Butterfly (24 page)

Butterfly had regained her composure by then, in fact she looked even more serene than before—her face looked clearer and brighter, Dada writes, like the sky after a cloudburst. The French say “beautiful as the day"—well, that was how she appeared to him. She took counsel with herself for a second or two and then announced firmly, “I will see them.”

Dada tried arguing with her, but after a while he could see he wasn't cutting ice. But having taken so much trouble already, he wasn't going to give up now. That lady, he tried to drive it home to her, spelled danger; she was up to something, he didn't know what, but sure and certain it was she didn't mean well by Butterfly. As for Pinkerton—Dada wasn't mincing words anymore—he was too doggone weak to oppose the lady, who chances are was cooking up something wicked. “Give him up,” he pleaded. “You can't do anything for him now, no more than he can do anything for you. Stay out of his way, and above all, stay out of hers!”

But Butterfly's look was somewhere so far away that Dada wondered whether she had heard him at all. “I am not afraid of her,” she quietly declared.

Dada could see that. He wrote—let's see if I can recite it: “I saw it in her gaze that was as clear as the deepest blue of heaven, in the sovereign erectness of her fine head, that indomitable woman's strength in her, and in my mind's eye I saw her rising in the hour of adversity like an angel of light that no darkness could overcome. I pictured their confrontation: Butterfly steadfast and sublime in her tensile, luminous grace, the other superb and dazzling with darkly amazonian splendor, two types of beauty, two kinds of strength.”

Now, man that he was, Dada was powerfully taken with the image of two dueling women blown up by the male imagination
to the size of pagan goddesses. Well, if that was the way he saw it, it was all out of his hands, wasn't it? There was nothing more to do than to watch and wait.

But his fear for her was gone.

78

(The Nagasaki ms.)

One evening Kate summoned me to her as I was making preparations for the night. “I want to talk to you,” she said in a tone that announced a formal allocution. When I approached, she indicated that I was to kneel at a small distance from where she sat; usually I placed myself directly at her feet.

“Listen closely to what I have to say; I shan't need your comment.

“I have given instructions to Goro to bring Butterfly here tomorrow afternoon. Don't look so surprised—you've been waiting impatiently to see her, haven't you? Hush! Not a word from you. Just listen.

“When she comes, I want you first to see her alone. And as a free man, not as a slave. Mark that, as a free agent at liberty to do what he will, to determine the course of his own life. More explicitly, I want you to spend an hour with her at the very least—longer if you wish—and then decide whether you will remain her husband and free, or whether you want in earnest to become my slave.

“I know what's on your tongue: that your choice has long been made, that there is no question in your mind. But you've been reasoning as a slave; tomorrow I want you to think as a free man. It may be the last time, but do it—I wish it. It's for this that I put off signing our contract.” She produced a copy of that document
and reached over to hand it to me. “Here, read it again carefully and consider well the consequences. Tomorrow you can walk out under a free sky; after tomorrow, never again! For all you know, you may not even be alive, because the moment you sign that contract, I can order you to end your existence—and who can ever know what a mistress's whims will be? I myself don't know. Keep that well in mind. And remember what I've told you before and repeat now for the last time: only a fool among fools will put himself under such a contract.

“You'll receive her in the parlor; I'll be in here. Once you've made your decision, knock on the door. I want to see her before she leaves, and you too, of course, if you decide to accompany her. Take your time; stay with her as long as you like, but give yourself at least an hour. You can do and speak as you please. Touch her, embrace her. Don't let my being in the next room intimidate you. Get it into your head now that you'll be free, even if you should choose not to remain so—in which case it would be your last hour of freedom, so reason the more to grasp it by the lock. In fact, it would please me to have you feel once again what it is to be a man. Who knows, that might bring you to your senses, if nothing else does. You won't be wearing your belt, obviously; here is the key. I suggest, however, that you keep it on until noon tomorrow. Tonight you'll sleep in your room. I give you permission to use the bed.

“Is everything clear? Good! Now give me my massage; then go. I'll want nothing more tonight.”

With that she held out her foot for the ritual kiss that terminated our audiences.

79

(From the interview with Mrs. Milly Davenport)

He was wrong, however. Fatally wrong, you might almost say. It hounded him for a long, long time, and he did his almighty best to find out what'd happened. Not that it would've made any difference anymore, but he was eaten up by remorse and wanted at least to know where he'd been off in the way he'd had things figured. Because he'd been so sure, you know. He was sure she couldn't take her own life, even after she'd gone and done it. It must've been an accident, he'd think, or maybe they murdered her. He just couldn't square her killing herself with what he believed he knew about her. “I can still see her today,” he told me. “The proud grace of her neck, the way she held up her head—so dignified, so self-possessed, so vital. I tell you, Milly, a woman who holds her head like that couldn't kill herself. It's a physiological impossibility.”

I didn't know anything about physiology, but from all Dada had told me, it seemed mighty unlikely to me, too. “Maybe they wanted to take her child after all,” I remember suggesting without being half convinced of it.

“Even so,” he shook his head, “even so. Anyway it wasn't that. Pinkerton assured me it wasn't and I believe him on this point. But even if she'd have lost her child, which I guess is about the greatest blow a woman can suffer, it still wouldn't have done it. She'd have sorrowed, maybe rebelled, but she wouldn't have killed herself.”

“How about to get back at them?” I speculated.

Dada had thought of that too. But no; it wasn't in her character. There was no spite in her, he was positive on that score.

I had it on the tip of my tongue to tease him about making her out to be such a saint, but something in his face made me hold back. “Well, they do have that gruesome custom of cutting themselves open,” I said instead. “What do they do it for when they do?”

“Pride,” Dada replied. “Honor. They do it to preserve their honor, it somehow redeems the honor they would otherwise have lost.”

“Well, hadn't she been shamefully jilted?” I asked.

He allowed that it was the least impossible explanation, but still not one that satisfied him. “Because what happened had already happened,” he argued as he must have hundreds of times in his head. “I mean it had been weeks since she was jilted. If it was a stain on her honor—and God knows what those people consider stains, that's something I'm afraid the likes of us will never understand—it was a pretty old one.” At the time she'd never considered suicide, he'd swear to that and stake his life on it. No, if her honor was stained, it had to be something they did to her. “But doggone it, Milly,” he said grimacing with frustration. “I can't figure out what it could be. All these years I've been trying, and I'm no closer to anything that halfway makes sense.”

He'd gone to the hotel that night, Dada had, and just about dragged Pinkerton out by main force downstairs into the lounge, because he didn't want the lady to bust in on them. Pinkerton was in a state of shock, but Dada wasn't in any mood to let him off on account of that “What did you do to her?” he demanded. “I want to know what you did to her . . .” He used a couple of none too complimentary words that I won't repeat.

“I killed her,” Pinkerton was muttering, over and over. “I killed her, I killed her.”

“I know that, goddammit! But how?” Dada shouted; he was
beside himself. “Now you tell me what happened, and you tell it right now.”

Well, Pinkerton told it, but from what Dada records him as saying, there wasn't a heap of a lot to tell. They, he and his lady, had invited Butterfly to the hotel and she had gone. Pinkerton saw her alone. They talked for about half an hour. Pinkerton told her about his betrothal and how sorry he was about the way things turned out—just what he'd intended to say, nothing more. Butterfly seemed very composed, even relaxed, but understandably neither of them felt much like chitchat, and Pinkerton didn't feel he ought to ask personal questions—after all, what she did with her life wasn't any of his business anymore. She was getting up to leave when the lady came out. The two women met, but they didn't exchange more than a few phrases, in spite of them both being curious about each other. No, he affirmed, nothing'd been said that might be construed as an offense.

“Did anybody say anything about wanting her child?” Dada asked when Pinkerton'd finished telling about the meeting, and he was assured there hadn't been any question of that, that it hadn't ever been mentioned at all, in or out of Butterfly's presence.

“You must have said
something
to upset her,” Dada insisted. To which Pinkerton mumbled that everything he said probably did.

“I don't mean that!” Dada cut in irascibly. “I mean something in particular. A new element, something significant. Something that changed the way she looked at things.”

“But what?” Pinkerton asked.

“You tell me,” Dada shot back in exasperation. Pinkerton seemed to turn paler, but he denied there was anything of the sort. Dada couldn't swallow that, but try as he might, he wasn't able to get a thing more out of Pinkerton. In the end he left the hotel feeling sick and frustrated and no wiser than before.

80

(The Nagasaki ms.)

The first dreaded moments were mercifully taken up by Goro's bustle. He had no doubt expected to find Kate and made no move to go until I sent him away. His disappointment showed just enough for me to take note; I felt an unexpected pang of jealousy at the absurd thought that he could be providing services of a different nature.

Left alone, Butterfly greeted me with a formal bow and an elegant string of Japanese phrases. Unversed in Japanese politesse, and without a comparable repertory of my own to draw upon, I fumbled awkwardly for words. My embarrassment made her smile good-naturedly. “You have forgotten Japanese?” she teased in the familiar tone we had often used with one another and which contrasted with her formality a moment before. “Lucky I still remember English, is it not?” The little laugh we shared cracked the ice, though it did not melt. I ushered her to the divan and seated myself in an armchair a little distance away.

“So,” she remarked as her glance swept the room. “This is how Western house looks inside?” I nodded, noticing for the first time how ugly the room was with its pretentious hybrid décor and pompous Second Empire furniture. It was clear, and all to her credit, that Butterfly neither approved nor felt comfortable in it. Nor did she appear there to her advantage, for the contrast was too stark, too strident; the grace of her delicate movements were crushed and her sophisticated hues swallowed up by that oversized, overbearing parody of European elegance. Seated unnaturally on the alien furniture, she seemed awkward and slight, and even a little pathetic.

Haltingly at first, like a swimmer braving gelid waters, then
with great sputtering and thrashing about, I launched into my explanations—those ignominous falsehoods and half-truths I had lain awake nights to concoct. Butterfly sat on the edge of the divan at apparent attention, her eyes fixed on my face, but I could not be sure whether she was listening. Suddenly she broke in.

“Are you happy?”

Happy? I felt myself flush, and though I thought to reply in the affirmative, the words stultified my tongue and came out an incoherent mumble.

“Does she make you happy?” Butterly insisted. When still I did not answer, she looked down and said in a low voice, “Forgive me.”

That broke the dam. “Forgive you!” I cried.
"I, forgive you.
Oh, Butterfly, Butterfly!” I was choked for words. Then, on a sudden inspiration, “Why, it is to ask your forgiveness that I've made you come! But I don't know by what right I could ask that, after all that I've done. If you only knew . . . how vile I am, how unspeakably vile. ...”

Overcome with emotion, I closed my eyes. It could not have been for more than a few seconds, but when I opened them again, Butterfly had risen and was coming toward me with the quick, diminutive gait of Japanese women. A patch of afternoon sun caught her; she seemed a luminous spirit gliding to a mortal's aid. Then she was hovering over me, and her hands, those beautiful hands, gently touched my cheeks. Holding my head between them, she looked down into my uplifted face with a compassion that seemed not of this world. Her touch galvanized me, unknotting the tangled emotions in my breast, and I felt a sudden release. I would have fallen on my knees before her, in gratitude, in penitence, but even my knees were too sullied for that office.

“Forgive me,” I whispered.

She smiled the faintest of smiles. “I have forgiven you a long time.”

“No!” I cried. “You couldn't have—you do not know . . . there is so much you don't know!” I shut my eyes again as if my very regard could soil her. “If you knew,” I groaned in anguish, “if you knew how I've been, how low I've sunk . . . I can't even tell you, I wish I could. ...”

The pressure of her hands became firmer. “It is no matter,” she said. “I forgive you, for all.”

The words were clear and she spoke very distinctly, but a long moment passed before their import settled like heavenly dew upon my tormented heart. All! She forgave me all! I felt a twitch of joy, but my elation did not last.

“You cannot,” I demurred. “There are things I've done that if you only knew would—”

She clapped a hand to my lips. “All!” she said softly but with a conviction that seemed to resonate through her entire being. There was no passion, only a certainty so strong, so absolute, that argument and doubt could only fall harmlessly away. The turmoil within me quieted, died; letting my eyelids drop, I slowly submersed in the peace of absolution. She has given me, I thought in wonder, what every man wants from a woman and never gets; and for that we build churches, say prayers, take communion, confess.