Butterfly's Child (24 page)

Benji looked down at his hands, the coat sleeves that were too long in spite of Mrs. Weber's alterations. He felt foolish; he should go back to his seat.

“You haven't told me your name,” Mr. Matsumoto said.

“I don't know my family name yet. My first name is Tsuneo.” If he showed Mr. Matsumoto his mother's picture, he could read the back of it for him. Then at least he would have his samurai name.

“You are Tsuneo in farmland?”

“No, Benjamin Pinkerton. Benji.”

“I think you had better adopt some temporary Japanese last name. Sato, maybe. Easy for Americans to say.”

Benji reached in his pocket to take out the picture, glanced across the aisle at the family there, the woman and one of her daughters watching them curiously.

“I'd like to talk to you about something later,” Benji said. “In private. Maybe at the Denver station? I think the train stops there for an hour.”

“I disembark in Denver, I'm afraid, and will be on the way to my hotel.”

“I'm getting off there too. Could we meet?” Benji took a deep breath; he'd never been so bold as this.

“I will be very busy, meeting with matrons interested in my silk. But …” He took a small notebook from his pocket. “Perhaps tomorrow afternoon we can meet for tea at Brown Palace Hotel. This where I stay; anyone can direct you. Shall we say four o'clock?”

“I'll be gone by then.”

“In that case, please come visit me in San Francisco. I shall be there in a week or so.” When Benji did not move, he bowed slightly.

“Thank you,” Benji said, imitating Mr. Matsumoto's bow. “I will see you there.” He returned to his seat and stared out at the endless sea of
prairie grass. He thought of going back with the picture, but Mr. Matsumoto had dismissed him coldly. Maybe they wouldn't like him in Japan either, for not being pure Japanese. But he was Japanese in his heart; he would show them.

They arrived in Denver early the next afternoon. The train jolted to a stop, shuddering and creaking. Newsboys raced up and down the platform, yelling, waving newspapers. A man reached out the window, grabbed a paper. He and the people around him began to talk loudly. One woman broke into sobs. Benji heard “San Francisco” and “earthquake.” He scrambled off the train and bought a newspaper.

FLAMES RAGE UNCHECKED. SAN FRANCISCO HEAP OF EMBERS
.

He stared down at the headline, the drawing of the city on fire. His destination.

San Francisco, California, April 18, 1906. An earthquake at 5:16 o'clock Wednesday morning immediately followed by fire destroyed the business portion of San Francisco and a big part of Santa Rosa.… Wild rumors have been circulated that 3,000 are dead, but we believe this will be no more than 1,000 persons, and 200 are probably Chinese
.

People were shouting, shoving past him. A woman with thin gray hair sat on a suitcase, her head in her hands.

All the district between Market Street and the bay, including Chinatown, is in flames
, he read.
The beautiful Stanford University is in ruins. President Roosevelt and Congress …

He tried to read further, but his eyes wouldn't work. He let himself be swept along by the crowd.

The mass of people parted ahead of him, flowing in two directions. He saw a few people clustered around a man who had fallen. “Jap,” one of them said.

Mr. Matsumoto. Benji forced his way through the crush, using his valise as a shield. A man was bent over him, holding his wrist.

“Is he dead?” Benji cried.

“No, but his heart is going double time.”

Benji squatted beside him. “Mr. Matsumoto, it's me, Benji. From the train.”

Mr. Matsumoto's eyelids fluttered. He said something in Japanese.

Benji picked him up and carried him toward the station. “Coming
through,” he shouted. “Emergency, coming through.” In the station house, he shouted for a doctor.

“No doctor,” Mr. Matsumoto said. He opened his eyes and looked at Benji. “Take me to Waraji. Wazee Street.”

Benji found a porter—a colored man in uniform, guiding people into hansoms—and asked if he could direct them to Waraji's on Wazee Street.

“That's in Hop Alley,” the porter said. “China and Jap town. Take the number-two trolley.” He pointed to a small train car, clicking along the street on rails. “Only two blocks from the last street, on Sixteenth Street.”

“We need a hansom—this man is sick.”

“White folks gets all the hansoms,” he said, shaking his head.

Benji reached into his pocket for a five-dollar bill. “Please, sir?”

The porter looked at the money, grinned, and whistled to an old colored man in a cart. “Hop Alley,” he said. “Mighty quick.”

Benji held Mr. Matsumoto upright as they drove past the tall buildings of downtown Denver. He was startled when he looked straight ahead: the Rocky Mountains, snow-covered and wrinkled, just as they looked in the pictures, but much larger than he'd imagined. They filled the whole sky.

They came to Wazee, a muddy street lined with small shops, cloths hanging over the doors, and larger buildings that looked like warehouses. A few men were in the street, gathered around a cart with a broken wheel.

“Waraji,” Benji shouted to them. “Where is Waraji?”

A man with a kerchief around his head pointed down the street, talking rapidly in what must be Japanese. He had never dreamed there were Japanese in Denver. He felt a flood of affection for the old man, now leaning against him, who had brought him here.

They stopped in front of a plain wooden building. The driver helped Benji take Mr. Matsumoto inside. The hallway was dark, lit by a single gas lamp; at the end of the hall was a room filled with long wooden tables. Two men sat eating at one of the tables; they looked up and one shouted, “Eeh! Matsumoto-san.” He called to someone in the kitchen, and a ruddy-faced man appeared. Mr. Matsumoto took his hand. “Shin-san,” he whispered. All the men followed as Shin-san helped Mr. Matsumoto to a smaller room and laid him on a bed there.

Tears slid down Mr. Matsumoto's face, and he said something in a reedy voice. Benji heard “San Francisco.”

“Wah!”
the men said. One grabbed at his hair and ran out of the room.

“Doctor for Matsumoto-san?” Benji said.

“No doctor,” Shin-san said. “We take care of him.”

A wet cloth was brought, and smelling salts, a blanket, some whiskey. Mr. Matsumoto opened his eyes; he must have just fainted from the shock, Benji thought.

The men, talking nonstop in Japanese, helped Mr. Matsumoto stand and led him to the dining room, where they brought him food and more whiskey. Mr. Matsumoto continued to cry, gesturing as he talked. Shin-san translated for Benji: He was worried about his friends and thought his shop must have burned.

“You save Matsumoto-san,” Shin-san said with a bow.
“Domo arigato.”

More people arrived and crowded onto the seats at the tables. Some looked at Benji curiously, but after Shin-san explained in Japanese, they gave deep, enthusiastic bows. He was given whiskey, some familiar-tasting soup and noodles. Soba, he remembered. His mother had made noodles like this.

Soon he was sleepy; he wanted to put his head on the table. Their valises were at the station, he realized; he should go get them, but he couldn't stir. Someone led him to the other room, to a bed, and put a cover over him. He fell asleep with the sound of Japanese in his ears.

The day after the earthquake, Benji took Mr. Matsumoto to the office of
The Denver Post
to learn what they could about survivors. They jounced along in Shin-san's cart, which had a listing wheel, the motion shifting them back and forth against one another. Mr. Matsumoto counted on his fingers the names they'd be looking for: Hiko Ueda, his helper, and several friends who had shops near his in Chinatown.

“You have no wife?” Benji asked.

“Once I had a wife, but she died of a fever. Better than to die in the fire, I think.”

There was a rambunctious crowd outside the newspaper building—men and women of all ages elbowing for room to look at a list posted on the window. A woman in a lavender hat and veil fainted and had to be carried away. Mr. Matsumoto remained in the cart while Benji wriggled through the crush and read the names:
Annie Whelan, killed while asleep in her bed, 2782 Sacramento Street; Myrtle Minze, Langdon Street, killed under caving
wall; unknown white men, Front and Vallejo Streets …
There were no Japanese listed.

A man with a cigar clenched between his teeth came to post more names. “No Chinks,” he said, glancing at Benji. “Read the newspaper.”

Benji bought a paper from a newsboy, scanned the front page, and read aloud to Mr. Matsumoto:
“An eyewitness reports that the Chinamen are streaming out of Chinatown, which is in cinders. The Chinamen are not reporting their dead, nor are the Italians and Greeks.”

“No one is asking them,” Mr. Matsumoto said. “And no one mentions the Japanese, who also live in Chinatown.”

They picked up their suitcases at the train station, then started back to Waraji's.

In the distance, the white line of mountains gleamed in the light. “Too many mountains in America,” Mr. Matsumoto said, with a dismissive wave. “Mount Fuji is better, standing alone.” He closed his eyes and folded in on himself; they rode the rest of the way in silence.

At dinner, Mr. Matsumoto made a speech to the crowd gathered in the restaurant. Benji heard his name: Shin-san told him that Matsumoto had praised him for treating him as a son would do. Afterward, there were toasts to Mr. Matsumoto, who was leaving the next day, and to Benji.

As they were getting ready for bed, Benji said, “Matsumoto-san, I'd like to ask you a favor.”

“Anything,” he said, with a bow. “You have saved me.”

Benji found the tin deep in his pants pocket and took out his picture.

“This is my mother,” he said, kneeling beside Matsumoto's cot.

“Ah so.”
He held it up to the light. “And your father. Now I understand your face.”

“Could you please translate what's written on the back?” Benji held his breath while Mr. Matsumoto took a small pair of glasses from his pocket and arranged them on his nose.

“It says
Officer
 … some name I cannot pronounce.”

“Pinkerton.”

“
And Cio-Cio
—this means Butterfly—
June thirteenth, 1888
.”

“And her last name?”

Mr. Matsumoto studied the picture. “I believe she was a geisha. Geisha do not have last names. These are given only to persons of upper classes in Japan. Many Japanese living in Denver have no last name.”

“But she was from a samurai family.” He choked back tears.

“Perhaps so. But she would erase her name, I think.”

Benji turned off the lamp and lay staring up into the dark, his eyes burning. At least she could have left him a name. Now all he had was Tsuneo, borrowed from a stranger in a circus.

The next morning, Benji and Shin-san took Matsumoto-san to the station. “Please come to me after some time for recovery,” he said to Benji, then gave a quick bow and hurried up the steps of the train.

It was mid-June, and
poor Katie was past her time. Her color was poor, and her hands and face were as swollen as yeast dough. The doctor told Frank she'd be fine, but he looked concerned and came to check on her every day. She was moodier than ever, some days not speaking, other days begging him to sit beside her on the bed and listen to things he didn't want to hear—nightmares, giving birth to a black snake that turned into a pool of oil when it dropped out of her, or to a human baby with two heads and eyes like a goat's. No, no, he'd say, stroking her arm; she was going to have a fine baby, a strapping boy. It must be a boy—Kate was so large. He'd been a big newborn himself, gave his mother a hard time.

He was worried about money too. His mother was right, he probably should have held off on the indoor bath, but Katie needed the comfort and his mother shouldn't be emptying chamber pots at her age. There had been the cost of enlarging and refurbishing Benji's room for his mother so her room upstairs could be transformed into a nursery, and there were now more wages to pay, to a retired farmer who'd be taking Benji's place in the fields. The cost of seed had gone up, along with the railroad tariffs. He couldn't make it through the season without a loan.

Frank met with Austin Burdett, president of the Stockton Bank and Trust, on a warm Thursday afternoon. Burdett sat behind his oversize desk, smiling unpleasantly. It would be Frank's third loan in as many years, he said, as if Frank weren't aware of the fact, and money was tight
everywhere due to Roosevelt's excessive spending. The interest rate was the best he could do, Burdett said. For collateral, there was of course the farm.

He held out a box of cigars. “Cuban. Help yourself.” Frank shook his head. Burdett cut and lit a cigar for himself, taking his time. Frank looked at the plump fingers, the nails neat as a woman's. Rich boy from Chicago; he'd never touched a plow or an ax handle in his life.

Frank glanced around the room—fancy chairs and tables, a marble hearth. On the mantel were an ebony clock and a bust of a man who appeared to be Burdett himself. Katie would laugh to hear that, if she were feeling well.

“Now, Frank.” Burdett leaned forward, a show of concern on his face. “What is your plan for repayment? I'd hate to see you in trouble.”

“There will be no trouble. It's going to be a profitable year.”

“Let's hope so,” Burdett said. “Is that newfangled thresher living up to expectations?”

“Yes, indeed,” he said, though in fact the gears of the thresher had seized up and it now sat in the fields like a large rust-colored insect. He and Bud Case had gone in together on the thresher, and Frank still owed him money. Bud was prospering—he had plenty of boys—but he didn't like to let a loan cool off.