Butterfly (32 page)

107

"Satori,
yes,” the abbot replied. “You could say it was that. But it was not really
satori
in our sense.

“An illuminating experience you might have at any time, but unless you are properly prepared for it, it will soon fade. On the other hand, if you prepare yourself well, you can almost do without it. So the day-to-day preparation is the essential thing.

“Suppose a flash of lightning lights up a dark night. For a moment you see the entire lay of the land. But a second later, how much do you still see? And in an hour? In a day? If you know precisely where you are going, that flash might get you there; otherwise it won't take you far.

“This is not to say it is useless. It can orient you, and it gives you knowledge of things ordinarily invisible. But knowledge by itself is vain. If you let it guide you in your everyday life, you may get far. If you merely cling to it like a precious object you find on the road, its light is no better than the obscurity of its absence.

“In the end there is no difference between brightness and obscurity, between object and eye, between knowing and being. The true light is where there is no light, no darkness. But that you will not see in a flash, but only through long, patient work.”

108

(The Nagasaki ms.)

What had happened, what had changed, that the world should have become so clear, so crystalline? I did not know, nor did I know how life in such a world would be. But my body felt light,
my movements free and effortless. As to why, whence, whither—I had no idea; I only knew that I was no longer a slave.

The first thing I did was to cut the belt that had been the symbol and instrument of my servitude. I shuddered to look upon it; the severed thongs seemed obscene and strangely unsubstantial, like a spider dead and shriveled. The sight aroused in me an emotion between horror and nostalgia; and curiosity. Who was I, who had been contained in them all those years? And who was Kate? Suddenly I saw her again as she had appeared to me the first time, so bright and splendid in the richness of her person, and from the darkness of my memory came forth beautiful moments sparkling like jewels. Could such gems be corrupted or cast away? It all seemed a dream from which I must awaken, a dense forest from which I would yet emerge, intact and into the sun.

Later that day, I dropped the belt into Kate's grave. As I watched it fall, a violent longing overtook me unexpectedly and I had a fleeting urge to hurl myself into the pit; but I steadied myself and came away knowing I had buried the slave with the mistress he so adored.

But my love was not buried. Only the stranglehold of perverted passion was broken. Like a cancer, that delirious outgrowth of guilt and thwarted desire had devoured the love it was both one with and at odds; now it had consumed itself. As life returned to me, my love for Kate also revived and with time recovered some of its original purity. For love, like life itself, is irrepressible. In the nature of miracles, its demands match its amplitude, and not to meet them is wasteful, perilous, sometimes tragic.

By some extraordinary grace, the miracle had visited me twice, and twice I failed it—a sin, redoubled, for which my slavery was an unconscious expiation. The day I broke free, I began to understand. At first there was only the quality of clarity, without definition or detail: I knew what I had to do without being able to
anticipate or explain. Comprehension slowly followed and little by little insights took form.

The butterfly that had guided me back to life also led me back to its namesake. For years Butterfly had hovered at the periphery of my thoughts, not so much forgotten as neglected like furs in a warm climate. Now a plethora of memories rushed upon me, vivid, overwhelming, and I began belatedly to feel the full extent of my loss. Her image was constantly before me, while Kate's seemed to lurk behind my back, waiting to confront me each time I turned. Once again I was torn between them, but this time it was their ghosts that tugged over my soul. One day, without apparent reason, I wept and could not stop; for an entire week my tears flowed, for the one or the other I did not know. Then they dried. And imperceptibly, in a process that continues still, their images began to harmonize and at moments even to merge.

109

“What are you doing here?” Marika was surprised to find him in the kitchen, since she had known of his plans. Her keen eyes—the years had only made them sharper—took in the garden shears he had been about to replace; he had tried first to cut the thongs of the belt with a pair of scissors, but these had proved inadequate against the fine steel wires sewn into the soft leather. From the shears her crass attention darted to his trousers, bringing life to the newly liberated organ.

“Bugger!” she exclaimed under her breath. Her face darkened and for an instant he was afraid there would be a contest of force. But the frown lifted. “So much for the fidelity of slaves,” she quipped and broke into a quizzical but good-natured smile. There was something in her movements as she approached that
seemed to invite him to fold her in his arms; perhaps the shears in his hand restrained him. Casually, she palpated the excitement of his flesh, then let her hand wander up his body and to his face. “I see you're still in one piece. Nothing like a resistant slave.” Then with a wicked trace of a smile, she hissed, “She should have cut it off. I would have, and I would have been right!” She looked into his eyes and asked in a more serious tone, “How did you find the courage?”

He did not know how to reply, but his regard was steady. Finally he said with a certain firmness, “I am not a slave anymore.”

“I can see that.” She was looking him over with a proprietary air; like a prospective buyer, he thought. “Do you want coffee? I was just about to make some. There's not much for breakfast, I'm afraid. I am leaving tomorrow.”

He, having eaten little the night before, was grateful to find some dry bread and cheese and a bottle of the excellent claret purchased for Kate's palate. Marika sat over her café au lait and watched him eat; in the stretches of silence, their eyes met, and met again.

What would he do now that he was free? He could not say.

“Listen,” she said. “I'm going to see the
notaire
at Saint-Gaudens after the funeral. I don't know when I'll be back—in any case, I don't want to sleep with you here in this house, you who ought to be keeping her company. But tomorrow I'm taking the train to Toulouse and then to Paris. If you like, we can go together. A coach is coming at seven.” Their hands touched in a promise of passion; he remembered how he had been seduced by her younger charms, yet thought he had never desired her more.

But in the morning he was not there at the appointed hour, andif the coach waited, it was not for long.

110

(The Nagasaki ms.)

I could not stay in France, and I had no wish to return to America. Eventually my way led back to Nagasaki. Why I had come was not clear, but when I arrived, I knew it was here that I would live out my days.

The two women I had loved and wronged were dead, and there was nothing I could do for them by way of amends. But I found a purpose in work I imagined they would approve. With what means I still possessed, I tried to provide for lost women and abandoned children. My efforts, at first lavish but awkward, in time became less prodigal and more efficacious. Memories of the two women kept me from succumbing to discouragement, though I could have done with Butterfly's counsel and Kate's inspiration. Kate's ambitions had surpassed anything I could accomplish, but I did the best I could and liked to think that she would not have been displeased.

There are times now when I think I have expiated my sins; the faces of Butterfly and Kate seem friendlier, and sometimes I imagine them to have made their peace with me and with one another. But just when I feel myself to be reconciled with the world, some too-lovely memory or imagined scorn would jolt me back into despair. In black moments I would pray to one or the other as to a heathen divinity, and as often as not I would be comforted.

Only Etsuko continues to weigh on my mind, even though I feel intuitively that she is well. Some time after my return to Japan, I was able to track her down to Shizuoka, but when I went there, Sachiko would not let me see her. To my daughter, Sachiko told me, I was not a father but the man who had
betrayed and killed her mother, and if I wanted to do anything for her, it would be to stay away. Etsuko had everything she needed, and I could only upset her if I imposed myself. The abuse Sachiko threw at me pained me, but I understood her bitterness and saw that she was right. I left deeply saddened, but resigned myself to the separation as part of my penance. I made no further attempts to contact Etsuko; I did leave Sachiko my address and kept her informed of my whereabouts in case my daughter, in growing up, should want to get in touch. Twenty years have gone by, however, and there has been no news.

(The Nagasaki ms. ends here. Pinkerton himself was no doubt dissatisfied with the final pages, which show signs of carelessness, and it may well be that he abandoned the plans for publication because he was unable to write an adequate ending. From the scattered notes, it would appear that he had in mind a more extensive commentary on the moral significance of his experiences.)

111

(Editor's note: In the summer of 1979, I visited Nagasaki again in the hope of picking up information about Pinkerton I might have missed twenty-five years before. I was surprised at the number of people who still remembered Taizan, as he was called, but none could tell me anything I did not already know. An exception was the Zen priest Ikkyū. In 1952 I had already heard of Pinkerton's connection with the old abbot, Benku, of Jindai-ji temple, but Benku had died and neither the new abbot nor the inmates could tell me anything. This time, however, I had the leisure to talk to many more people and one of them directed me to Ikkyū. I called on him without high
expectations, but I was struck by his remarkable personality and knew that the interview would not be without interest. The mobile, expressive face and the mischievous twinkle in his eyes were anything but what one would ordinarily associate with a Zen priest. “My old drinking partner!” he exclaimed joyously when I spoke the name Taizan. “I should say I knew him.” When I explained my interest in Taizan, Ikkyū showed a rare openness. The following is a summary of what he told me.)

Ikkyū Roshi
: Iwill start at the beginning. When I was twenty, I had a mystical experience that converted me to Zen, and I had everyintention of becoming a monk. My teacher, Benku, however, wouldn't allow it. Each time I mentioned taking vows, he would tell me to go work in the family business and get married. I was a lively and tenacious youngster, and in spite of my great respect for my teacher, he couldn't convince me. I kept pestering him, and one day he told me to go talk to Taizan. I asked him why.

“You're so interested in stories,” he replied. “He can tell you one.” No, he didn't know the story himself, he wasn't interested, but since I was—I wrote stories and poems those days and fancied myself a man of letters—he was sure Taizan would be willing to tell it.

“I thought I was supposed to forget about stories,” I objected.

“Get out!” was all the reply I got.

So I looked up Taizan and discovered that he had a taste for
sake.
Well, I had too, so we became pretty friendly. In fact, we were quite alike in having sybaritic tastes that we almost sincerely wished to be rid of. Together, we felt better about indulging them. I had come from an old merchant family and though I had just spent four years studying in Tokyo, knew the town inside and out; I was proud to show around a foreigner of comparable background and tastes.

It turned out that Taizan wasn't particularly eager to tell his story, at least not to me, though after a while I got to hear most of it. He was more interested in talking about Buddhism and social conditions in Japan, and I was most interested in finding out more about the West, but often we ended up on geishas’ dresses and other such exciting topics. At first I was rather patronizing— I was the man-about-town, I was the one who had had a sudden enlightenment and knew all the Zen stories, my family had been on familiar terms with Benku from before I was born. But by-and-by I realized that this foreigner knew more about Zen than I; in fact, he knew more about everything that counted. I finished by having to admit that he was simply more advanced on the path of life—a mortifying admission, he being only a foreigner and not one my teacher made much of either. Yet, just being what he was, he showed me up for a callow youth who imagined himself a sage. That was pretty depressing, but I got over it and even got so I could laugh at myself. Then one day I discovered almost to my surprise that I was going to do just what my teacher had suggested. When I told him, he smiled very sweetly; he knew I would be back.

The war came, I was taken into the army and sent to China. There I saw some terrible things. Then came the bomb. My parents, my wife, my children, our property—everyone, everything, was wiped out. Taizan, too. I went to Benku. “You're too poor now,” he said, and refused to take me in.

I went to Tokyo and with what money I could raise bought land. The city was devastated and land was dirt cheap. I didn't have to wait long for the prices to skyrocket, though. And there were plenty of opportunities in those days for anyone who opened his eyes. In a few years I was richer than I had ever been; I was successful in everything I touched and I enjoyed my success. I had been holding off getting married again, but now I was able to make a very fine match.

Well, the morning of the wedding—it was a beautiful day late in March—I looked out at the blossoming garden and saw the whole world smiling at me. Transported, I stepped out onto the veranda and descended the steps. Perhaps too caught up in my elation, I stumbled; I just managed to keep myself from falling, but something jolted loose in me. At that moment I understood.

I tried to call off the wedding. The parents were mortified, but the daughter declared that if this happened that very morning, it was surely in our destiny and she was not going to go against the course of nature. Previously, I would probably have been astounded like her parents, but in my state of mind, her answer delighted me and suddenly it all seemed as right as could be. So we went through with the wedding. Shortly afterward we retired to Yamaguchi, where I devoted myself to Zen. Later, after I had received my dharma transmission, I moved back to Nagasaki.