Butterfly (18 page)

“Liar!” hissed Marika. “How dare you lie to the mistress!” She took a quick step forward and her hands flew out at him, one after the other, deliberately and hard. The blows stunned and nearly knocked him over, and tears came to his eyes, as much out of vexation as pain, for he was not yet used to Marika humiliating
him in front of Kate. He had to confess that he had guessed, but no one was interested when he tried to explain what he had thought and felt. Marika, grasping his hair, pulled his head so far back that his body, arching backward, exposed more clearly his condition—he was naked as usual. “Let the mistress see how big it make you,” she sneered. She held him in the uncomfortable position for a long moment, then violently shoved his head forward in the direction of Kate's feet. “Now thank the mistress!”

Attached to the soft slender strips was a small elongated cup of hard leather with an opening at the end. It seemed tiny next to what it was intended to contain; he could not begin to fit into it in his present state. Eventually, after a long wait, his exaltation subsided, only to rise unmanageably again the moment Marika approached with the receptacle. In the end they resorted to ether; when he awoke, it had been fastened and locked. The sight of the fine black strips clinging to his skin made him feel a little sick, whether from disquiet—was this to be a permanent part of his body?—or from emotion he could scarce have said.

The belt was cleverly designed so that after a little habituation, its presence was felt only in a state of arousal; then, however, it became quite uncomfortable, and any manipulation caused intense pain. A small lock was built into the buckle that held together the different straps.

“I shall keep the key,” Kate told him. “Marika will ask me for it when you need cleaning.”

Pinkerton, who at this point was still capable of spontaneous protest, was considerably distressed. “But what if you should . . .”

“Lose it? Or suddenly die?” Kate laughed wickedly. “I guess your little peashooter will stay in there until it rots.” Leather, of course, could easily be cut, but the mere idea of being permanently imprisoned in such a contraption caused an inrush of blood in more than one place.

Marika's lips curled maliciously. “Look at how he make the grimace,” she observed.
"En plus
it excite him—look!” The two women joined in laughter, but the transformation in his anatomy caused Pinkerton too much discomfort for him to care; the pain sobered him, however, and that in turn eased the pain.

As he was forbidden to touch himself, it fell to Marika to wash him. To his surprise, she always did this in a matter of fact way, like a nurse, without repugnance or irritation or salacious commentary. On these occasions some of the affection he had once felt for her would come back. Surprisingly, the undisguisable pleasure he took in being handled did not provoke her derision; it seemed even to inspire a certain tenderness. Her only complaint was that it always took so long to get him back into harness; yet she never threatened to stop or change the practice. Once, encouraged by her bonhomie, he begged her to relieve the frustration that brooded so cruelly; the request got him a whipping he did not soon forget.

But this changed nothing; when she washed him, her attitude remained cheerful and distantly maternal. She appeared to him then like a simple country girl, and he would wonder fleetingly whether it was not only in these moments that she was really herself. She cleaned him conscientiously and with dependable regularity, much as she might have cared after a farm animal or a dog.

56

(End of Kate's letter of May 6, 1910, to her goddaughter Cécile; see Chapter 19.)

. . . forever his goddess, which is what the word “domination” means, as you, a good Latinist, needn't be reminded.

To conclude, stick to the two cardinal rules: first, keep
him in a state of permanent frustration. Never grant him relief—never! His chastity is your surest guarantee of continued submission. There are many ways of enforcing it, and an ingenious little person like yourself will certainly come up with some piquant ones; but since chastity is not a natural state, a belt in the long run is most serviceable.

The second rule is to keep his frustration tied to your person through constant stimulation. Again the possibilities are limitless, but nothing is more powerful than your own body. The art of it lies in always granting him just enough to madden him with desire, but never so much that he feels he has possessed a part of you. Do not think yourself so secure in your domination that you can deny him entirely; deprive him of his daily dose of pacification and you may have a Spartacus on your hands.

These two rules constitute the essentials. Other aspects, such as the ritualization I spoke of earlier, are useful and interesting but secondary. Master the essentials, and everything else will fall into place by itself.

I close on a final word of advice: push your slave mentally as far as ingenuity permits, but physically no more than necessary. Corporal punishment has its place, but a self-respecting mistress will not use it in place of the imagination. The slave should fear the worst, but his fear should not be turned into fact. Mistreatment in itself is of no interest, and a maimed or dead slave is little use and much trouble. I know that you are a sensible girl, Cécile, but you have a spot of cruelty which, though a delicious finishing touch to your beauty, could, if excessively indulged, become your undoing.

And now, having thrown in my grain of godmotherly admonition, I shall send you off on your conquests with my blessing and wait for an account, which I trust will be delivered soon by your own pretty lips.

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(From Sharpless's journal)

December 19th.
Butterfly came in the afternoon with a letter for P. It was pretty nippy out and her face was ruddy. Or maybe just flushed with happiness. In any case it became her. Certainly in a gay mood, she bustled in like an excited child. I wanted to hug her and bounce her on my knee. It was gratifying to see the transformation, but also worrying that a letter, especially one so poor in content, could have such an effect.

After she left, I sat for a long time with her letter in my hands. There was no question but that I would read it, yet despite this foregone conclusion, I hesitated and went through all the throes of a rebellious conscience. In fact, it was more difficult than the first time, because then she had been troubled and I was prying solely out of concern, whereas now . . . Of course I had to check her letter for telltale allusions to the counterfeit, but in opening it I still felt more like a petty thief than a Robin Hood.

Once more her letter touched me deeply. I wanted to lay my head on the desk and cry. How many of us have ever received such a letter in their lives? It was poetic yet utterly unpretentious, light and playful yet informed by the deepest, most tender sentiments. Although there was no direct reference to my letter, everything she wrote was clearly in response to it, so that I could not but feel that in some way her words were addressed to me. It was not without a pang of regret that I resealed it and put it into the outgoing mail. If only that Pinkerton would better deserve it! I'm still praying for a change of heart and doing my best not to think further on it.

December 20th.
Finally, something turned up for B.’s Christmas present: an ancient Italian looking-glass in a rich frame inlaid with precious stones, very beautiful. The captain let me have it for two hundred and twenty dollars, swearing up and down that it was worth three-fifty if not four. I had been prepared to spend all of the five hundred dollars P. had sent for “expenses,” but it is hard to find something really nice. I had thought of jewelry as being the most likely thing for P. to send, but what I've seen has not appealed to me. It had to be something Occidental, of course, and something Pinkerton might by some stretch of the imagination have chosen. For our gift, I settled on a jade pendant from China (which cost a bit more than what I told Charlotte—I have the feeling she would as soon have left Butterfly off our Christmas list, though she did not say anything to that effect).

December 22nd.
Brought B. her presents. She was terribly pleased, and touched, and I do believe genuinely surprised. She was familiar with the Christmas tradition, but I don't think she was expecting anything from P., who did not even send anything when little Etsuko was born. The excuse was that he was expecting to return in person, but the argument, if reasonable, somehow lacks conviction. This was probably why she did not send him a Christmas present either, though she had thought of it—so she intimated—when she learned he would not be back so soon. We talked about Christmas back home and how it was celebrated at my parents’ and at Charlotte's. She showed me Pinkerton's gift from last year, a beautiful ancient
koto,
and played a couple of tunes on it at my request—very prettily and, so far as I can judge, expertly. I should have liked to invite her for Christmas dinner—with the children back in the States, it was not unthinkable—but refrained as I knew it would not please
Charlotte. There is the Christmas Eve party at the consulate, but she would never consider going to that—certainly not without Pinkerton.

December 23rd.
Spent most of the day on a letter to B. Just as opening hers was more of a hurdle the second time round, so was writing mine. Everything seemed difficult; I labored over each sentence, each detail. Should I open with “My dear” as I had last time? That question alone took an hour to ponder. Fortunately, the visit yesterday enabled me to work in a discreet allusion to the
koto
and to last year's Christmas. I then recounted at some length a story of how he had been shown the mirror by an antiquarian friend and immediately saw a vision of her face in it. It lasted for several seconds and was of breathtaking beauty. After that, of course, he simply had to procure it for her, over the protests of his resisting friend. I got rather carried away and had to prune my drafts considerably before arriving at a version that appeased my better judgment.

December 24th.
Delivered letter this morning. It was a second Christmas present, and I suspect one that gave her as much pleasure if not more. She did like the mirror very much though—which was gratifying; she showed it to me excitedly, had never seen anything like it. I chided her for unwrapping her presents before Christmas and she blushed like a little girl caught with her hand in the stocking. She was so pretty it was all I could do not to hug her.

She had prepared gifts that she was going to have sent to us later that day: a lovely kimono for C., and for me a stunning dwarf maple called
yatsubusa,
apparently over thirty years old. There was also a box of sweet Japanese delicacies.

December 25th.
A number of Japanese friends from the Christian community were at the party last night, and I caught myself thinking more than once that Butterfly would not have been out of place there. In spite of myself, I felt irritated with Charlotte, because if she had been friendly, we could certainly have taken B. My irritation continued all day today, and I had to make a real effort to keep it from flaring up against C., who of course was entirely innocent. The two of us spent the day quietly. This is the first time the children are away, and though C. prepared Christmas dinner as usual, the festive spirit was missing. I kept thinking against my will how different it could have been if we had invited B. It would have been a novel way of celebrating Christmas, but it would have been warm and fun, whereas with just the two of us, it felt cold and rather gloomy. I kept thinking resentfully that C. might have extended an invitation after accepting B.’s lavish gift. Her stiff-upper-lippish attempts at being merry only made me feel more peevish. I had intended to show myself affectionate and grateful to her on this special day; with this in mind, I had even looked forward to our Christmas alone. But I simply did not have it in me. My arms felt dead when I put them around her, and my lips seemed so cold that I was embarrassed to touch them to her cheeks.

December 29th.
For the past three days I've been making up another letter for B. in my head. Perhaps just to have a reason to go and see her. But putting it on paper is another matter.

December 30th.
Sachiko brought a letter to be mailed. I kept her for a chat. She asked me when I thought P. would be coming back. When I said I did not know, she asked me point-blank if he was at all. She clearly had her doubts. Apparently, both she and her mistress believe that P. has found another woman, but they
are divided on its consequences. B. thinks she could still persuade him to keep her as his wife, or at least as a second wife; Sachiko is more skeptical, thinks B. should make other plans so as not to waste her youth in futile waiting. What did she mean, I asked? Well, she could marry someone else; it appears that a marriage broker had come with a proposition, which in Sachiko's opinion B. rejected with undue haste, even vehemence. I energetically defended Butterfly, but after Sachiko left, I began to wonder what was right. I had to admit to myself that the chances of P. coming back were slight. What ought B. to do? I imagined a letter arriving, embarrassed and full of self-serving explanations, and shattering in a single moment all her hopes and illusions—illusions I was helping to foster. Extravagant ideas came into my head, such as going myself to fetch Pinkerton. But they were all impracticable and thinking about them only made me feel powerless and despondent.

58

One may wonder at Pinkerton's persistent docility in the face of outrageous treatment. Granted that passion can give rise to the strangest behavior, and that in certain moments all is possible: what about all the other moments of the day? Was there no limit to his endurance? Had he never an impulse to rebel?

Indeed he had. During the first weeks, hardly a day went by without a resolution to end his absurd bondage. In the privacy of his room, he suffered fits of indignation. Then he would revile Kate's barbarity and defy her with resounding speeches; once he even wrote a letter. On sober mornings he swore not to go back to Creighton, not that afternoon, not ever again. But his resolve
invariably weakened after lunch; at two-fifteen his horse would be waiting, and at four he would be confessing his velleities.