Butterfly (8 page)

21

(The Nagasaki ms.)

Marika was to come to my room that night. Scarcely able to contain my desire, I had pressed her to accompany me immediately, but she said she had to attend Kate, who would be returning shortly from riding with Lisa. I could not argue against that and waited out the rest of the day in a state of extreme agitation.

Once alone, I was no longer so sure I wanted her to come, and this uncertainty added to my unrest; at moments I positively wished that she would not, for it would be awful beyond conceiving if Kate were to find out. Furthermore, I sensed that my lust for Marika was somehow tearing me from Butterfly. It was only three weeks until my departure: soon I would be back with her, my wife, far away from all that was troubling me: Kate, Marika, family, business. More and more I was realizing that my stay in Japan would be a long one. What I should do there was a moot question, but the last five months had persuaded me that Butterfly and I could not live together in America. And if ever there had been doubts about our marriage, they were gone. My whole being, I felt, was joined to hers in a lasting and unfathomable way, and my flesh cleaved to her with a tenacity that I noticed above all when I visited other women, for without exception I found myself loving Butterfly through their bodies, so that after a few times I ceased going to them. As for Kate, my feelings were strong and complex, but they made no inroads into my life with Butterfly. My love for Kate—and I could not deny loving her still—was founded upon my appreciation of a potential, whereas with Butterfly the potential, lesser perhaps in scope, had already become reality, a reality to which I now belonged.

Never had these thoughts been so clear in my head; yet the wayward excitement remained. Marika's wanton perfume stuck to my skin; again and again, like a milkmaid, like a snake charmer, it drew out my desire and made it rear. Drunk as I was on her sensuality, I at first did not want to wash it away and for one brief instant had even considered skipping lunch so as not to have to. In the end I reluctantly yielded to reason, yet my careful ablutions did not expulse her from my nose, which continued to be so boldly haunted that I looked about fearfully lest someone else should notice the smell. For all that I craved Marika's favors, however, I was certain that in the end it would be no different with her as with the others. This conviction made me feel detached and rather aloof even as I was consumed with desire.

But my detachment deserted me as the evening advanced. By eleven I had bathed and made myself ready; I tried to read, for I did not expect her quite so early. At midnight I gave up any pretense of being occupied: she should be there, she would be any minute, and I was waiting. On the stroke of one I opened the door and left it ajar so that she could be guided by the light. Then it was two, and three, and four, and still she did not come. I stretched out on the bed, but I could not sleep. The slightest sound made me want to jump up, but each time I resisted and lay as if asleep so that I could nonchalantly ask the time when she woke me and then exclaim, “Goodness, I've been sleeping for hours!” Minutes would go by and at last I would rise to confirm what was only too clear: that the noise had been something else, and that she had not come.

I dozed off with the intention of going down early for breakfast to demand an explanation. When the alarm rang at seven, however, I did not feel up to a confrontation and procrastinated until it was too late to catch Marika alone; then there seemed to be little point in going down at all. It was very late when I finally
rose; I could think of nothing better than to lounge around on the terrace in the hope—vain, I need hardly add—that Marika might appear. After dinner I retired immediately on the pretense of a headache. Again I secretly hoped—since Kate seldom went up before ten or ten-thirty—for a visit from Marika, although this was unrealistic, for how should she know that I had gone to my room? At midnight I found myself once again holding an involuntary vigil.

The following morning, bursting with recriminations, I made sure that I was the first in the breakfast room. I had my breakfast brought to me; despite a conscious effort to eat slowly, I was finished in no time. I wished I had taken along something to read. At last footsteps sounded. I drew a deep breath and made myself ready. To my disappointment, it was Kate who entered. When Marika came a few minutes later, she as usual took no notice of my existence. After failing several times to catch her eye, I seethed in bitter silence. But as I was stepping out after the girls, Marika motioned for me to return.

Why was I not at breakfast yesterday? She had come down early to wait for me. The night before Kate had been indisposed and had kept her; last night, too. Perhaps this evening she would be able to slip away. But she had to be very careful, because Kate would sometimes ring for her in sleepless moments. “She will kill me if she know I go out to fuck you,” she whispered in melodramatic earnest.

She had put her hand on my breast and rubbed it gently up and down while we talked, so that I could not refrain from taking her in my arms and kissing her. She returned my kiss with ardor but soon pulled away. Her mistress would be waiting, she had to go. Her eyes, as I looked into them, glowed with promises, while her hand closed firmly where my passion was most assertive. “Keep it for me,” she breathed, her eyes still locked with mine.
“Don't let it out.” As if to seal the injunction with a gage, she drew my face forcefully to hers; a jet of liquid as from a spring spurted into my mouth. She turned quickly and was out the door by the time I had swallowed the poison liquor that would make my blood furiously itch.

22

Neither of them could sleep. They had lain together for a good part of the afternoon, then they had bathed, dined, and loved inexhaustibly into the night. Spent and famished, they had gotten up for tea and
norimaki
;
Butterfly had proposed
sake
and brochettes, but Pinkerton had developed a taste for rice rolled in seaweed—lately he had veered sharply in his tastes—and wanted to have it once more before departing. It was close to five, Sachiko would be coming in with their breakfast in an hour, for Pinkerton was to be at the ship by seven-thirty. The time left to them seemed very precious, yet they did not know what to do with it—everything had been said, everything had been done twice over. Restored by the tea and food, they lay in a pleasant torpor, their lips and organs hurting from the long embraces.

Outside the rain had subsided; somewhere water was dripping in heavy, languid drops. “It has stopped raining,” Pinkerton said. As if that were a signal to do something, he began idly to untie Butterfly's sash. She let out a little gasp when his cheek touched her skin, for he had grown a light stubble since the evening before. Raising his head, he quickly kissed the profaned spot. “Should I go and shave?” She giggled and pulled his head down again to her. “No, I like it. I like to feel you . . . how do you say,
chiku chiku suru
.”

“Scratch?”

“Yes, I like to feel you scratch me.” She pressed his cheek to her skin and rubbed it gently against herself. “I like to feel you.”

Little by little he moved down along her body's rolling slopes until he reached the small crater on the rounded hillock rising where there had been none before; he thought with wonder of the creature underneath joined to her just as she had once been joined to someone now lying under a mound of earth. Looking from above at the smooth surface, he could not understand how he could have penetrated it to deposit his drop of life; yet it was in there, it was growing, it had even begun to move.

“Is it a boy or a girl?” he asked as if she knew or could choose.

“Do you want boy or girl?” They had discussed it more than once before, but the topic seemed inexhaustible. Answers varied according to their mood.

“A girl, like you.”

“Sure?”

“Sure!”

“This time no more change?”

“No, no more changes.”

“It will be a girl.”

Her earnestness amused him, yet he himself half believed that she really had the power to determine the embryo's sex. Sliding down the curve of her belly, he rubbed his cheek against the small hairs bristly from the fluids that had soaked them and dried. With gentle fingers he pryed apart the lips; pursing his own, he sent a breeze over the moist tissues. A sigh of pleasure echoed it; her hips swiveled in his direction, and her right leg lifted and encircled his neck so that their lips could join. He held her open with his two hands and peered into her secret depths even though there was not light to see. From within came an odor of semen that slightly repelled him, but he approached his mouth nonetheless and pressed it softly into the wetness of her flesh. The kiss was long and quiet and tender; he licked her once,
affectionately. Drawing away but still keeping her folds parted with his hands, he lovingly blew upon them with light, long breaths.

“Will your girl miss me very much?”

“Yes, very much.”

“And what will she do without her boy?”

“She will miss him. Perhaps she will cry a little, but she will wait.”

“It'll be hard for her.”

“Yes, my girl is very spoilt. But she is good girl, she will learn to be patient.” Her thighs tightened about his neck, her hands reached down and again drew him toward her. “She is brave, but she will suffer, so you must . . . comfort her a little now. After, she can play again with her boy, yes?”

Later Butterfly said to him, “Be gentle with your boy . . . he will be lonesome. Let him play with girls. My girl has your baby to keep her company, but your boy will be alone. I and my girl, we like him to be happy.”

It was light by then and he could see her face; like her voice, it was quiet and touchingly serious. He felt his eyes misting and did not know what to say.

“Promise me?”

Pinkerton almost could not find his voice. “Yes,” he said chokingly. “I promise.”

23

(The Nagasaki ms.)

Almost another week passed while Marika kept me on tenterhooks. During this time I was constantly expecting her to turn up, but every day there was some reason why she could not. I did see more of her after one of the maids that served at table took ill
and, upon Kate's insistence, Marika was put in her place. This was a double-edged blessing, for while it was gratifying just to look upon the object of my desire, it also heightened my frustration, the more so as Marika used every opportunity to stoke my passion with incendiary words and deeds. After four or five days I was so ravaged that I could endure no more. A scheduled trip to New York which I had looked forward to with mixed feelings now came as a welcome relief.

24

With the lightness of a dancer, Marika swept in and was standing in front of him before he had quite had time to look. “I have something for you,” she said softly. Behind her Pinkerton could hear footsteps and voices approaching, but they did not seem to bother Marika. Trussing up her skirt, she put her right hand under it and crouched down a little; when she straightened up, there was a large prune glistening between her thumb and middle finger. She held it gracefully to his face like a magician displaying a conjured object and then slipped it into his mouth. “I put it in for you when I go to sleep,” she whispered. Over her shoulder Pinkerton saw Lisa and Kate appear in the doorway. He could only hope that he was not quite as scarlet as he felt himself to be; fortunately his breakfast had already been served, otherwise it would have seemed odd indeed for him to greet them with a full mouth.

This was the first of several love offerings impregnated with her juices. Each time his heart skipped a beat as if heavenly snow had dropped upon it. Beside dried fruits, he once got honey that she spread messily with her fingers on a piece of toast, and another time half of a hard roll.

Now that Marika served at meals, she seldom let one go by
without some form of provocation. They dined at a table long enough to accommodate eighteen people; when there were no other guests, Mrs. Pinkerton and her son took the ends, while Kate and Lisa sat facing one another in the middle. The distances between them were not conducive to conversation, but Mrs. Pinkerton insisted on keeping up the family tradition; in any event, she did not approve of excessive talking during meals. This arrangement, however, made it possible for Marika to carry out the most outrageous acts under the very eyes of the three women. Unusual pieces of food appeared on Pinkerton's plate, surreptitious caresses sought out their mark, and lewd phrases were whispered, all under their noses and without their noticing. Marika went about it with a composure and brazenness that took away Pinkerton's breath. His digestion suffered, for he was always tense from being aroused, and half the time he sat numb with fear lest the others should witness Marika's latest caprice. Yet with the fear came voluptuous feelings such as he had dreamt of but not known. For nothing—not fornication in the pews, nor masturbation in the confessional—could compare with sitting at table with his mouth full of the serving girl's secretions.

25

(The Nagasaki ms.)

When I announced that I would be going down to New York, Kate asked when I was leaving and then suggested a little celebration the following evening, since she would no longer be present on my return: she had rented a house at the seaside and would be moving there in the next few days. I was quite taken aback and could not hide it; in my dismay I protested rather too vehemently, while Lisa, who evidently knew more about Kate's
plans, merely expressed her regret. “Kate will come again to see us once she's settled, Henry,” admonished my mother to cut short my entreaties. “Won't you, my dear?” Kate looked at me playfully and remarked that she did not know her presence meant so much to me.

A private talk with Kate had been increasingly on my mind. Even though my wish had so far been frustrated, I had assumed that before my departure for Japan I would be granted an occasion to see her alone if I asked. Now, however, it was my unconsummated passion for Marika that seemed more pressing. Not that Marika meant more to me; on the contrary, I had become painfully aware of how strong my feelings were for Kate, and there were times when I came close to imagining that my desire for Marika was in some strange way a deflection of my love for Kate. Still, it was for Marika that I burnt.