Butterfly (7 page)

Exactly when it happened he no longer knew—it was sometime during the fall, because he remembered groping past folds of kimono—nor could he have said at what moment he noticed. Her eyes were shut tighter than usual, her breathing was more intense; contrary to her usual comportment, she held him off by begging, “Not yet . . . not yet . . .” Surprised, he made an effort to comply, but already he felt the gush and it was more than he could restrain; just then, however, she dived slightly with her body and a deft finger at his perineum stopped the flow. “Don't move, please don't move!” she softly cried as her legs clamped tightly around his hips and held him immobile. Only her buttocks jiggled ever so slightly. All at once she let out a little gasp and tightened her embrace, then gasped again, clutching him desperately to her and heaving; and from her gorge
came a guttural sob that mounted with repetition into a high, floating wail:
"Yurushite . . .
Forgive me . . .” Her body shook uncontrollably and suddenly was drenched in sweat, her face was awash with tears. He felt the wetness on his neck and chest as he lay enfolded on top of her, overcome with tenderness and awe; while her venter continued to pulsate from the erupted passion, nipping him with its vigorous throbs and sending thrill after thrill up his spine.

18

(The Nagasaki ms.)

I made a point of leaving the two girls to their daytime activities, but I saw enough of Kate at meals and after dinner to fall each day a little more under the charm of her intelligence and beauty. One evening they persuaded me to join them in their music making instead of being the passive listener; I had not sung for over a year, but as we went from song to song, my courage rose and we wound up the soiree with Schumann's
Dichterliebe.
I was touched as never before by this cycle of unhappy love, and each song brought me closer to identifying myself and my accompanist with the lover and his beloved. The girls too seemed deeply affected; the last chord of the beautiful reminiscing postlude died into a long silence upon which we were all reluctant to intrude. As it was already late, we quickly said good night. Once Kate had left the room, Lisa took my hand and, twining her fingers in mine as in former days, remarked pensively, almost as much to herself as to me, “You're fine together . . . the two of you suit one another so well.”

I would have been the last to disagree. We did suit one another extraordinarily well, to me that was painfully evident. Our
interests, our tastes, our education, all fitted together like the teeth on a pair of cogwheels. Had my parents been blind not to see that? What a potential was in the couple we might have formed, I thought as I now took the full measure of what was lost forever. And I, had I not let it slip through my fingers, heedlessly, like so much sand on the beach? I could have wept as for a stillborn child, or one which I myself had caused to abort.

Thus was my recrudescent admiration for Kate dipped in despair like a kite in tar. I longed to speak of it to her, to beg if need be on my knees for forgiveness, for absolution, and indeed—oh, the unparalleled egotism of a masculine heart—for consolation; but she never left a crack through which to slip into the precincts of intimacy or even their purlieus.

Such sentiments did not ease my perplexity with regard to Marika. I was unhappy at having allowed myself to go so far with her, and I had resolved to go no further; on the other hand, Marika had aroused me powerfully, and memories of that morning would not cease to prey on my imagination. Her intriguing relationship with Kate, moreover, redoubled my interest.

Profiting from a series of balmy Indian summer days, the girls and I took to breakfasting outdoors on the terrace. It was so pleasant there that I would remain and spend the morning working in a shaded corner. The first two mornings passed without incident. On the third, having dozed in a chaise longue, I awoke to the sense of someone's eyes upon me. When I looked, I saw Marika sitting on a chair at my feet. Instead of the usual outfit worn by housemaids, she had on a white pleated dress open at the neck and permitting a good guess at the contours underneath; her feet were bare. She had the watery look of an Ondine fresh from the waves, and without knowing why, I blushed. Unthinkingly, I asked what she was doing there.

“I look,” she replied archly without softening her impudent
regard; she did not smile, but a hint of derision played about the corners of her mouth. “I look at the pretty
monsieur
sleep, and I think it is nice to sleep with him. But he don't come to me. I wait a week and he don't come. So what do I do, eh?” Her voice was low and husky and melodious. “Well, I think to myself, and I put my hand under the skirt, like this.” So saying, she tucked up the dress and her right hand disappeared under its folds; I could see it moving up her thighs. She continued in a lilting, mesmerizing monologue. “And I touch the pussy and I think, it is a nice pussy. I think it is even nicer if the pretty
monsieur
kiss it with his pretty mouth. Then I think I feel his mouth there under my skirt. Yes, it is there, it is looking for pussy. I feel the lips, soft red lips, and the tongue—oh, it is moving! Good, he is kissing pussy, not like American—a nice deep French kiss with the tongue inside, yes. Big tongue to little tongue, lip to lip.
Poétique
,
no? So now I feel with my fingers and I feel it is wet, very, very wet.” She stopped and suddenly winked at me with a saucy smile. No doubt my amazement was writ large over my face, for she broke out laughing; under the dress her hand continued to move.

Her laughter provoked a flush of anger in me. “Stop it, Marika!” I admonished sternly in what I intended to be an authoritative tone of voice. “That's enough of this nonsense! Your little show isn't as amusing as you think.” But my throat was tight and a tremor ruined the effect.

“No?” Marika put on a look of mock surprise. With that extraordinary way she had of focusing her eyes like a searchlight, she fixed them on the bulge in my trousers. “Ask your little brother—I think he is very amused.”

At that very moment, as if to signal its assent, the little beast gave a visible throb which to my dismay I was unable to suppress. Marika squealed with delight. I could not deny what was so palpable, but still I would not enter into her game. “Please, Marika,” I demurred, this time almost pleadingly. “You're very
attractive, I admit that, you're irresistible even, but you must understand that I cannot be your lover. Not because I don't want you, but because your mistress—”

She rose without listening and in two strides was before me; her hand came up unhurriedly to my face. She let it hover, the bedewed and glistening fingers almost touching my lips. The penetrating odor of her womanhood rushed to my head like a shot of pure alcohol, tumbling in an instant the last bastion of restraint. My lips parted to kiss her proffered fingers, then, maddened by the potent aroma, closed over them with abandon. As I sucked them, she drew my head to her and cradled it invitingly between her thighs; presently she took her hand from my mouth and rubbed it caressingly against my face, first the back side, then the palm, so that her pungency was smeared all over my cheeks.

19

(Fragment of a letter from Kate(?) to Cécile X., translated from the French by the editor. The beginning is given here, the end in Chapter 56; a middle section is missing. The pages were among Pinkerton's papers; from their crumpled condition, they would seem to be part of a draft that had been discarded and later recovered. Dated May 6, 1910, they were written well over a decade after the events related in the first part of the Nagasaki ms.)

My dear Cécile,

You are right about my putting you off with false promises of a written explanation—I wasn't at all sure a young person should acquire such knowledge, nor was I persuaded
that a godmother should teach it; I suspect that your mother, liberal as she is, would not approve. But your letter was so eloquent in its pleas and so libertine in its arguments that I am beginning to wonder whether I
can
teach you anything! In all events, know that I am succumbing to its charm rather than following my judgment.

Your apparent competence makes it superfluous for me to say anything about the art of attracting a man; the subject at hand is, as you say, how to “keep him under your rump.” In either case it is a matter of playing on his mind through his senses; the emphasis alone is different. In the former you are inciting him to dream, so the means is more visual and vocal, whereas in the latter you are imposing your body upon his dreams, hence the engagement of the more material faculties.

The first rule in domination is this: lead him by the nose. Remember that of the five senses, the olfactory is the most powerful. An odor is part of something external that enters your body and becomes a part of you; this is why the effect is both immediate and haunting, more powerful than that produced through the other senses and at the same time longer lasting. It inebriates where other agents merely delect.

Although certain odors are inherently pleasant or noxious, more often our response is determined not by the odor's purely sensuous appeal but rather by the meaning we give it. A dog will sniff casually at its droppings, but in us strong odors arouse disgust or ecstasy, depending upon the associations we make. Thus an odor essentially reinforces what attraction or repulsion—active or latent—is already there. What is a good or bad odor? One that comes from something which you would or would not willingly make a part of yourself.

Therefore first make sure that he is attracted; men almost always are to a young girl, whether or not they know it, especially if she's as pretty as you, but it still pays to be attentive. Once the ring has pierced his nose, a few little tugs will bring his face down to where you wish it.

I'll list the parts where odors are concentrated to give you a quick overview:

Each of these can and should be used, except possibly the last, which out of hygienic considerations and personal preference I avoid manipulating, even though it can be used to strong effect. I am told that a certain lady at the ancient Japanese court once sent a faithfully confectioned simulacrum of her excreta to an admirer. But I'll talk more about tactile and visual aspects later. In any case, you see that you are limited only by your own imagination.

What is of paramount importance is that you be absolutely certain yourself that
all
your odors have the power to excite and to subjugate. Do not doubt! That is the whole secret. The more you take it as a matter of course, the better. The worst is to be self-conscious or embarrassed or ironic with regard to what you do: you won't be able to hide it. So first convince yourself. Unless you can, don't
start anything; once you start, don't hesitate. Never forget that to him you smell divine—on every occasion, at all times—and never let him forget it. If you have not washed, have him clean you like a cat; if you have been in your boots all day, make him kiss your feet before washing them. Henri IV would not let his mistresses wash before his visits; but he was a king and dared to say what he liked. The ordinary man does not, he has to be coerced into enjoying what he dares not admit. Within his strutting breast beats the heart of a slave that wants to abdicate responsibility for the desires he is ashamed to own. Whence his need for whores and for casting stones at them.

Intuition and discretion are of course essential, here as anywhere else. You have to judge your man. In some cases he is all too eager to plunge. In others you have to lead him gently step-by-step or he will rebel; his sense of incongruity will rouse him to derision, he will hide behind an ironic detachment, and your game will be lost. Laugh at him all you like, but never let him laugh at you—never even imagine it possible.

Always stay a step ahead of him. If he kisses your hands, make him kiss your feet; if he sniffs in front, offer him the back. You must direct his attention to that which he has not yet dared to approach, to push his nose in where he is hesitant; by doing so,
you
create the erotic context,
you
give erotic meaning to your odors, and their power becomes yours to wield (whereas if he supplies the erotic context, he controls it as well). And once this erotically charged odor goes to his head—in most cases immediately—he is lost, he will never rise from beneath your . . .

20

Even after a year with Butterfly, Pinkerton could still not be quite certain if the fragrance that enveloped her person and permeated her clothing was entirely natural or came in part from a perfume she used. When he asked, she would only smile. Ethereal rather than exciting—her body was very discreet with odors, he had early noticed—the distinctive and subtle aroma reminded him a little of sandalwood or fine incense. On winter evenings when they lay crushed under a mountain of heavy covers, Butterfly would tell him stories from old Japanese romances, and in one there had been a prince who exuded an exquisite perfume. “Just like you!” Pinkerton had exclaimed in spontaneous delight and, snuggling close, had covered her with kisses. Then he had stopped listening, his mind had wandered; with his face pressing into her shoulder, he had tried to imagine what a butterfly would smell like to a sensitive enough nose—exactly like his wife, no doubt! This conceit had made him bubble over with amusement and an absurd sense of pride. Ordinarily, however, he took her fragrance for granted, like so many other things. It was only when he left her that he began to miss it. In a moment of loneliness it occurred to him that he could have taken along a
yukata
or some other piece of clothing impregnated with her scent. Had he known how long he would be away, he might have asked her to send one; more than once he wished he had, but each time it seemed too late to write and ask.