Anyway, this afternoon I was feeling really bad, so I told Gunty I'd only caught one ant, and his eyes stretched open and he gave a slow nod. "A tough hunt," he said.
"Gunty..." I said. "Have you got any chocolate?"
He eyed me from the side. It wasn't like him not to ask me up. "Just one ant?" he said. "Really, just the one?"
"A tiny one," I said, and he nodded.
So now I'm on his bed (the sheets are kind of rumpled) licking Mars Bar from my fingers because it tastes good, and the frames full of moths are lying at my side, but I don't want to leave - not yet. Gunty's standing at the window, his grey hair in the sun, his bony hands clasped behind his back. His brown trousers are short. I can see his ribbed socks. I don't get why he's standing like this. He usually sits beside me, flicking through his books. He hasn't even shown me his Mammoth Book of Bats, which must mean something isn't right.
I look around his tatty room and spot the moth net propped against the cupboard. It always makes me think of Ann's hairnet on a pole. I've seen Gunty using it, swiping at the darkness. I've always been afraid of moths - not when they're in Gunty's frames, but when they're quick and real. I don't like the muffled flapping, but Gunty gets so keen, and I guess I've decided I might be missing out. "Gunty?" I say.
He turns. His stubble is wiry and grey. "Yes, Daniel Moses?" (He always calls me that. The others call me Dan.).
"Can I come with you, tonight?" I say. "When you hunt them in the garden?"
"The moths, Daniel Moses?"
"Maybe I could watch?" I say. "I'd keep very quiet. And after you're finished, you can show me what you've got?"
His eyebrows lower. "Sadly, Daniel Moses, I'll be elsewhere tonight. There's a lake out of town. A good place for moths."
"I could come!" I say.
"I would like that," sighs Gunty. He turns and folds his arms. "I would like that, but no."
"I wouldn't be in the way."
"I know that, Daniel Moses."
"And I could even help. I could hold the light for you!"
Gunty walks across and I shuffle over and he sits on his bed and puts his chin in his hands. He looks at me, sideways, through big, houndlike eyes. It's like he's given up. "Your mother won't allow it. I would ask, but I know."
"She's not my mother!" Gunty always says this and it drives me mad! Ann looks after me because I was left - abandoned in the launderette, in a tub of towels, pale and wet, like something from the sea. Ann and Phil adopted me because someone had to, but that doesn't make them my parents. "And of course she'll let me come," I say. "I'll ask, okay?"
Gunty sighs. "If you think so." But he turns away.
Ann is in the living room, sitting at the table. She's taking a night class and her notes are all spread out. She shakes her head. "Dan," she says, without looking up. "I told you. No interruptions."
"Can I catch moths with Gunty?"
She rubs her eyes. When she finally looks at me, she seems really tired. "No. We'll talk later."
"Why no?" I say.
"I'm studying," she says.
"Then you shouldn't answer my questions."
"Well, perhaps you shouldn't ask!"
"Gunty said you'd say no."
She tips her head and glares. "Oh, he did, did he?"
"If he said something wrong, he's German... it's not his fault."
Ann gives a sigh and holds out an arm. I go and stand against it, which is what I'm meant to do, and she clamps it around me, like a wing. "Look, I know you like Gunter, but he has to leave."
"Leave?" I step away.
Ann taps her nails against the tabletop. She looks down, tightens her lips, then stares at me again.
"Now come on, Dan. I know what's best. That's why you're here." She rises and steps towards me. I don't want her to touch me - she smells of cooking - but she grabs me by the shoulders, and crouches down.
"Doesn't he make you uncomfortable?" she says. It's such a weird question. "No," I say. "The opposite."
She bites her lip a little, then tightens her grip on my shoulder. "You like having him here?"
"Of course. He shows me his stuff... insects and books. He's even taught me that moths are cool. I want to catch moths with him."
"Does he sit... close to you?"
"With me. On his bed."
"His unmade bed?"
"I guess."
She lowers her eyes, then looks up again. "He sits with you, on his bed."
"I don't understand," I say.
"He worked at the boys' school, before he retired, and..." She hugs herself. "Be honest with me, Dan. You can tell me anything."
I shrug.
"Okay," she sighs, "but listen. You will not go near him. Anyway, he'll be leaving this weekend. We'll find a new lodger. A woman, I expect."
"He's going this weekend?" I feel like I've been winded, like she's punched me in the gut. But she gives me a stern look, a look I know - it's a look you don't argue with, a look that sets the rules.
So I say, "Fine, I'll stay away from Gunty," because, though I feel like crying, I know I have to pretend.
I'm used to hiding. When Phil gets home from work and kisses Ann in the kitchen, I hide in the space between the cooker and the shelf. He puts his mouth against her hair and asks, "How's he been?"
"Quiet, I guess. He hasn't said much."
Phil holds her and kisses her, and strokes down her back, and she turns against him and leans into his hug, as if I'm hard to bear.
Then sometimes, when Ann's friend Jill comes round and they sit in the kitchen and whisper through their coffee steam, I hide behind the door. Jill's son has autism, and they talk about him first. Then later, Ann talks about the things I've done, like misunderstanding her, or being teased at school, or singing when I'm spoken to - that sort of thing. And I tell myself I'll change, and then I sneak away. My Music teacher, Mr. Jones, says feedback helps you improve, so that's why I eavesdrop - to see how I'm doing.
But I've never hidden from Gunty before. I didn't need to. He likes moths and bats, and if you like them too he invites you to his room. And he wants you to be happy, but it's okay if you're not. But if Ann says I can't go, he won't let me come and catch moths. So I'm hiding in the back of his car, beneath an itchy coat, while he's driving through the dark, playing German radio. After a while, I fall asleep, curled up in a ball, and by the time I wake again, the car's dead still. I lift the coat and peer through the dark. Gunty's gone. I clamber from the car.
The car's parked at the side of a road, next to a bank of trees. The moon above is full, so I can see, a little. I gaze around, until I notice a light - tiny, swooping, beyond the thin trunks. I weave my way towards it, picking through the woods, my feet sinking against the soft earth. The light's still there, soaring like a firefly. I move towards it. I call Gunty's name.
The light lowers. I hear his voice. It's muffled, uncertain. "Hello? Who is there?"
I tread towards him. "It's only me!"
"Mein Gott! Daniel Moses?"
"I've come to catch moths with you! I hid in your car!" I expect him to be proud, to pat me on the back. "See? It isn't your fault," I call. "I'll take the blame. Not that they'll know! They think I'm in my room!" I can see him now, a shape beyond the trees, standing, torch raised, net balanced at his side. His face is very pale, lit by the light. There's panic in his eyes and on his mouth. "No," he gasps, stepping back. "Daniel, this is bad!"
My heart falls, as I step into the clearing. Gunty and I are now standing very close. Behind him is a lake: a big, black mirror. Little, winged creatures flit around his torch. "You do not understand," he says. His eyes go sad. "You cannot be here. I will be... in trouble."
"If anyone finds out," I say, "I'll be in trouble. You couldn't help it. I hid myself away!"
He shakes his head. "They won't believe that."
"Of course they will," I say, and then I see he's crying. "I'm sorry," I say, and I feel really rotten, 'cause I'm desperate to be here, but Gunty doesn't want me. I thought Gunty understood - I thought it wasn't such a trial. "I'll wait in the car," I say, turning away. "I'll hide under the coat. We'll pretend I never came."
"Wait," he says, softly. I twist back again. "Seeing as you're here," he says, "I'd like you to stay."
The first is big, with thin, grey wings. I yell and shout, "There!" and Gunty takes off. He holds out his net and raises up his torch and launches at the flapping thing, lumbering about. I laugh and clap my hands, as the light jerks and falls, but he misses altogether, holds up the empty net. "No luck!" he calls, and I let out a laugh and I swear his lips creep into a smile.
"What was it?" I say, wandering across.
He tips his head. "Did you see?"
"A cabbage moth?"
He pats my shoulder. "Ya! Well done!" And I'm all proud and I laugh into the light, until I remember the things Ann said - that I should lock my room, that Gunty isn't safe - then suddenly his hand feels shameful on me, as if it shouldn't be there. I know I'm being stupid. Gunty isn't bad. But even so, I turn around, just to move away. The lake is very still. Moonlight gleams on the water. I wonder how I'll feel when Gunty catches a moth. "Why don't you just set traps?" I call, hugging myself.
I feel him close behind me. "I like to let them fly."
"But they're caught in your net!"
"Only for a minute, while I admire."
"And then you kill them. You put them into frames."
Gunty gives a sigh. "No, no! Only rare ones. Tonight, we look. And as for traps - I do not think it fair. Where is the challenge when we lure things in? I like to run, to twirl my net and feel the creature's wings!"
"So why the frames?" I say.
"They are beautiful," says Gunty. His voice is softer now. "That's why we mustn't waste them... we must look at them, you see?"
But I'm not sure I do. Still, what's it to me? I push my hands in my pockets, feel moth wings at my face, swipe the thing away. I turn to see Gunty, launching out again, lurching through the dark, his torchlight flailing. And I realise, as I watch, that I shouldn't be here - Gunty and the moths are meant to be alone. But Gunty lets out a cry, and I look in his direction. He's doing a strange dance and clasping the top of his net. "Come!" he shouts. "I have one!"
He holds the net towards me. I squint through the gauze. As I peer in, the white wings don't look pretty, but frantic and horrible and wild. The moth knocks about like a blind, clumsy thing. "Let it go!" I tell him. "Please! Let it out!" And the tears burn my eyes, as he lets the net go and shakes it through the air, so the moth shivers free.
"Daniel Moses?" says Gunty. "You're frightened?"
I cover up my eyes.
Back in the car, things feel better. Gunty has a flask of hot, sweet tea. We sit, in silence, with the light switched on, passing the cup and sipping. I look at Gunty. He's very pale. His lips are so thin, they're hardly there. I never noticed his wrinkles before - like the veins on a winter leaf. I remember the moth in the net. I feel sick. I try to forget. "Will you stay here, in Cambridge?" I ask. I'm hoping I'll still see him.
He looks down at the cup. "I am thinking to return to Germany. I have a brother, in Hamburg."
"Did you used to be a teacher?"
He turns, eyebrows raised. "How did you know?"
"Ann said you worked at the boys' school."
He sighs, sinks back, lets his eyelids drop. "I am sorry, Daniel Moses. I do not like to burden, but I cannot have you thinking I would do such things."
"What things?"
Without looking, he passes me the cup. I take it and rest it on my belly. "I was asked to leave," he says, his voice all flat. "They suspected me of being too... close... to the boys. There were rumours, but nothing true, of course."
Something unpleasant sticks in my throat. "They thought you wanted to do stuff to the boys?"
He turns. His face is all weighed down. I know he wouldn't hurt me, but the thought of that moth, frantic in the net... it puts me on edge in a way I can't explain. "I'd never do such things," says Gunty. "I am a decent man."
"I know that," I say. I don't pass him the tea.
Gunty drives us home. I sneak up to bed. Ann and Phil are still downstairs. I can hear the game show playing in the living room. Phil's trying to help whoever's in the hotseat. "Come on, man!" he's shouting. "It's Vienna! No! Vienna!" The audience makes a groaning sound. Phil mimics them, and then adds, "God, what's he playing at? He's losing all his lives!"
Upstairs, I say goodnight to Gunty. He leans down a little, looks me in the face. "I am sorry," he says, slowly.
And before I know what I'm feeling, the words burst out: "It's the flapping! They're so helpless."
Gunty nods. "They are."
The following morning, I wake up late. Phil will be mad with me for lying in. "You're a boy," he'll say. "You should be out climbing trees." But even so, I lie in bed, thinking about Gunty. He's going, I tell myself. He's going because of Ann, and he won't stand up to her or tell her it's all right. And whatever else Gunty has or hasn't done, nothing seems quite as harsh as this. When I walk out of my room, in my Planet pajamas, I see two leather cases outside Gunty's door. Lodged on top of them, dusty and square, is a frame full of butterflies. Butterflies, for me. I wipe away the dust and stare through the glass. Thanks to Gunty, I can name each one: Jezebel, Mormon, Swallowtail, Lime - yellow and blue, patterned like church windows. I look - I really look - and they're amazing.
I sit on the stairs, right at the top, and wait until I see him climbing up. He raises his eyes and gives a sad smile.
"Gunty? Are you going?"
"Yes," he says, "I am." He stops right in front of me, but I don't move, and he doesn't seem to mind. He bends right down and taps at the frame in my lap.
"You found your gift?"
"It's great," I say.
"Good," he says. "I'm glad." He tips his head and looks at me. "I wish to leave it with you, my good friend Daniel Moses."
And I realise, as I rise and stand to the side, and he climbs past me and reaches for his bags, that Gunty is a person I sometimes understand, and it doesn't matter when I don't.
