Butterfly (3 page)

Pinkerton's eyes blazed, but his manner was calm. “How much would it take to get her?” he asked coldly.

“Sah, you don't understand, she is mistress of merchant Miya—”

With a violence that made Goro draw back in alarm, Pinkerton brought both palms crashing down upon the table. It was a gesture he had seen his father perform on more than one occasion, invariably with effect; though he had always thought it unnecessarily brutal and melodramatic, he now performed it spontaneously with appropriate panache. “I don't care!” he shouted. “I don't give a damn about your fucking Miyamayas! I want that girl, and all I want to know is what it'll take to get her. You just go and tell them that.”

Goro looked at Pinkerton as if he were a madman. But immediately he took hold of himself; his face became impenetrable and his person took on a military gravity.
"Hai, wakalimashita,”
he barked and made a stiff bow.

Alone, Pinkerton found himself trembling. He had brandy brought and between glasses feverishly paced the room. Goro returned an hour later, though it seemed longer to Pinkerton. He had spoken with the old lady and explained Pinkerton s wish; the old lady had understood, but it was a delicate situation because of Miyamura's wealth and position. All things considered, the only way Butterfly could be ceded to another would be through a formal marriage. Goro's forthright manner of talking indicated that no compromise was possible.

Marriage! This was the one eventuality Pinkerton had not considered, nor could he envision it now. Distractedly dismissing Goro, he flung himself face down upon the bed. Wild thoughts raced through his head. Could he make a deal with Miyamura? Buy or force him out? Or should he abduct the girl? And take her where? To America? His fantasies subsided; he saw he had no choice but to put Butterfly forever out of his mind, and bravely he set about it. Every effort, however, only conjured up still more vividly the beautiful hands of which he had been dreaming. No, it was impossible that his body should forever be denied the caresses that his imagination had so lovingly tailored; impossible that his eyes should never behold the mysteries yet to be unwrapped but his already in anticipation. And where would his desire, swaying so high and heavy on its stalk, go if she should not be there to catch it when it burst?

Inadvertently he had reached down into his breeches, but as he touched the painfully constricted parts, a thought jolted him. He flung himself around and sat up on the edge of the bed. Why shouldn't he marry her? What could it mean anyway, since he was leaving in a year? Whether he left behind a wedded wife or a kept mistress, where was the difference? The marriage, uncon-secrated, would not even be recognized. It was a show put on for Miyamura's sake, no more. This reflection lit up Pinkerton's spirits like sunlight streaming into a heavily curtained room. He rang and ordered Goro to be fetched at once.

The wedding was fixed for the end of May. Pinkerton had conceived of a small private affair; the old lady, in charge of the arrangements, had other ideas, and against these Pinkerton protested so futilely that he began to suspect Goro of not transmitting his views. The wedding, in the Japanese style, ended up being quite an expensive and elaborate production; the entire consular staff was invited, as well as all the old lady's entourage and familiars, including the merchant Miyamura and his cronies. The rationale was that Miyamura must not lose face, for that might incite him to take action against the marriage. To Pinkerton, however, it seemed clear the old lady was using the publicity to ensure that her protegee would be treated equitably by her new spouse. There was plenty to do, what with purchasing and fixing up a house, furnishing it, hiring a staff, preparing gifts, so that even Pinkerton, who through special consideration was assigned very light duties at the consulate, had trouble fitting everything in. During the fortnight before the wedding, Goro spent several afternoons coaching him in his role of bridegroom. Instruction notwithstanding, he felt clumsy and ridiculous performing the newly learnt gestures in an outlandish Japanese costume, but at least he would be able to go through the ceremony without overtly embarrassing anyone.

What would his compatriots think? He resisted the temptation to speak to them about it. They of course would understand, but however indulgent they might be, any explanation could only confirm him as a rake and a cad. As the wedding day drew near, excitement and desire gave way to a nervous disquietude. Wasn't he really behaving badly, he on occasion wondered? However much he assured himself it was only a sham formality to outmaneuver a troublesome rival, he could not quite shake off a vague feeling of shame. But then, he invariably retorted, she was only a high-class whore.

The night before the wedding, Pinkerton dreamt of Kate. He
could not recall the dream, but it left him with a vivid and troubling sense of her presence. The instant he shut his eyes, her image reappeared; he saw her as she had been at their parting. On that occasion she had been as reserved as he had been passionate. She did not disavow his impetuous affirmations of their love; she was only unusually quiet, and a strange, distant smile played about her lips, a smile full of melancholy and unspoken meanings. Finally, in a frenzy, he had seized her gloved hands and pressed his lips to the sheer black silk. Underneath, the flesh was cool and curiously inert, which made her hands seem inexorable in their sleek perfection. But his kisses had eventually brought them to life, and they had stroked his cheeks and his hair. At the moment of separation, they had suddenly pulled him to her with such force that for an instant—no more—his lips were crushed to hers. Before he had had time to respond, she was gone. The reassurances he sought so desperately were not to come.

Recaptured in his mind, her smile took on a hint of mockery. Innerly he protested: he was not really marrying the girl; surely she did not think he would marry anyone else. But the sardonic expression remained, he was powerless to change it or shut it out. Her presence, if anything, became more vivid; he felt he had only to reach out to touch her, and yet he could not do that either.

Beside himself, he rang violently and shouted his order to inform Goro that the wedding was off. This radical action calmed him, and he sat in a stupor, emptied of feeling and thought. But when Goro bustled in half an hour later wreathed in smiles and ostensibly ignorant of Pinkerton's change of mind—even though his man later affirmed that the message had been clearly conveyed—his bubbling good humor drowned his patron's protests and swept them so vigorously out of the way that Pinkerton
himself lost their gist and let them drift from his mind. In the end Pinkerton felt positively sheepish for having irrationally wanted to cancel what they had taken such pains to secure. So all went as planned after all.

3

(The Nagasaki ms.)

My mother and Lisa, both formally attired in black, looked so serious that for a moment I feared the worst. I was genuinely moved to see them and rushed to embrace my mother; she kissed me, but the rigidity of her body and the shadow of a frown reminded me that demonstrations of emotion—even after a year's absence—were not well-regarded in our family. My sister's welcome was warmer, but she had barely got her arms around my neck when we were admonished that my father was waiting. The man I found sunk in the pillows and bedclothes seemed at first sight to bear little resemblance to the father I had known. The flamboyant silver mane had become sparse and lusterless; the muscular face had shrunk. His extreme emaciation and pallor presented a picture of frailty that wrung my heart. I was reminded of a broken branch on which a few dry leaves still dangled, tenuous and forlorn. Though he saw me enter, he did not—apparently out of weakness—so much as twitch while I traversed the room. How he had degenerated! At close range his condition appeared even more pitiable. For a moment we looked at each other in silence. The enmity I bore him evaporated. Too choked with emotion to speak, I took one of his hands in mine and tried with all my will to communicate something of the warmth and natural affection that had hitherto been missing in our relations.

My inquiry about his health met with neither reply nor acknowledgment. His eyes turned from me and stared vacantly into space, and the crooked line between his desiccated lips twisted into a thin and mirthless smile. In a voice that, faintness notwithstanding, crackled with I know not what malignant spirit, he asked, “Well, have you come around?” A familiar rasp punctuated his question.

It took me an instant to understand what he was talking about. Then I felt my face aflame. As I looked into my father's flinty eyes, a knifelike hatred cut through the good feelings I was harbouring: nothing had changed. I saw the same malicious lips; the same steely, supercilious regard; the same ambiguous chuckle with its volatile mixture of menace and mockery. And that insufferable expression of cold superiority. A terrible rage stirred in me, rose and reared and towered beyond reason, beyond sanity. My neck quivered, my head swelled; a mad, demonic impulse possessed me to throttle that helpless bag of bones. I was almost surprised that I did not do so; instead, I heard myself answer loudly, my voice hard with spite, “Yes sir, I have!” A malicious pleasure crept over me as I proceeded to announce my marriage to Butterfly. My words, like barbs on a whip, were chosen to draw blood—they were explicit about Butterfly's condition and status—and I savored their effect like so many crimson droplets on a tortured skin.

“You are joking, I presume.” My father's face was blotched and he nearly choked on these few words, though he made a supreme effort to control himself.

“Oh, I would hardly joke about such a matter,” I replied in accents that parodied my father's habitual pompousness of speech. “Possibly you feel surprised that I made no mention of this in my letters. It's because I wanted personally to bear the good tidings—I trust you remember how pointedly you expressed yourself: the greatest gratification I could ever hope to give you
would be to take a legitimate wife, any I damn pleased excepting Miss Hamilton, and to beget a decent heir. Well, this gratification is yours now, I'm happy to say, because by the time I see my legitimate wife again, she will have given birth to your grand-child, whose complexion I hope for your sake you will find decent enough for your heir.”

At that something burnt out in his face. The words, when they came, teetered upon his trembling lips and dropped tonelessly: “Get out.” For emphasis he gave a little wave of his right hand, the faintest of gestures but no doubt the best he could manage. “Go, go.” His eyes were like smouldering glass. It was the last time I saw him alive.

4

The photograph was inspected with the disdainful curiosity and aversion of women being shown a specimen of insect. No one had spoken; there had not been the usual little cries and phrases of admiration. Pinkerton understood perfectly how the stiff figure in the picture with its blank, inexpressive face appeared to them. His mother, when the photograph was passed back to her, tossed it negligently onto the coffee table, as if loath to touch it any longer than necessary.

They—Mother, uncles and aunts, family friends, cousins, Monsignor—said

“Isn't it enough that you've killed your father?”

“You cannot, simply cannot live here with a Japanese wife.”

“Think of
us,
if you don't care about yourself. How'll it look for us?”

“You have a duty to the family, young man. Now that your
father's passed away—God bless his soul—you have to step into his shoes, you know.”

“I can't believe that you've really married her, and I don't believe
you
can either.”

“Don't you think about who we are sometimes? Five generations ago, your ancestor fought in the Revolution, and since then every generation of Pinkerton—I repeat, every generation—has risen to a position of eminence. Don't you feel that in your blood?”

“A heathen woman ...”

“You're a Pinkerton, you know, like it or not. You're not a gipsy who's here one day and gone the next without anybody noticing. You got a family to consider, and a tradition to uphold.”

“Jesus, Henry, don't America mean anything to you? Don't God mean anything to you?”

“Your mother needs you, boy. Don't forget that.”

“You'll never make your way in society with a Japanese wife, I can guarantee you that.”

“We'll bring up the child.”

“If it's not consecrated by the Church, it's not a marriage. In the eyes of God and the civilized world, you are not married to that woman.”

“Bring the child over here and have him baptized, if you must. Personally, I wouldn't recommend keeping around a half-breed bastard, but if you must do so, at least let him be a Christian one.”

“Don't think I blame you, Henry. I don't. You're a young man, and young men have their little escapades. I know, I was one myself not so long ago and, by golly, I don't know as I'd have acted different. But now your dad's gone and somebody's got to take charge. Now that's serious business, and you're gonna need
all the assets you can get hold of, so it's time to put away childish

things, as we say in the Scriptures.”

Lisa said:

“And what about Kate?”

5

(The Nagasaki ms.)

My fathers death put everything in a different light, or so it would seem. I was now my own man, and a rich one. Yet fundamentally nothing had changed; my main concern was still to return with all possible speed to Japan, and in that I continued to be frustrated.

Our family had substantial and diversified holdings spread throughout the country; uninformed as I was of my father's affairs, I found myself faced with the formidable task of managing a vast estate whose details were entirely unfamiliar. My initial anticipation of an early departure—my first thought when my father died was that I could now be with Butterfly during the final months of her pregnancy—stretched and finally dissolved in a morass of paperwork. I began to realize that I would be lucky to get there for the lying-in, and gradually that I would miss even that.