Butterfly's Child (39 page)

“Suzuki-chan!” he cried.

“Benji-san.” She gave him a shy smile and another bow.

He hugged her, then backed away. “I'm sorry—my American side broke through.”

“I see you have grown up,” she said.

“I warned her about the hair,” his mother put in. She had reseated herself at the table. “Please join us at the table and we'll have more champagne.”

Suzuki exclaimed over Shoichi and thanked Rinn for her persistent inquiries about Benji's mother. “Word of your diligence traveled throughout Maruyama.” She turned to Benji. “Your mother is sincere in her joy that you have met again. Indeed, I have not seen her in such a state except on the day of your birth … and,” she added, with a bow toward Hiroshi, “on the occasion of her marriage.”

Benji looked at his mother. She was smiling and her head was tilted slightly to one side, just as in the photograph.

“As a fortunate by-product of your search,” his mother said, “Suzuki and I have found each other too. She is now our valued assistant at the inn.”

For the next few days, his mother and Hiroshi left the management of the hotel to Suzuki and took Benji and Rinn sightseeing. They went to the village of Unzen, where they looked at the shops and summer cottages—the houses were well priced, Hiroshi whispered to Benji—and took a ropeway up to the highest mountain, for a view of the countryside.

One afternoon they went to the source of the hot springs, an area outside the village of Unzen, and walked beside the volcanic mud and bubbling water that stank of sulfur. Rinn covered Shoichi's face with her handkerchief.

“The core of the earth breaks through here,” Hiroshi said. “Some Christians were boiled alive in this place, hundreds of years ago,” he added in a cheerful tour-guide voice.

“My stepmother is a Christian,” Benji said. “Otherwise I wouldn't have been rescued from Maruyama. She was good to me,” he added, “much of the time.” He felt a sting of guilt; he'd never written to her.

“How did you manage,” he asked his mother, “during the years after my father left you with me?”

“I had a friend, Sharpless-san, from the American consulate. Each month he brought an envelope of money, from your father, he said. I learned the truth only in recent years—that the money had been from him. Then I understood that he was rather fond of me.” She tried to hide her smile. “He was a loyal Christian, however, with a wife and children.”

“Where is Sharpless-san now?”

“In Tokyo, I believe. I've lost touch with him lately.”

“Cio-Cio-san, my father called you. Did you love him?”

She shrugged. “I was rather fond of him.”

“But I thought … and you waited for him …”

“That you might have a home.” She grasped his hands. “The charade of the suicide was a futile sacrifice. I thought you would succeed in America, but of course I wasn't aware of the harsh circumstances. We have both suffered for my action.”

He looked at her, the wide-set eyes he knew so well, her face blazing with life.

“What we imagine never happens, does it?” he said. “But some things are far superior. I could never have imagined Rinn or Shoichi. Or you,” he added.

“Thank you,” she whispered. She stepped closer to him and he put his arm around her, his hand lightly touching her shoulder, and they stood looking into the distance, at the cool green sweep of mountains dotted here and there with houses and the orange torii of shrines, until Rinn called that it was time to go.

Since 1913 had been
a bang-up year for sales, Frank was not surprised to receive a letter of commendation from the president of Wilkes Brothers' Farm Equipment. Mr. Wilkes invited him to Chicago so that they might discuss an expansion of his responsibilities. Would three o'clock on the afternoon of January 11 be convenient?

Frank took the express train to the city in a first-class seat—he could afford it now, he thought—and sat smoking a Cuban cigar as he watched the blur of snow-covered fields. They were putting him up at the Palmer House, so it must be something big. He'd probably be able to buy a house of his own and reunite the children at last. His mother was getting on, too old to look after the younger ones, so he would hire a servant, a mature woman, gray in her hair so the neighbors wouldn't talk. Though God knew he deserved a wife. He felt a flash of resentment at Kate. He was tired of prostitutes, and the children deserved a real mother.

George Wilkes came to greet him in the small antechamber of his office, and they went to sit in what he called the sanctum, an untidy room with papers heaped on the desk and stacks of advertising posters on the floor; on the walls were drawings of farm equipment. A horse-faced man with a thin veneer of cordiality, Wilkes was a former farm boy from the northern part of the state; he understood from personal experience, he said, why customers responded to a man like Tom Pinkerton, who knew what the farmer was up against.

The company was growing, Wilkes said, pushing westward. “We're moving into Nebraska—already have an office set up in Omaha. What
would you say to managing that whole operation?” He leaned back in his chair, smiling expectantly.

“You mean all of Nebraska?” Frank said. “Move there?”

“Why, yes. You'd oversee the sales force—a small number at first, but that will change, especially with your being in the field some days yourself. Your home base would be Omaha—fine little city.”

Frank had never been to Nebraska. His father had mentioned sod houses, miles of lonesome prairie. “I'd receive a raise, of course,” Frank said.

“We'll do the best we can on that score,” Wilkes said. “And we can up the percentage on your commission. You'll be comfortable.”

Frank thought of Kate, how poorly she'd looked the last time he saw her. “I have a family,” he said.

“Good, good.” Wilkes patted his desk. “We like to have a strong family man at the helm.”

“Do you need a man in Wisconsin?” Frank asked.

Wilkes shook his head. “A man of your potential should jump at the chance of Nebraska. Someday we'll push all the way out to California. You might be our top man in the west. So, Tom,” he said, folding his hands on the desk, leaning forward, “how does it sound?”

“Fine, just fine,” Frank said, trying to pump enthusiasm into his voice. “Mind if I consider it overnight?” It was a long way from Kate, and he knew his home territory well, customers he could rely on.

“Good idea,” Wilkes said, though his smile had faded. “Enjoy your stay at the Palmer—I recommend the prime rib. Maybe after dinner,” he added with a wink, “you can find yourself a little entertainment. Let's talk in the morning, then. We need to make a decision soon.”

The hotel room would have struck Kate's fancy—a flowered carpet, canopy bed with curtains, fully equipped bath. He'd promised to bring her here, never had. He drew a hot bath, lowered himself into the water. He leaned his head back against the edge of the tub and closed his eyes. Maybe there was an asylum in Omaha.

Or maybe he'd be so far away that he could take a new wife without anyone being the wiser. Of course he couldn't. There were the children to think of. He rubbed his face and arms with a loofah until his skin burned.

While he was dressing, he had a drink, just a small one. He had to be clearheaded to think over Wilkes's proposition.

In the elevator were an elegantly dressed couple, the woman in an evening gown. Every inch of her looked pampered. The man gave him a haughty look. Frank glanced at himself in the mirror, buttoned the jacket of his suit. A string was hanging from one sleeve. When had he turned into a hayseed? He'd always looked sharp in his Navy days. In an office job he could be a more stylish dresser. He wasn't a bad-looking man.

On the way to the restaurant, Frank picked up a newspaper to read at dinner. He was settled into a corner table by an obsequious waiter, ordered the prime rib and a glass of red wine. No harm in a single glass of wine.

He glanced at the headlines—President Wilson in Mexico, a parade on State Street by those damn fool suffragists—thumbed through the paper to look at commodities prices. Wheat was down. He buttered a roll, and turned the page.

A drawing of a Japanese woman sprang out at him.
“Madama Butterfly,”
the advertisement read,
the opera that has captivated the nation
. His stomach lurched as if he were still in the elevator. He'd thought that opera business had died down by now.
Performed in English. 8 o'clock, Auditorium Theatre
.

He folded the paper to hide the advertisement, then glanced around at the other diners. No one was watching.

The waiter brought his food, the beef bloody on the plate. The sight of it made him sick. He sipped at the wine, sour. He thought of the Last Supper, the picture of it in his childhood Sunday-school book. There was a sore beneath his tongue.

He left money on the table and went out. On the street, he asked the doorman for directions to the Auditorium Theatre. “Only three blocks,” the man said, pointing. “The tallest building in Chicago.”

He started down the sidewalk. It had begun to snow, big wet flakes on wind that blustered from the lake. His feet felt too large to move properly. Maybe the opera was sold out. Cars blared and hooted, the street full of them, shiny black carapaces; on his last visit to Chicago, there had been almost no cars. A new world.

The theater building was ablaze with light; inside, the floors and walls were long sweeps of marble. The only available seats were in the upper balcony, the ticket salesman told him, but the acoustics were excellent even there.

There was an elevator to the balconies, but he took the stairs. His legs felt weak, as if he were ill. An usher led him to his seat. The place was dizzying. In front of the stage were marble arches glittering with lights; box seats seemed to float in space. Thousands of people were talking and laughing. They wouldn't be here except for me, he thought with a little shock. He glanced at the woman beside him: a low-cut white dress, a mole on her breast. On his other side sat a young jackanapes, trying to impress the girl with him. If only they knew. He brushed at his suit and opened the program. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he had misremembered or dreamed it.

But there it was: Nagasaki, Butterfly. Pinkerton. Sharpless. Suzuki. He straightened, tried to steady himself. The place was too loud. Shut up, he wanted to yell. He yearned for a drink, should have had one more at the hotel. He closed his eyes and waited.

Finally the lights dimmed and there was silence, then a thunder of applause. Music began and the curtain rose on a Japanese house, a man in a naval uniform, another man. The man in the uniform—he looked at the program—was him, Pinkerton. But he was fat and his feet were too small. He began to sing, gesturing like a fool. In English, supposedly, but Frank couldn't understand a word. He turned again to the libretto: Pinkerton and the other man were carrying on about the house, how the doors moved, space shifted however one wanted. The bridal chamber could be anywhere.

There was talk of a wedding. There had no been no wedding. They had it all wrong. It didn't count. He laughed. People in the row ahead turned to look at him.

The American consul Sharpless strode onto stage, to a flourish of the national anthem. Sharpless, too, was portly, nothing like the real man. Amazing they had his name, though. Maybe that Cross woman had corresponded with Kate at some point. Frank followed the duet in his libretto. “Life's not worth living if at every port you can't have a fair maid,” Pinkerton sang. “An easygoing gospel,” Sharpless replied, “but fatal in the end.” The music darkened.

He stared at the singers moving about, bawling at the top of their lungs. What did Sharpless know about life at sea, the boredom, the hungers?

There was another woman onstage now. Butterfly. He'd missed her entrance. She was a handsome woman, but not Japanese. He was relieved to feel nothing, no stirrings. He tried to remember Cio-Cio's face, but it
eluded him. He could see her hair, her back, the foot with the little toe curled under.

He scanned the libretto to find his place. Butterfly was telling Pinkerton that she'd become a Christian for his sake. Ridiculous. He glanced at the woman beside him; she was smiling, pleased by this fictitious development.

A love duet. The music was tender for their wedding night. He tried to remember his first night with Butterfly. Of course there hadn't been a wedding. It was at the house, but all their lovemaking had been at the house. He thought of her breasts, her warm legs, her taking his member into her mouth, but that happened many times.

Butterfly turned slightly toward the audience. “They say that in your country …” He could hear her plainly, without consulting the libretto. “A man may pierce a butterfly with a pin.”

“There is some truth in that,” Pinkerton replied. “So you can't escape. See, I hold you as you flutter. Be mine.”

Frank thought of the day the butterflies had come to the farmhouse, on the grass and in the trees, in his office. His body went hot. He wiped his face, struggled to remove his jacket.

The curtain swooped shut with a great flourish, and people began to stir. He felt unable to move, as though he were swollen in his seat. Finally he had to rise; the young fellow and his sweetheart wanted to pass. The woman with the mole had already gone. Most of the audience was pouring out into the hall, down the stairs. He let himself be swept along.

In the lobby, people were drinking aperitifs, brandy, whiskey, but he couldn't find the bar. He didn't want to ask; people might think he was desperate. There was a glass of champagne on a ledge. He took it, walked away quickly, and downed it.

He didn't feel well, too light-headed for one drink. He should go. But when the bell rang, he returned with the crowd to the auditorium and took his seat.