Butterfly's Shadow (2 page)

The small figure vanished through the door. A moment later they heard a howl from within.

Nancy, above the screaming, yelled, ‘I’ll deal with this,’ and ran, leaving Pinkerton in the road. A moment later she reappeared, holding the child in her arms, his face against her breast. He was squirming, sobbing, and Pinkerton said loudly, ‘Nancy? What in hell? We can’t do this—’

‘Let’s go.’

She was already in the rickshaw. He climbed in after her, looking back, expecting Cho-Cho to appear at the door. He heard Nancy whispering, trying to soothe the child, saying how everything would be okay, would be just fine, would be great.

As the rickshaw rattled down the dirt road, Suzuki, trudging home from the market, saw them in the distance: the golden couple side by side. Between them was the child.

Nancy called to the rickshaw man to go faster. Neither she nor Pinkerton noticed that seeping from the sleeve of Joey’s silk kimono into the green leaves of her dress a garish flower had begun to bloom: a bright red bloodstain.

*

Pinkerton, in a hurry, threads his way through the crowd towards the harbour where he is to meet Nancy, to say goodbye before she leaves.

He is late, and he sees her now, leaning on the rail of the liner, searching for him on the quayside, anxious, looking this
way and that, and close beside her the child, dressed in a plain cotton outfit, staring down, eyes wide with fear, at the water widening between the harbour and the hull as the liner pulls away.

Pinkerton’s ship will sail tomorrow, taking a different, longer route home. Their lives hang suspended in a floating no man’s land and he feels a heaviness like a knot somewhere within him, a sensation he will learn to live with. Everything has moved so fast, there has been no time to alter course – or so he has convinced himself.

He turns away, and heads for the other end of the quay.

On the ship, Joey looks up, startled, alarmed, by a noise like the roaring of a wild beast. The lady with yellow hair laughs.

‘That’s just the horn, Joey.’

She tells him again that he is going on a visit to a place called America. His father will be there. He recalls his mother telling him stories about America, a place with tall buildings and bright flowers where one day they might live.

Clutching the rail he sees Nagasaki grow smaller, disappear, and he begins to cry again, calling for his mother, sobbing that his home is drowning in the sea. The lady seems to understand, and tells him that though he cannot see it, Nagasaki is still there.

‘Look, Joey. Watch.’

Through a square hole in the deck she descends small wooden stairs, and slowly vanishes, first her feet, then her body, until all of her is invisible. Then her head pops up and she climbs on to the deck again.

‘Okay, Joey? You couldn’t see me, but I was always here.’ She takes his hand. ‘Now! Let’s get you some ice cream. Did you ever eat ice cream?’

Later she shows him big fish she calls dolphins leaping high into the air alongside the ship, and after dark when his tears come again, she carries him up on deck, hushing him, rocking
him in her arms, and he sees the foam around the boat glittering with a magic green light, the waves dancing as though lit by lanterns from beneath the water. She holds him close to the rail and a warm wind blows in his face and dries his tears.

‘Look, Joey, phosphorus, isn’t that great? Isn’t that fun?’

Above the harbour, Suzuki watches the naval vessel sail between the lighthouses to the open sea beyond. Somewhere on board is Lieutenant Pinkerton. She murmurs bitter curses beneath her breath, calling down on him future suffering and a painful death.

She had never liked him, even before she saw him, hating the idea of the imperious American ordering a Japanese bride like someone calling for breakfast. The last time he left she suspected he would never return. How much better it would be had he stayed away.

Both ships have left now, cutting through the waves, needing no wind to guide them. How free they are, the visitors, coming and going, careless of what they leave behind, broken, or destroyed.

The harbour closes behind him and Pinkerton takes his last look at land, catching that moment, that heartbeat, a shadow between the flawless rim of sky and sea when the horizon is blurred; a moment that occurs both in leaving and arriving, which he had looked out for, that day three years before, when he sailed into Nagasaki for the first time.

The voyage had been rough, the seas high and vicious, the weather ugly. When he saw a smudge of land hazy on the sharp rim of the horizon he gave thanks. All day they had ploughed through the Japan Sea straits, progress slowed by storm damage to the hull. Close to land, there seemed to be no break in the low mountains, until they came to the narrow entrance of a round bay which opened into another, inner bay. From the map Pinkerton knew that around the shores of this inner harbour lay Nagasaki. He yearned for firm ground under his feet, looked forward to some comfort and, more important, pleasure.

Gliding silently through the narrow passages, they passed the sentinel lighthouses flashing port and starboard, the surrounding hills dark against the night sky. Around them the lights of small boats bobbed on the water, and then, in a semicircle, like an amphitheatre he had once seen in a schoolbook about ancient Greece, the lights of the city, glittering like fallen stars on the hillside, reflected in the black water. With luck Nagasaki would bring him what he required: a good meal, and a not-so-good woman. He’d ask Eddie what to do; Eddie had the experience. They were the same age, twenty-three last birthday, but Eddie seemed years older, and he knew the territory; he’d lay dollars to buttons Eddie would have the answers.

They went ashore next morning, early, in a sampan that set them down on the waterfront. The encircling hill was steep, in some places too steep for houses. Here and there it had
been terraced for gardens that looked no bigger than a handkerchief and Pinkerton could see tiny figures bent low over whatever modest crop they were tending. When they stood upright, with their shallow straw hats and thin bodies, the figures looked like mushrooms growing in the green patches.

On shore Pinkerton and Eddie elbowed their way through rickshaw men calling out, plucking at the sailors’ sleeves. Offering them a ride to a good time.

Eddie brushed them aside, as he did the pyjama-clad men smiling obsequiously and offering to escort them – ‘right here, very quick’ – to what Pinkerton guessed were whorehouses.

‘We don’t need them,’ Eddie said reassuringly. ‘Cat-houses are licensed by the government. Anything clean and decent will be in the centre of the city.’

‘Are the people okay with that?’

‘Sure. They’re not like us, Ben. They’re not
immoral
exactly, they just don’t have morals.’

Ben and Eddie pushed their way through the crowd and into the market district, a maze of narrow streets lined with little shops. Then, as they turned the corner, the smell hit them: seafood and fish, an ammoniac tang so pungent that Pinkerton clamped his hand to his nostrils and tried to breathe through his fingers. The street smelled worse than a polecat. His stomach heaved and he thought longingly of sweet-smelling American fish: broiled red snapper, soft-shelled crabs, clam chowder . . .

But it was not only fish that hung in the air like an evil gas. The city stank. Open sewers ran down each side of the narrow streets, emptying into larger sewers further on. The stench was overpowering. Locals, in their wooden-soled sandals, were agile, even the women carrying babies strapped to their backs, avoiding the slippery edges of the sewers, deftly sidestepping rickshaws, bullock carts, horse-drawn wagons and bicycles. The two men, immaculate in their naval uniforms, trod carefully. Pinkerton’s spirits dropped as
he looked about him: what could anyone find to enjoy in surroundings so vile?

‘
Eddie?
’ He sounded desperate.

In the pandemonium he had to shout to be heard. He bawled questions into Eddie’s ear about whore houses and good-looking girls . . . But in truth the stink was blocking out all thought of pleasure as he pressed through the hubbub.

Eddie, an old hand, laughed away his doubts when they emerged into a quieter part of town and could talk. There was plenty of time to make themselves at home while the ship was repaired; to get a house in a nice neighbourhood, and a nice girl, a nice, clean Japanese wife provided by the local marriage broker. ‘She’ll be yours for as long as you need her.’

From the window of the little house on the side of the hill she could see foreign ships sitting on the water, fat and calm as swans. In the deep horseshoe of the harbour fishing boats were tied to the quay, the men working at their nets. The big ships were anchored further out, with tiny boats carrying men and supplies to and from the land. Not so long ago Cho-Cho would have walked along the sea path with her father, watching the fishermen, listening as he explained the intricacies of baiting and catching, scaling and slicing; this was his way, planting thoughts like seeds to grow inside her head, showing her things it could be useful to know. But now she waited fearfully for the unknown, and there was no father to explain anything.

She had been given certain information, but there were blank places and she had no experience to guide her. A man would arrive; a ceremony would follow. She would become a wife. Meanwhile she prepared herself; she concentrated on the surface of things, details: cloth, comb, sandals, sash.

A wedding kimono should be heavy silk,
shiromuku
, the whiteness denoting purity, woven to glow like
shogetsu
cherry blossom. What she wore on her body needed to be right in every respect, the ceremonial wig smooth as lacquer and over that the headdress shaped to conceal possible horns of jealousy and selfishness. She had no knowledge of jealousy, but could she be guilty of selfishness, even without knowing it? The headdress would help to give her strength, as would the little purse, the mirror, the fan, and the
kaiken
, the delicate
little knife with its tasselled sheath. She wondered why a bride should carry a defensive blade. As a talisman against bad luck perhaps? And a bride dishonoured would use a
kaiken
; the woman’s traditional weapon.

She looked at the blossom beyond the window, and became aware of birdsong. Would she one day learn to recognise new and different birds? And what flowers would she see, would a different sort of sunlight fall on the green places, if she was lucky enough to be taken to America? What was an American garden? Not moss and shale and water, not stones set calmly in raked gravel. She pictured bright orange flowers and trees towering into a bright blue sky, houses taller than the trees, with windows that glittered – in the magazines she had seen, brought by visitors returning from their travels, the pictures sparkled: ice cream parlours and hot dog stands, the women’s little dresses, their tilted hats, everything in America was brightly coloured.

She returned to the details that carried no uncertainty: a white nuptial gown and a scarlet kimono, its hem padded to swirl and trail. It should have long sleeves and a stiff obi sash. A sash tied in a
cho-cho
knot that resembled a butterfly – she must learn to tie the sash . . .

Slowly, as though her bones were melting, she sank to the floor, resting her head against her knees. She could no longer hold back the tears that welled and spread, soaking the cloth of her garment.

She was shivering as if from a fever; her hands icy, although the air was not cold. The room was bare; no ceremonial costumes were spread out around her. She tried to hold on to the imagined bridal scene, doggedly listing the traditional items. She dwelt on silk, ivory, tortoiseshell. Pretty pictures. But she knew that in due course, when a wedding ceremony of sorts had taken place and the sliding
shoji
doors had closed against the outside world, she would be alone with a stranger who had purchased her body. He would expect her to remove the kimono and please him.

Shikata ga nai.
The old expression said it all:
nothing to be done about it
.

But she was fifteen and she was afraid.

The curving path led up from the harbour, came into view at the headland, then vanished behind maple trees. She had been watching closely, but she must have glanced away and missed a moment, for she saw now that a man was walking towards the house and was already halfway up the hill. Dressed in white, the peak of his cap shading his face, until with a sudden movement he removed it to wipe what must be sweat from his brow, and revealed gleaming gold hair. She was astonished: golden hair, so bright, so American!

He turned back and waited, and she saw that a second man was following him, a thin, dark, older man in a sombre suit: the consul, Sharpless-san. She had met him before; he knew her father. The two men continued up the hill, walking side by side, and to Cho-Cho watching them it seemed as though the bright shining American was accompanied by a man-shaped shadow.

Sharpless made the introduction: ‘Lieutenant Benjamin Franklin Pinkerton, Cho-Cho-san . . .’

In the course of a working week the consul frequently found himself introducing strangers for one reason or another, though not usually to assist in selling a girl to a sailor. This exercise was distasteful, he would have preferred to withdraw, but he was needed, to translate, to lend a veneer of social normality to the transaction.

The formalities of arrival had been observed, the two men removing their shoes by the door. Now Pinkerton attempted a handshake just as Cho-Cho folded her body into a fluid bow, so that his knuckles collided glancingly with her cheekbone.

‘Ah!’ She recoiled, apologetic, feeling the mishap must be her fault.

‘Shit! Sorry!’ He waved his arms helplessly. In this fragile, papery room he felt huge and clumsy, at a loss.

The girl made a small, traditional speech of welcome and bowed again. Sharpless translated. Pinkerton nodded.

‘Right.’

He tried to think of something more. There was a pause. He glanced at Sharpless for guidance. The pause lengthened into a silence, then a few words exchanged, in Japanese.