Butterfly's Shadow (19 page)

So when Henry asked Suzuki to be his wife and she agreed, he made no mention of the fact in letters home.

Suzuki was hesitant about accepting Henry’s proposal. She had adored him for years, in the way she would revere a distant god. For a servant girl to be noticed at all by such a figure seemed beyond expectation. But from the beginning Henry had talked to her as an equal; they understood one another. He had known Cho-Cho’s father and he had feared for the future of the orphaned girl. He told Suzuki once that if he could have adopted Cho-Cho when her father died, he would have been a second father to her. With time, Suzuki saw, his feelings had changed. Perhaps before he knew it himself she was aware that Henry was besotted with her mistress.

From the day when he arrived with Pinkerton at the little house overlooking the harbour, through the years that followed, Suzuki watched that devotion grow. But Cho-Cho was always tantalisingly beyond Henry’s reach, and Suzuki saw the three of them moving in a sad, circular dance like figures on an Imari vase, linked but held apart: Suzuki loved Henry, who loved Cho-Cho, who loved Pinkerton, and so it would continue.

Suzuki accepted him because she was Japanese and, like Henry himself, a realist: she accepted the possible. And she felt guilt because incomplete though it was, her life would be richer by far than Cho-Cho’s.

Suzuki’s family, at first mistrustful, met the consul and discovered that he spoke their language fluently, that he was at ease with their culture and – for a foreigner – had a reasonably
pleasing appearance: small, pale, black-haired, with sharp cheekbones and narrow eyes. He was considerably older than Suzuki, therefore experienced in the ways of the world; a good thing. He was also, being American, wealthy, while their own poverty was showing ever-sharper teeth. He was made welcome.

‘Your daughter will have a traditional wedding,’ Cho-Cho reassured Suzuki’s parents. ‘Sharpless-san would want that.’ Faced with this unexpectedly forceful young woman, the parents, to their own surprise, allowed her to take charge of arrangements.

Cho-Cho ticked off items on her list: comb, sandals, sash . . . she recalled that once before, long ago, she had rehearsed these details, but this time the paraphernalia would be real, not the furnishings of a hopeless dream. The bridegroom would provide.

She concentrated on each item: Suzuki’s wedding kimono would be of heavy silk,
shiromuku
, the whiteness denoting purity. The white headdress would be placed over a gleaming ceremonial wig. She assembled the little purse, the mirror, the fan and the
kaiken
– there was a momentary faltering when she came to the traditional bridal knife in its silken sheath. She touched her throat, paused. She sensed Suzuki watching her with an anguish that was not wholly concealed.

She wanted to reassure her old servant and friend but troublesome emotions were better left unexpressed. And besides – a fingertip to her throat – she suspected she would be unable to speak the words.

The Shinto ceremony moved at the traditional, stately pace with an exchange of rings and nuptial cups. The priest led the service, the bridal couple recited oaths of obedience and faith and at the sanctuary they offered twigs of the sacred Sakaki tree. Henry wore the appropriate kimono, the
haori-hakama
and – unusually for him – looked cheerful. Cho-Cho saw with
surprise that his features had acquired a nobility, even if only temporarily.

And she saw, too, that happiness really did lend beauty to the plainest face. Suzuki’s eyes shone and her skin glowed in the reflected light of the pearls she wore – her husband’s wedding gift.

When Suzuki had her first child, a difficult birth that left her weak and exhausted, Henry was apprehensive not only for his wife’s welfare, but for Cho-Cho’s state of mind: how would she respond to the new arrival? As always, she surprised him, briskly offering help.

‘The restaurant is running itself; I don’t always have to be there.’

This time it was her turn to care for a fragile woman, coax her to eat, to return to life. Once, her servant had helped her to live; now their roles were reversed.

She knelt beside Suzuki, bowl and spoon in hand. ‘Remember the bird? How hungrily he gobbled up your rice?’ She rested the spoon gently against Suzuki’s lips, ‘The way he peck-peck-pecked at the seeds?’ A little
natto
in miso soup found its way into Suzuki’s mouth. ‘And then – shitting all over the doorstep!’ Surprised by the bold language, Suzuki opened her mouth, involuntarily took in more soup, joined Cho-Cho in nostalgic laughter. The corner was turned.

The second birth was easier. The third, routine. Cho-Cho became as skilled as Suzuki herself in caring for the infants. As the two women together fed and cleaned the young ones, working with the familiar harmony of a team, Cho-Cho remarked that she was enjoying the advantages of motherhood without the pain of responsibility. ‘I shall watch them grow, worry over them as you do, but without the fear that I should have done things differently.’ She added, with a note of determination, ‘I shall love them.’ Silently, she vowed that
she would also teach the girls about life and how to deal with it.

Nagasaki was burgeoning: silk was in demand and the Mitsubishi steelworks had expanded, was modernising. Western visitors multiplied: businessmen, buyers, importers, exporters, arrived and found their way from dock to town, factory floor to boardroom.

The wives had different needs. With a diplomatic nudge or two from Henry, Cho-Cho was invited to give professional guidance. A successful restaurant owner, she could be accepted socially, her past conveniently forgotten; the world was changing, modern ways were superseding tradition, at least on the surface.

Here was someone these men of the world could trust to escort the ladies from the safety of their hotel, to show them where to acquire the most delicate fabric, the finest lacquer bowl. Someone to show them the local tourist sights – the Glover Garden, for example.

She led them round the curving paths, past the glowing flower beds, then paused at a small statue:

‘Mr Glover’s wife.’

Whispers among the ladies, expressing astonishment. They stared at the statue, glancing surreptitiously at the living woman who was their guide – Mr Glover had married a Japanese woman! Cho-Cho’s expression remained impassive.

‘And now we will visit a craftsman who does very fine
cloisonné
work, silver and gold.’

She thanked Henry for the introduction. ‘It was kind of you.’

He shook his head. ‘I was simply being devious – in the Western, not the Japanese way.’

She looked puzzled.

‘It’s a way of altering your perception of me. So that you will perhaps not hate me.’

‘I don’t hate you, Sharpless-san. You are a part of life’s pattern, and I have learned to accept my part in it.’

‘I had hoped I was a friend.’

She smiled and offered no contradiction.

It was then that he suggested, diffidently, that she might address him by his Christian name.

She tried it out, cautiously: ‘Henn-u-lee.’ She frowned. ‘Not an easy name to say.’ She gave a nod. ‘But I will persevere.’

Later, Henry reflected on the law of unintended consequences: if he had not given Cho-Cho the parcel . . . if she had not read the contents . . . but he had and she did and a shift occurred.

She took the neatly wrapped parcel with a bow of thanks.

‘Just some journals, and a book you might find of interest,’ Henry murmured.

She turned a few pages. ‘Ah: the outside world! To take my mind off my empty life?’

She was mocking him, but she accepted the gift, and the next time Henry saw her, the outside world had elbowed its way into her secluded existence.

She greeted him, eager with questions:

‘Have you heard of someone called Ichikawa Fusae?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why have you never told me about her, about what has been happening?’

‘My apologies. I didn’t realise you were interested in the Women’s Suffrage League.’

‘I am a woman.’ A sad shake of the head. ‘Do you know what that means? What it
really
means?’

Henry felt a sense of unease. ‘Those women are courageous, but possibly foolhardy.’ Unspoken: their actions could prove dangerous – for themselves and for anyone else involved. ‘An inexperienced swimmer should approach the ocean with care. Turbulent waves, strong currents—’

She broke in. ‘Do you recall that day you brought Pinkerton
to the house? You were there to witness the transfer of an object, a commodity from one man to another. Women had no voice, we
have
no voice. Now, I am reading about a woman – about women – who are trying to do something about that.

‘I feel shame, that until Suzuki went into the factory I knew nothing about the horrible conditions, the hours they work, the crowded dormitories. Those women are prisoners.

‘If they are not workers, they are prisoners in their homes, as they always have been. Do you know why women are not allowed to vote? Because that is the way it has always been.’ Her voice was bitter. ‘Tradition!’

She picked up a newspaper and held it open like a precious scroll. ‘Thank you for sending me this.’ She read aloud: ‘. . . “We maltreat and insult our women to a graver extent than any other country on the globe.” At least here’s one man who has the courage to speak the truth.’

It was the beginning of Cho-Cho’s acquaintance with ‘those women’, as Henry continued to call the campaigners. When they won the right to attend political meetings, Cho-Cho hovered across the street, outside the lecture hall. The following week she slipped in timidly at the last minute. The next time she was bolder.

Henry, increasingly anxious, noted the change.

‘We have a voice!’ She was excited. ‘Women are being heard!’

Usually Henry responded humorously, with the reactions expected of him, grumbling about the rising power of ‘those women’, but today he was subdued. She noticed immediately.

‘What is it? Do you have bad news from America?’

She had been following events since the Wall Street crash, though when Mary sent him gloomy letters he had softened the family situation somewhat.

‘Yes.’

‘Is it about
Sachio
?’

‘No.’ He paused. ‘Well, in a way . . . No, no, it’s not about
Joey.’ He sounded reassuring, though his expression remained grim. ‘It’s about Pinkerton.’

He had never been entirely certain how Cho-Cho now felt about Ben Pinkerton. She maintained a coolness, a distance, if his name entered the conversation, restricting herself to questions about the child. But, as he well knew, that was the Japanese way. Now her composure was to be tested.

‘He went on a march, with some war veterans – homeless ex-servicemen.’

She waited.

‘It was to make a protest. Like your women.’

She waited.

‘They gathered in Washington and the President brought in the army to clear them out.’ There was no easy way to say this.

‘He’s dead.’

So total was her lack of reaction that for a moment he thought she had not heard.

Then she asked, ‘How? How did he die?’

‘He drowned. In the river.’

‘But that’s
impossible
! He loved to swim, he used to go down to the sea and swim for hours, far out from shore, diving like a dolphin, he would float on his back and wave, his arms gleamed in the sun when he waved –’ She stopped, lips pressed together.

‘What happened?’

Henry said, ‘The soldiers were driving them off their campsite. I think he was struck on the head by a rifle. He fell into the river . . .’

She seemed to shrink, crumpling into herself. She said, ‘Please go now.’

He turned at once to leave. As he reached the door he glanced back and saw her collapse slowly on to the ground, bent over, forehead resting on the floor, and he blundered from the room, recalling the last time he had seen her destroyed.
As he left he caught the trace of a sound, a low moaning, a lament of inconsolable sorrow.

After Henry had gone she remained in the room without moving. All sensation seemed to have drained from her body and only her mind was alive. How long had she been here, lying, crumpled, breathing the grassy smell of the tatami mat? She became aware that the woven strands had pressed deeply into her cheek. The sun had dipped below the hillside. She sat up, smoothed her hair. She allowed herself very tentatively, as though touching a wounded place, to examine how she felt, and she realised that she was facing her real farewell to Pinkerton. Since she had returned to painful life in the hospital bed she had dwelt often on that last sight of him leaving the house with the American woman; she had begun to nurse the secret fantasy that one day he would reappear, holding Sachio’s hand, and that happiness would return.

She knew now that it could never be.

She forced herself to explore the area of pain; to think of him as he was: beautiful, golden, lazy. In the bath, his body contained by the watery tank like some pale creature from the deep, he wallowed, submerging himself, then surfacing, shaking water from the wet-darkened curls. His growing tenderness – with time he learned to undress her more gently, she learned how to respond. Small moments of sweetness – ‘Here you go, Mrs Butterfly, surprise for you,’ – Portuguese castella cakes from the market, a piece of fine silk, the
cloisonné
bracelet she had not worn since he left her . . . at those moments she had permitted herself to dream, to believe that one day he would return.

Now he had really left her, sinking, choking, lungs filled with green slime, and she too was choking, throat clotted with tears, lungs heaving, and though she knew that one day life would return to her limbs, she would walk and talk quite normally, still she sensed a withering. A part of her had died.

*

Some time later, when she could safely speak his name, she talked to Henry about Pinkerton, and wondered which of them could say they knew him, ‘What was he like, really?’ And Henry debated what to say: could he tell her Pinkerton was a selfish bastard without a sensitive bone in his body – but what did he know, in fact, about the man who died that night, fished out of the Anacostia river, his body laid on the earth alongside an ex-serviceman shot by a trigger-happy trooper?