Butterfly (10 page)

28

On his return from New York, Pinkerton found a thick official envelope from the U.S. consulate at Nagasaki. Sharpless, the vice-consul whom Pinkerton had charged to take care of financial and other practical matters in his absence, reported that all was well and that he had continued faithfully to execute his instructions; he awaited any others Pinkerton might have, and his return if he had none. A letter from Butterfly was enclosed; it was written on beautiful Japanese paper and lightly perfumed. In her touchingly childish and yet not unpleasing hand, Butterfly announced the birth of their daughter. The girl had been named Elizabeth, as he wished, after his sister; for her Japanese name, Butterfly had chosen Etsuko, a common girl's name meaning “happy child” or “child (daughter) of happiness,” because she had been conceived in such happiness. She had been born in the hour of the dragon; her horoscope indicated musical gifts and a life abroad.

Embedded among the sundry details and sentiments were two little poems of the sort Butterfly, following an ancient literary tradition, composed to adorn her letters. These she wrote in Japanese with a brush. In her translation, the first one read:

Fire from January to October, soughing autumn winds;

I watch for the woodcutter returning from the hills.

And the other:

Happiness in my garden, the fragrance of chrysanthemums;

Yet would I join the boys and girls at play.

Pinkerton was not untouched by these delicate expressions of her longing, but they did not brighten his day as their predecessors
had. Instead, they oppressed him; rather than bringing him closer to her, they only made him feel more acutely the tremendous distance that now seemed to lie between them. He tried to steer his desire back to her, tried to rouse himself with images of her beauty, with memories of their joys, but to no avail; it was as if the electric current had been cut: however much he might connect and reconnect the wires, he would not be galvanized. Peevishly he laid aside her letter and did not read it again. Yet he persisted in the belief that once he got back to Japan, all would be as before.

29

(The Nagasaki ms.)

Was it because it was our last evening together that Kate seemed twice as enchanting? Never had I seen her so goddess-like in beauty, so sovereign in intelligence, so endearing in manner; she enthralled me and at the same time put me at ease despite my inner tumult. I became more enamored with each passing hour. Perhaps the champagne we drank had gone to my head; more likely it was Kate herself. I could have thrown myself at her feet then and there, in front of my mother and Lisa, to implore her forgiveness and her hand. This impulse was so contrary to my will that I did not give it rein; my eyes, however, could not be deterred from their unabashed adoration.

It was midnight when we separated. My mother had retired earlier, and Lisa left us in the hallway to say our good-byes. Seizing the hand Kate offered in parting, I glued my lips to it; to my relief, she did not withdraw but let me keep it. My heart was full to overflowing, but my tongue was mute. What indeed could I say, if it was not to blurt out all as I longed to and yet could not? I covered her hand with burning kisses as if to impress upon it the
passion I could not declare. All at once, I thought of Marika kneeling in her bizarre devotion, and through the length of me passed a yearning, endlessly long and sharp like a thread of cold blue steel. Dizzy from a temptation I scarce dared contemplate, I felt my heart fall like a stone dropped into an abyss.

“My poor Henry,” Kate said softly. For the first time since we had seen each other again, a hint of emotion appeared in her eyes: sympathy perhaps, possibly love, and most certainly, pity. Her hand, disengaging from mine, touched my neck; she approached, and I felt the fleeting brush of her lips against my forehead. I bent forward to lay my head upon her shoulder, if only for an instant, but already she had drawn back and was turning to leave. Stifled by anguish, I watched her go. The cry that rose stuck in my throat, for I knew that if she were to come back, I would be forever lost to myself and to Butterfly.

I had persuaded myself that my trip to New York would deliver me from the temptation Kate increasingly presented. I could not have been more deceived. Before leaving I had in a fit of determination consigned Marika's pernicious gift to the fire, but this in no way expelled it from my mind. Soon I regretted my virtuous action; at home the hope of Marika coming had kept me from sleeping with my cheeks upon it as I should have liked, but in my hotel room, freed of that consideration, I longed for it with rage. Needless to say, the woman who had worn it was also constantly on my mind. Often I caught myself wondering how I could visit her in Creighton without being indiscreet. Determined as I was to break away from her, such thoughts made me angry, yet the daydreams continued, and once caught in them, no greater sweetness seemed possible than to gaze again upon her face. For all that I ridiculed it, the thought came to me that I should willingly give my life for another look at her.

Marika, too, was in no way forgotten. The flurry of business appointments, personal calls and sumptuous dinners failed to
distract me, nor did the women introduced by a friend in New York do anything to allay my unquenched desire. The night before my departure, I had against all expectation been awakened by Marika slipping into my bed. She had come, she explained, since I was leaving in the morning, just to keep me company; hadn't she said she would? Although my passion remained unconsumated, the caresses we exchanged and the pleasure of holding her fucksome, odorous body in my arms was such that I shed tears of joy and gratitude and perhaps of relief over the fact that she had finally come to me. Before she left, she made me swear to visit her in her new home—as if I could, after half enjoying her, have stayed away.

A note in French came the day after I got home:

Chéri,

It is lovely by the sea, but the water is cold. Come and make me warm. The mistress goes riding every morning at nine. Don't be late. Come soon—my womb cries out for your inundations.

M
.

30

The house seemed deserted with Kate gone. Both Pinkerton and Lisa were impatient to talk about their recent guest, but neither wanted to be the one to broach the subject. When Pinkerton finally asked after their friend, Lisa described the house outside Creighton and told of her trip down with Kate to help her get settled. She had spent two nights there. “By the way, I am to tell you that if you'd care to join her for tea, you're cordially invited.”

Ignoring Lisa's expectant look, Pinkerton asked, “Why was she
in such a hurry to go there?” His voice betrayed his irritation over Kate's departure.

“You mean, why couldn't she have stayed until you left?” Lisa returned a little sharply. “For all the attention you showed her, I can't think why in the world she should. In any case, she had arranged to rent the house on the twentieth.”

Pinkerton, at a loss for a rejoinder, made a vague gesture of dissatisfaction and silently looked off into space.

“You will go, I hope?” Lisa pursued.

Deep down he knew he would, but he was loath to admit it. “Maybe,” he said with a studied indifference to cover the heartbeat that had quickened when Lisa mentioned the invitation. “If I can find the time.”

At this Lisa rebelled. “Henry, what has gotten into you?” she cried. “Who are you trying to fool? I have eyes, I saw how you were looking at her. If you're not in love, then I renounce all hope of anyone ever falling in love with me!” As he did not immediately respond, she went on, her passion rising. “Why do you pretend to me, Hen? We . . . you used to tell me everything. Why do you hide from me now? Anyway, you can't—I know you too well. I know you're troubled, and I understand, believe me, I do, but . . .” She stepped close to him and put her hands upon his chest. “If you'd just follow your true feelings, just listen to what your heart tells you. You think I don't know what you feel like in there, but I do. You love her, Hen, you can't hide it. Your heart is so full of her that I can feel it with my hands. You loved her the minute you saw her, and now you love her even more, much more . . . you love her so much you . . .” Lisa was close to tears. Her emotion, however, made him calmer, and he put his arms around her.

“You're the one I love,’ he said, stroking her and kissing her on the forehead.

“You're silly,” she remonstrated, but she smiled with pleasure and let her head rest against his neck. “Silly Hen, you're just an old silly.” Then her voice became serious again. “Go see her, Hen. Go tomorrow.”

31

(The Nagasaki ms.)

Creighton was an hour and a half's ride away. To economize on time—for I still had more business than I could attend to in the week remaining to me—I decided to see Marika in the morning and Kate in the afternoon, even though the thought did not make me feel entirely comfortable. Setting out at daybreak, I arrived in the little resort town shortly after eight, but to avoid the risk of being seen by Kate, I waited until almost nine-thirty to approach the house. Marika greeted me with a quiet, enigmatic smile. She did not kiss me but, taking me by the hand, led me straight to her room under the roof.

The stairs leading to the attic were narrow and steep. I was guided up by her callipygian sway, obscenely lovely and so close that by leaning forward I could have buried my face in the pert jouncing cheeks. Breathless more from arousal than exertion, I put my arms around her as soon as we reached the top. My hands cupped her breasts as I kissed the nape of her neck, and my desire pushed out at her as if wanting to pierce the layers of material in the way. Half scuffling, half embracing, we got through the door and to the bed.

Her large hazel eyes seemed pensive, almost melancholic, and I was disappointed not to find in them the lubricity that had tuned me once to such a pitch of desire. Her lips, too, lacked fire.
My passion, however, needed no stoking; heedless and feverish, I woed her with ravening kisses. In my hunger for a union so cruelly postponed, I fumbled to raise her skirt. To this she made no opposition, less still to the caresses I lavished on her uncovered parts; but it was not long before she turned her mouth away. “Down there,” she said in a clear unemotional voice, and to confirm her wishes gave me a gentle but unequivocal push. I let my head roll down between her breasts and further until the Mount of Venus jostled my cheek. As I groped to clear away the skirt bunched high around her thighs, she suddenly twisted over on her stomach and tucked in her knees. The skirt, swept up toward the waist, exposed her thighs and buttocks; there was no mistaking what I was being offered. The initial shock, as so often, became a deep thrill, and charmed by her sighs of pleasure, I discovered the flavor of love in the tangy, slightly bitter taste on my tongue. I soon began to tire, but she urged on my flagging efforts. Just when I thought I could no longer hold out, she rolled over. Across the length of her body our eyes met. Hers were dark and misty. Unable to wait further, I tore at my trousers.

“Please close the window,” she dismayed me by saying in a dispassionate tone. “I am cold.” Impatient with the new interruption, I looked up and saw that a dormer was open on the far side of the large room; the attic was in fact a little chilly for us to be undressed. Reluctantly and with considerable awkwardness—for I did not know whether to discard my trousers or pull them up—I stood up and dashed to the window. By the time I returned to the bed, Marika was lying naked. Her powerful legs opened like a pair of scissors and wound around my waist. In one beautifully fluid motion and without a break in contact, she rolled me over and rose triumphantly astride my loins. With her thick brown mane loose about her splendid shoulders, she resembled an Amazon mounted proudly on a broken stallion. Overwhelmed with admiration, I cried out to her under my breath.

Her rhythm was deliberate and languorous as she rode me like an equestrienne at an amble. Rocking upon the enchanted stalk, her rapturous cheeks churned unrelentingly until a great tenderness washed up in me like an ocean tide, and in its depths life's seed rose straining toward the feminine fount. Like the insect that in mating yields up his life, I was at that moment so completely absorbed that I would have abandoned life itself to our union. Surging toward consummation, I cried out her name and my love for her. She, sensing the imminence of my inebriate offering, breathed her assent but quickly amended, “No, not yet! Wait . . . wait.” Our eyes locked. She slipped a finger into my mouth, as if to placate my urgency.

Then, as in a dream, the voice came, calling Marika's name. It glided by my ears without at first touching me, for the world and its realities had fallen away like so many dry petals around my generative core. “Oh, my God,” Marika sobbed, “oh, my God.” For a moment, she continued her gyrations as if hoping the intruder would go away. But the voice came closer, boots clattered up the stairs. We froze, our fingers tightly entwined, swaying in a suspension of ecstasy.

The door flew open. I saw Kate framed in the doorway, and still I did not quite grasp the reality of her presence. She was dressed in a black equestrian outfit, her right hand clasping a riding crop. Marika, erect on top of me, had her back to the door and out of shame or fear did not turn. I too would have looked away, but my eyes were irresistibly drawn to the livid face frozen in its petrifying beauty.

For just a second—it could not have been more, though time seemed to have stopped—I was all but sucked up by those dark burning eyes. And I saw in them, as in a magic crystal, the entire length of my love and the depth of my betrayal. I saw myself falling endlessly amid a dazzling flurry, as if a celestial diamond had shattered to dust. At that same instant, even as I looked into her eyes, my lust broke. I could not doubt that Kate saw. What I
felt was beyond remorse, beyond despair. I remember wishing that my life would flow out with my desire, and that she would plunge her riding crop through my heart.