Butterfly Page 2

  The effulgence struck me full in the face. Inwardly reeling, I crumbled to my knees; it was as if I had, in the split second before my eyes gave way, seen the face of God.

  When I recovered my senses, I was almost surprised to find I had not been plucked off the deck. Instead, the giant butterfly had receded, its presence seemed less immediate, less overwhelming; its form was looser, and the opening in its body had grown considerably. The great solid chunk had transformed itself into a dusky tumid ring, almond-shaped like a Byzantine mandorla; through it the sun shone in a golden haze, sovereign and serene. The air felt freer, the winds had calmed. I picked myself up and stood leaning against the side of the ship, shaken and entranced.

  For a moment I thought with a pang that the butterfly was taking its leave: it was diminishing, its wings were slowly losing their contours and would soon dissolve imperceptibly into the approaching sunset. But I was wrong. It lingered on, drifting slowly and desultorily into the distance like a fantastic kite, yet continuing as if magnetized to frame the setting sun. And stretching toward me from the sublime apparition on the horizon was a path of light that beckoned and pointed like a shimmering phallus. As if in response to its pull, a longing as I had never known rose to swell my breast and loins; I felt my soul being irresistibly drawn to the waiting butterfly. Oh, Butterfly, if only I had let my life spill forth then! And I would have, the very next instant, for you already possessed my senses, and my soul was about to jettison its body and fly to you, and there was no hesitation, Butterfly, only the glimmer of a joy greater than any I would ever know. But already the voice had sounded—the devil's own, I've often thought—inviting me to dine at the captain's table.

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  Her hands were small and soft and as white as pear blossoms. With the wide sleeves of the festive kimono trailing, they glided about like creatures of living grace. No other part of her was exposed—even the face was entirely covered by a masklike layer of powder and paint. Sometimes when they strayed close to his face, Pinkerton perceived a faint but distinctive fragrance. Surely the sleeves had been perfumed, but Pinkerton, intoxicated, scented in it the enticing nubility hidden deep within their folds.

  When Goro explained in his jocose, ingratiating manner that the dance represented the transformation of a chrysalis into a butterfly, Pinkerton had to restrain an impulse to shush him into silence. The dancer's gestures rendered all explanation superfluous. Pinkerton marveled at their clarity and suggestiveness. How eloquent those hands were, how wonderfully alive! They lured his senses like the first ritual offerings of a precious fruit. Restrained by the measured steps and the delicate rhythms of plucked strings, her sensuality seeped ineffably through. He seemed to see her passionate soul beckoning in the curving of a finger, in the sweep of a hand; yet the eyes, when he sought them out, were wholly without expression: two dark drops coolly glistening in a powdery mask.

  As the performance went on, even Goro became too entranced to offer insipid comments. Using a pair of huge folding fans brightly painted to resemble butterfly wings, the dancer made her audience partake of the miraculous transformation. She captured to perfection the butterfly's awakening, its emergence from the cocoon, the first instant of hesitation and the tentative flutter of wings before it soars into open space and sunlit air. Long afterward, whenever Pinkerton told of the performance, the magic of this moment would flicker in his face and flit across like an electric spark to his interlocutor.

  Pinkerton, in lavishing praise on Butterfly—she had come to be identified with the dance for which she was famous and was now known under no other name—made it clear that he wished to spend the night in her company. So he was surprised and annoyed when another woman came to him in his room. Perhaps they thought him too drunk to notice. But he was not one to be treated so lightly. Where was Butterfly? he asked, repeating the name several times like an invocation. The woman, embarrassed, tried to explain, but she spoke little English, so he could not understand. Ruffled, she left the room and returned a little later with Goro, who immediately began to bluster about the virtues of his companion. Pinkerton insisted on Butterfly. Money was no consideration, he impatiently pointed out; but apparently it was not a question of money. What was it then? Goro answered with evasions, but Pinkerton, becoming more and more heated, would not desist until the man had explained that Butterfly belonged to a class of geisha who could only be obtained through a formal arrangement. Pinkerton impulsively declared himself ready to make such an arrangement on the spot. This brought a smile of amused disdain to Goro's lips. A serious matter like that could not be settled so precipitously. The conditions had to be discussed; there were gifts and settlements to be made, formalities to be observed. It would be an elaborate transaction. Pinkerton, exasperated and suddenly tired, dismissed Goro and the girl and spent a fretful night alone.

  The following morning, however, he sent again for Goro. What would an arrangement entail? That depends, the little Japanese answered cautiously, but, after some prodding: a house for the girl together with means for its upkeep, a sum settled on mama-san, plus gifts of various kinds—say thirty thousand yen, all included. The figure was rather alarming, but possibly because of that, or because he felt the Japanese snickering behind his placid mien, Pinkerton did not flinch but charged Goro to do what was necessary to conclude an agreement on his behalf.

  After the man had scrambled off, Pinkerton asked himself whether he was not foolhardy to enter into an arrangement that seemed inconveniently binding and cost a small fortune. His father would not be pleased; but then, his father had promised to foot all expenses if he agreed to spend a year in Japan, away from Kate and abjuring all communication with her. Surely his father had reckoned with a mistress; in fact, now that he thought about it, there had been positive encouragement in that quarter—after all, if he was to forget Kate . . . though not a hundred mistresses could make up for Kate, he thought in a belated surge of passion. Well, he had no intention of renouncing Kate; he would do as his parents demanded, he would sit out his year in Japan, and then he would go home and marry Kate—with or without their blessing, but in any case uninterfered, which was enough. In the meantime, secure in this intention, he would enjoy himself; why shouldn't he, since Kate herself had entered into the spirit of his father's game? “Suppose,” she had discomfited him by saying, “we really do live apart for a year, without writing. It might be a useful test for us. After a year of freedom, if our feelings are still the same, nothing's lost; and if we feel differently, then your father will have been right.” The logic, though it stung him, was impeccable, he had had to admit. But if that was the way she wanted it, he would make the most of the freedom she was foisting on him.

  “Well?” he questioned impatiently when Goro came bouncing in late the next afternoon. His longing for the dancer had grown obsessively during the last thirty hours. The prospect of such a novel engagement excited him and lent urgency to his desire; desire in turn compelled his mind to dwell on her person and in particular her hands. Her face, oddly, eluded him: when he tried to picture it, he saw not hers but that of the woman sent in her stead. To that would-be substitute he had paid no attention, yet her features—he had not noticed at the time how pleasant they were—now intruded again and again into his revery, so that he began to regret having refused her favors. In the end he could not have said which one he wanted more, so mingled had the two become in his simmering lust.

  “Forget Butterfly,” Goro exhorted with an exaggerated bluffness. “I find girl for you, ten times beautiful.”

  Pinkerton, wound up to an excruciating pitch of desire, was hardly prepared to renounce its object upon this offhanded recommendation.

  “No use,” Goro finally stated after meeting Pinkerton's adjurations with a number of evasions. “Butterfly belong to Miyamura. Miyamura big merchant, very rich.”

  Pinkerton's eyes blazed, but his manner was calm. “How much would it take to get her?” he asked coldly.

  “Sah, you don't understand, she is mistress of merchant Miya—”

  With a violence that made Goro draw back in alarm, Pinkerton brought both palms crashing down upon the table. It was a gesture he had seen his father perform on more than one occasion, invariably with effect; though he had always thought it unnecessarily brutal and melodramatic, he now performed it spontaneously with appropriate panache. “I don't care!” he shouted. “I don't give a damn about your fucking Miyamayas! I want that girl, and all I want to know is what it'll take to get her. You just go and tell them that.”

  Goro looked at Pinkerton as if he were a madman. But immediately he took hold of himself; his face became impenetrable and his person took on a military gravity. "Hai, wakalimashita,” he barked and made a stiff bow.

  Alone, Pinkerton found himself trembling. He had brandy brought and between glasses feverishly paced the room. Goro returned an hour later, though it seemed longer to Pinkerton. He had spoken with the old lady and explained Pinkerton s wish; the old lady had understood, but it was a delicate situation because of Miyamura's wealth and position. All things considered, the only way Butterfly could be ceded to another would be through a formal marriage. Goro's forthright manner of talking indicated that no compromise was possible.

  Marriage! This was the one eventuality Pinkerton had not considered, nor could he envision it now. Distractedly dismissing Goro, he flung himself face down upon the bed. Wild thoughts raced through his head. Could he make a deal with Miyamura? Buy or force him out? Or should he abduct the girl? And take her where? To America? His fantasies subsided; he saw he had no choice but to put Butterfly forever out of his mind, and bravely he set about it. Every effort, however, only conjured up still more vi
vidly the beautiful hands of which he had been dreaming. No, it was impossible that his body should forever be denied the caresses that his imagination had so lovingly tailored; impossible that his eyes should never behold the mysteries yet to be unwrapped but his already in anticipation. And where would his desire, swaying so high and heavy on its stalk, go if she should not be there to catch it when it burst?

  Inadvertently he had reached down into his breeches, but as he touched the painfully constricted parts, a thought jolted him. He flung himself around and sat up on the edge of the bed. Why shouldn't he marry her? What could it mean anyway, since he was leaving in a year? Whether he left behind a wedded wife or a kept mistress, where was the difference? The marriage, uncon-secrated, would not even be recognized. It was a show put on for Miyamura's sake, no more. This reflection lit up Pinkerton's spirits like sunlight streaming into a heavily curtained room. He rang and ordered Goro to be fetched at once.

  The wedding was fixed for the end of May. Pinkerton had conceived of a small private affair; the old lady, in charge of the arrangements, had other ideas, and against these Pinkerton protested so futilely that he began to suspect Goro of not transmitting his views. The wedding, in the Japanese style, ended up being quite an expensive and elaborate production; the entire consular staff was invited, as well as all the old lady's entourage and familiars, including the merchant Miyamura and his cronies. The rationale was that Miyamura must not lose face, for that might incite him to take action against the marriage. To Pinkerton, however, it seemed clear the old lady was using the publicity to ensure that her protegee would be treated equitably by her new spouse. There was plenty to do, what with purchasing and fixing up a house, furnishing it, hiring a staff, preparing gifts, so that even Pinkerton, who through special consideration was assigned very light duties at the consulate, had trouble fitting everything in. During the fortnight before the wedding, Goro spent several afternoons coaching him in his role of bridegroom. Instruction notwithstanding, he felt clumsy and ridiculous performing the newly learnt gestures in an outlandish Japanese costume, but at least he would be able to go through the ceremony without overtly embarrassing anyone.

  What would his compatriots think? He resisted the temptation to speak to them about it. They of course would understand, but however indulgent they might be, any explanation could only confirm him as a rake and a cad. As the wedding day drew near, excitement and desire gave way to a nervous disquietude. Wasn't he really behaving badly, he on occasion wondered? However much he assured himself it was only a sham formality to outmaneuver a troublesome rival, he could not quite shake off a vague feeling of shame. But then, he invariably retorted, she was only a high-class whore.

  The night before the wedding, Pinkerton dreamt of Kate. He could not recall the dream, but it left him with a vivid and troubling sense of her presence. The instant he shut his eyes, her image reappeared; he saw her as she had been at their parting. On that occasion she had been as reserved as he had been passionate. She did not disavow his impetuous affirmations of their love; she was only unusually quiet, and a strange, distant smile played about her lips, a smile full of melancholy and unspoken meanings. Finally, in a frenzy, he had seized her gloved hands and pressed his lips to the sheer black silk. Underneath, the flesh was cool and curiously inert, which made her hands seem inexorable in their sleek perfection. But his kisses had eventually brought them to life, and they had stroked his cheeks and his hair. At the moment of separation, they had suddenly pulled him to her with such force that for an instant—no more—his lips were crushed to hers. Before he had had time to respond, she was gone. The reassurances he sought so desperately were not to come.

  Recaptured in his mind, her smile took on a hint of mockery. Innerly he protested: he was not really marrying the girl; surely she did not think he would marry anyone else. But the sardonic expression remained, he was powerless to change it or shut it out. Her presence, if anything, became more vivid; he felt he had only to reach out to touch her, and yet he could not do that either.

  Beside himself, he rang violently and shouted his order to inform Goro that the wedding was off. This radical action calmed him, and he sat in a stupor, emptied of feeling and thought. But when Goro bustled in half an hour later wreathed in smiles and ostensibly ignorant of Pinkerton's change of mind—even though his man later affirmed that the message had been clearly conveyed—his bubbling good humor drowned his patron's protests and swept them so vigorously out of the way that Pinkerton himself lost their gist and let them drift from his mind. In the end Pinkerton felt positively sheepish for having irrationally wanted to cancel what they had taken such pains to secure. So all went as planned after all.

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  (The Nagasaki ms.)

  My mother and Lisa, both formally attired in black, looked so serious that for a moment I feared the worst. I was genuinely moved to see them and rushed to embrace my mother; she kissed me, but the rigidity of her body and the shadow of a frown reminded me that demonstrations of emotion—even after a year's absence—were not well-regarded in our family. My sister's welcome was warmer, but she had barely got her arms around my neck when we were admonished that my father was waiting. The man I found sunk in the pillows and bedclothes seemed at first sight to bear little resemblance to the father I had known. The flamboyant silver mane had become sparse and lusterless; the muscular face had shrunk. His extreme emaciation and pallor presented a picture of frailty that wrung my heart. I was reminded of a broken branch on which a few dry leaves still dangled, tenuous and forlorn. Though he saw me enter, he did not—apparently out of weakness—so much as twitch while I traversed the room. How he had degenerated! At close range his condition appeared even more pitiable. For a moment we looked at each other in silence. The enmity I bore him evaporated. Too choked with emotion to speak, I took one of his hands in mine and tried with all my will to communicate something of the warmth and natural affection that had hitherto been missing in our relations.

  My inquiry about his health met with neither reply nor acknowledgment. His eyes turned from me and stared vacantly into space, and the crooked line between his desiccated lips twisted into a thin and mirthless smile. In a voice that, faintness notwithstanding, crackled with I know not what malignant spirit, he asked, “Well, have you come around?” A familiar rasp punctuated his question.

  It took me an instant to understand what he was talking about. Then I felt my face aflame. As I looked into my father's flinty eyes, a knifelike hatred cut through the good feelings I was harbouring: nothing had changed. I saw the same malicious lips; the same steely, supercilious regard; the same ambiguous chuckle with its volatile mixture of menace and mockery. And that insufferable expression of cold superiority. A terrible rage stirred in me, rose and reared and towered beyond reason, beyond sanity. My neck quivered, my head swelled; a mad, demonic impulse possessed me to throttle that helpless bag of bones. I was almost surprised that I did not do so; instead, I heard myself answer loudly, my voice hard with spite, “Yes sir, I have!” A malicious pleasure crept over me as I proceeded to announce my marriage to Butterfly. My words, like barbs on a whip, were chosen to draw blood—they were explicit about Butterfly's condition and status—and I savored their effect like so many crimson droplets on a tortured skin.

  “You are joking, I presume.” My father's face was blotched and he nearly choked on these few words, though he made a supreme effort to control himself.