Butterfly's Child (35 page)

Mr. Tsuji had several
prints in his shop—a few landscapes and one of a woman combing her hair. When Benji asked if she was a geisha, Mr. Tsuji said no, with her colorful costume she was sure to be a courtesan; a geisha's kimono would be more subdued.

Benji asked where he could find prints of geisha. “Inexpensive prints like these, you can find on the street by the wharf,” Mr. Tsuji said. “For better quality you must go to a shop that specializes in ukiyo-e, paintings and books as well as prints.” He drew a map of a shop several blocks away, and on his next afternoon off, Benji set off to find it.

When he reached the street, he had difficulty locating the shop, since he couldn't read the writing on the noren hanging in front of the doors; an elderly man looked at the name written on the map and led him to a small shop, pulled back the curtain, and called, “Wakama-san.”

There was nothing on view in the store, only a bare counter and a low table on the tatami. The place smelled of fine wood and, faintly, of incense. An elegant man in glasses and a dark summer kimono appeared from behind a curtain, knelt on the platform, and bowed. Benji explained that he was looking for a print of a geisha, preferably from Nagasaki, but he would like to look at a number of prints in his collection.

“Often the location is ambiguous,” Wakama said. “I will need more guidance as to your preferences, since there are geisha by many artists—Utamaro, Eishi, and so on, who depicted denizens of the flower and willow world.”

“I apologize for my ignorance,” Benji said with a bow, “but I'm willing
to learn. If you could choose just a few prints from your collection for me to look at, I'd be grateful.”

Wakama-san gave a stiff bow and disappeared into the back of the shop. He was gone a long while. A gray-haired woman appeared, set out tea and cakes on the table, and gestured for Benji to sit down, then departed. He ate and drank in silence. There was no sound, except from the street.

Finally Wakama-san reappeared carrying a folder of prints, which he placed on the counter. “Forgive me for being so long,” he said. “It was hard to choose from my favorites.” He allowed himself a little smile.

Benji stood beside him as the man laid the prints on the counter, then held up one of them. “This quite modest portrait I believe is from Nagasaki. It is not particularly valuable, as the artist is of modern times.”

The geisha's face was natural, not stylized in the manner of the other prints. She looked small and sad, holding a fan before her in an artificial pose. She wasn't beautiful like his mother, but she had the charm of realism.

He propped the Nagasaki geisha on a makeshift tokonoma in his room and, in the mornings as he lay looking at her, thought of the other prints, boldly vivid and elegant, laid out on Wakama-san's counter. He could have a collection too, in his own shop, for discriminating tourists who couldn't find their way to Nagasaki's interior; he would specialize in ukiyo-e. He wrote to Matsumoto to ask about a joint venture with prints and received an enthusiastic reply, along with money for a large purchase. For every twelve prints Benji acquired for him, he was to keep one for himself for his trouble.
I am proud of my son, who shows much initiative
, Mr. Matsumoto wrote.
If you have discipline, you can succeed. Perhaps you can learn much about ukiyo-e prints and paintings from Wakama-san. Have you begun to master the written language? You will need this for your accounts and so on
.

Mrs. Fukuda introduced him to a retired teacher in the neighborhood, a man with steel-gray hair and small glasses who didn't want to charge him for the Japanese lessons, as he had nothing to do these days, he said, except tend to his bonsai and be a bother to his wife.

Every night after dinner, Benji sat at his desk and practiced, over and
over, the hiragana characters in the simplest alphabet. It reminded him of writing O's on his slate in Miss Ladu's classroom. He thought of Flora, on her pretty wrist a charm bracelet he'd given her with money he'd earned at Red Olsen's store. He had thought of the bracelet as a declaration, though they'd never spoken of it. A naïve dream. He could hardly recall her face.

He saw Rinn less often now. “When shall I come again?” she asked one morning as she was leaving. She stood before the mirror on his tansu, pinning up her hair.

“I'm not sure. I'll call for you.”

She turned to look at him. “Don't you care for me any longer?”

“Of course. I'm just very occupied trying to start my business.”

“If you spend too much time on business, business is all you will have.”

“You don't understand.” He began to fold up the futon.

“Yes, I'm a pampered, ignorant woman who knows nothing of the affairs of men and money.” She pulled on her haori jacket. “I was just a convenience for you to help you find out about your mother.”

“How can you say such a thing?”

“It is easy. I think, then I open my mouth and speak.”

He watched from the window as she went down the street. Her gait was uneven, one hip rising slightly with each step. He felt a pang of guilt that he'd never asked what caused her problem. If it was a birth defect, it could be passed on to children. He looked down at his hands, shocked to have had such a thought. He sat at his desk to practice his writing before going to the shop, trying to block out the image of her rising and falling hip, the thought of it somehow arousing. She could become pregnant, he thought with a cold spot of fear in his stomach.

For weeks he occupied himself with work, visiting other shops that specialized in woodblock prints, and beginning his study of kanji. Often he worked so late into the night that Mrs. Fukuda had to wake him when it was time for work.

One morning at breakfast she said, “I don't believe I've seen Rinn-san in quite a while.”

“Mmm.” Benji kept his gaze focused on the newspaper. He was making progress; he could read the headlines now and often got the gist of stories.

She removed his soup bowl and put rice and fish before him.

“Every day we all get a little older,” she said.

He began to eat his fish and turned the page to the shipping news.

“You will regret missing the opportunity to marry such a sincere woman who loves you.”

“What?” He stared at her intense eyes, the cluster of small moles on her forehead.

She laughed. “Shall you as an American require a go-between?”

“No,” he said, “when the time comes I will not.” He gulped the rest of his tea and headed for the door.

“She may find another man,” Mrs. Fukuda called after him. “I think you would regret it.”

Busybody, Grandmother Pinkerton would call her.

In early December he had dinner at the Tsujis' house. Mr. and Mrs. Tsuji and he and Haruki sat with their legs dangling over the warm coal kotatsu as they ate shabu-shabu—sizzling chicken and vegetables served from one pot. The men were drinking beer; Mrs. Tsuji, tea. Haruki dominated the conversation, complaining about Mrs. Foreigner. Benji asked why he hadn't stayed to work in the shop. “It doesn't suit my temperament,” Haruki said.

Benji noticed Mr. and Mrs. Tsuji exchange a quick glance; beneath that glance he sensed a long history of interchange and understanding. He asked how long they'd been married. “Too long,” Mr. Tsuji said with a laugh; his wife gave him a playful slap on the arm and said, “Forty-two years as of next April.” When Benji asked if it had been an arranged marriage, she said, “Oh, yes, very few Japanese marry for love, but love can be learned, as I keep telling my son.”

Scowling, Haruki rose from the table and gestured for Benji to follow. They had agreed to go drinking after dinner. When Benji bowed and thanked the Tsujis for their hospitality, Mrs. Tsuji said, “Please come anytime. You are our second son.”

He and Haruki went to a bar nearby and sat at a counter drinking warm sake.

“Are you opposed to marriage?” Benji asked him.

“Too much trouble,” Haruki said with a wave of his hand. “Once I liked a woman, and my father hired a go-between to approach her. She kept me in suspense for weeks before saying no.”

“You have to keep trying,” Benji said. “You'll find someone.”

“Too much trouble,” Haruki said again.

After they parted, Benji found himself walking up the hill to Maruyama. He knocked on the back door of the house where Rinn lived. An elderly woman with a scarf tied around her head peered out at him.

His heart was racing. “Please ask Rinn to come out,” he said. “It's urgent.”

“Rinn-chan is away, I believe.”

“Away where?”

“A small holiday, perhaps, I cannot say for sure.”

“When will she return?”

“Sumimasen,”
she said with a bow. “I have no information.”

“Please ask her to contact me—Matsumoto Benji,” he said, just as she was closing the door.

Filled with dread, he began to visit shops and restaurants in the Maruyama area. Most people said they did not know a woman of Rinn's description; those who did claimed ignorance about where she might be. It was like looking for his mother again.

One day just after the New Year he saw her coming out of a shop with a package and ran to greet her. Her cheeks were red, her eyes gleaming; she looked frighteningly happy.

He ran to her. “Where have you been?”

She flicked her eyes at him. “I am surprised by your sudden concern.”

His throat went thick. “I missed you. Please come back.”

“Now he misses me,” she said to the sky. “So the slave must hurry to his palace.”

“I was worried,” he said. “Please come just once.”

“I am rather busy,” she said, but she was smiling.

They agreed that she would come for dinner on Sunday. When he told Mrs. Fukuda, she clapped her hands in delight. “We'll have a feast.”

“There's nothing special about this occasion,” Benji said. “She's only coming for dinner.”

Late Sunday afternoon it began to snow. He thought of meeting her in the shrine when it was snowing; he felt a flicker of anger, as if Rinn were controlling the weather too.

She wore a long coat over her kimono; on her umbrella was a thin layer of snow. With the white flakes swirling behind her, she could have been the subject of a ukiyo-e print by Hiroshige. You're beautiful, he longed to say.

Mrs. Fukuda came to greet her and, with a great amount of exclamation,
accepted Rinn's gifts of dried bonito and a box of sweets. Mrs. Fukuda said she was about to finish up with dinner; would Rinn like to help?

The two women disappeared into the kitchen, behind a jangling bead curtain, talking and laughing as hot oil sizzled in the pan.

He hadn't imagined the evening like this. He paced the room, picked up a book of haiku, put it down.

Finally the women came in with the food. They sat down to eat: a delicate soup, sashimi, chawan mushi, a variety of pickled foods, including plums from the Umezono Shrine, and tempura.

“I've never cooked tempura before,” Rinn said, with an uncharacteristically shy expression. “I hope you can bear it.”

“Very good,” he said, though the sweet potato was greasy and the batter fell off the shrimp.

Rinn went to the kitchen for fresh tea. Mrs. Fukuda leaned forward and whispered, “You could live here, with myself as the honorary mother-in-law.”

He shook his head, laughed, and lit a cigarette.

Mrs. Fukuda retired early; Benji and Rinn climbed the stairs. His hands trembling, he removed Rinn's layers of kimono, kissed her breasts, and led her to the futon, but after several minutes was aware that he wouldn't be able to make love. “I'm sorry,” he said.

“Let's just sleep together like two contented bears,” she said, and drew him to her warm bosom.

When he had difficulty sleeping, he disentangled himself from her and went to look out the window. There was a quarter moon; the snow on rooftops gleamed eerily in the dark. What did it mean, his sudden inability? He'd never had this difficulty with a woman before. He turned to look at her indistinct shape in the dark room. She had left him without a word, without a warning.

In the morning he awoke to her caressing him, and he turned to her, his body alive. “Darling woman,” he said in English, looking down at her; he knew no equivalent in Japanese.

“You see. I am good for you.” She pulled him tighter against her.

As they lay together in the sweet sad aftermath of love, she said, “We should be together,
ne
?”

He rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. “Where were you?”

“What does it matter? I have returned.” She sat up abruptly. “What do you wish for us?”

“That we go on as before. But no leaving without explanation.”

“I see.” She rose and began to dress.

“You're going?”

“Yes, why not? I'm a very busy woman.”

Benji jumped up and began pulling on his trousers and shirt. “Why can't you explain where you were all that time?”

She shrugged. “Because this is all that matters to you.”

“It's I who have been the slave.” He rushed down the steps; she wasn't leaving before he did.

Mrs. Fukuda had opened the door to air out the first floor, where the odors of last night's dinner still hung in the air. She was in the kitchen, preparing breakfast. He looked out at the snow, the footprints of some animal there. If Rinn left now, she wouldn't return.

He started back up the stairs. She was just coming down. They froze, staring at each other.

“Do we need a go-between?” he blurted out.

“There has been no one between us,” she said.

He took her arm. “What if we don't get along?”

“This is the risk of life.”

“Shall we try?” he said. He heard Mrs. Fukuda go still in the kitchen.