wind humid. I place her on a deck bench and wrap her in a blanket.

People will come to the deck to take refuge soon. We only have a few minutes of quiet.

“Why did you cry? He was a scumbag.” I ask Mariposa, my hands gripping the rails and trembling.

“It is like surgery. Painful indeed. But the only way to cure the disease is by cutting into the skin. It’s the right thing to do.” She looks into my eyes.

“I know.......”

“Then why did you suffer all these years?”

The distance between us shortens sharply. I am still confused by her question before she blinks at me and smiles.

What?

“Maria never blamed you.”

She pushes me into the water.

Maria. I know the name.

Maria was a friend. Maria was amicable. Maria was the girl with the talents to sing. Maria was abused by her father.

I shared her childhood. I took pictures of her show. I killed her father by accident with my blood-stained hands. I hugged her goodnight the day she committed suicide.

Mariposa, Maria. How could I not recognize her? The girl broken and bruised. The girl who drew constellation on her bedroom ceiling.

We were so close yet so separated.

I emerge from the darkness and find myself landed on a strange place. Not a thing blue in sight. An old lady is leading a group of people into a giant gate. They walk briskly.

I take one step ahead, unconsciously following them. The ground is firm, embracing my abrupt footfall.

The old lady notices my uneasiness.

“Welcome to the afterworld,” she beckons me. “Your soul is freed.”