Butterfly's Child Read online

  Also by Angela Davis-Gardner

  Plum Wine

  Felice

  Forms of Shelter

  This is a work of historical fiction. Apart from the well-known actual people, events, and locales that figure in the narrative, all names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to current events or locales, or to living persons, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2011 by Angela Davis-Gardner

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Dial Press, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  DIAL and COLOPHON are registered trademarks of the Random House Publishing Group

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Davis-Gardner, Angela.

  Butterfly’s child: a novel / Angela Davis-Gardner.

  p. cm.

  eISBN: 978-0-679-60458-7

  1. Illegitimate children—Fiction. 2. Illinois—Fiction. 3. San Francisco

  (Calif.)—Fiction. 4. Japan—Fiction. 5. Identity (Psychology)—Fiction.

  6. Psychological fiction. I. Puccini, Giacomo, 1858–1924. Madama

  Butterfly. II. Title.

  PS3554.A9384B88 2011

  813′.6—dc22 2010005562

  www.dialpress.com

  v3.1

  For Evangeline McLennan Davis

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Overture

  Part One

  Part Two

  Interlude

  Part Three

  Finale

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  ACT I. On a hill in Nagasaki, Japan, U.S. Navy Lieutenant B. F. Pinkerton inspects the house he has leased from a marriage broker, Goro. Goro has arranged a wedding between Pinkerton and Cio-Cio-san, known as Madama Butterfly. When the American consul, Sharpless, arrives, Pinkerton describes his carefree life; he is a sailor roaming the world in search of pleasure. At the moment, he is enchanted with Cio-Cio-san, but his 999-year marriage contract contains a monthly renewal option. When Sharpless warns that the girl may not take her vows so lightly, Pinkerton brushes aside such scruples, saying he will one day marry a “real” American wife. Cio-Cio-san is heard in the distance, joyously singing of her wedding. As she enters, surrounded by friends, she tells Pinkerton that when her family fell on hard times she had to earn her living as a geisha. Her relatives bustle in, noisily expressing their opinions on the marriage. In a quiet moment, Cio-Cio-san shows her bridegroom her few earthly treasures and tells him of her intention to embrace his Christian faith. The imperial commissioner performs the wedding ceremony, and the guests toast the couple. The celebration is interrupted by Cio-Cio-san’s uncle, a Buddhist priest, who curses the girl for having renounced her ancestors’ religion. Pinkerton angrily sends the guests away. Alone with Cio-Cio-san in the moonlit garden, he dries her tears, and she joins him in singing of their love.

  ACT II. Three years later, Cio-Cio-san waits for Pinkerton’s return. As her maid, Suzuki, prays to her gods for aid, Cio-Cio-san stands by the doorway with her eyes fixed on the harbor. When Suzuki shows her mistress how little money is left, Cio-Cio-san urges her to have faith: One fine day Pinkerton’s ship will appear on the horizon. Sharpless brings a letter from the lieutenant, but before he can read it to Cio-Cio-san, Goro comes with a suitor, the wealthy Prince Yamadori. Cio-Cio-san dismisses Yamadori, certain that her American husband has not deserted her. When they are alone, Sharpless again starts to read the letter and suggests that Pinkerton may not return. Cio-Cio-san proudly introduces her blond, blue-eyed child; as soon as Pinkerton knows he has a son, she tells Sharpless, he will surely return to her. If not, she would rather die than return to her life as a geisha. Moved by her devotion, Sharpless leaves without having revealed the full contents of the letter. Cio-Cio-san hears a cannon report; seizing a spyglass, she discovers Pinkerton’s ship entering the harbor. Now delirious with joy, she orders Suzuki to help her fill the house with flowers. As night falls, Cio-Cio-san, Suzuki, and the child begin their vigil.

  ACT III. As dawn breaks, Suzuki insists that Cio-Cio-san rest. Humming a lullaby to her child, Cio-Cio-san carries him to another room. Sharpless enters with Pinkerton, followed by Kate, Pinkerton’s new wife. When Suzuki realizes who the American woman is, she collapses in despair but agrees to aid in breaking the news to her mistress. Pinkerton, seized with remorse, bids an anguished farewell to the scene of his former happiness, then rushes away. When Cio-Cio-san comes forth expecting to find him, she finds Kate instead. Guessing the truth, the shattered Cio-Cio-san agrees to give up her child if his father will return for him. Then, sending even Suzuki away, she takes out the sword with which her father committed suicide and bows before a statue of Buddha, choosing to die with honor rather than live in disgrace. Suzuki pushes the child into the room. Sobbing farewell, Cio-Cio-san sends him into the garden to play, then stabs herself. As she dies, Pinkerton is heard calling her name.

  (Adapted by permission from the Metropolitan Opera’s Opera News.)

  Sharpless:

  What lovely fair hair!

  Dear child, what is your name?

  Butterfly to her child:

  Answer: Today my name is Sorrow.

  But when you write to my father, tell him

  that the day he returns,

  Joy, Joy shall be my name!

  It is spring in Nagasaki, and the strands of silk she has set out for the mating birds are gone from the maple tree in the garden, and the mother birds are nestled in silk, but still he has not come. Lieutenant Pinkerton had promised to return to his Cio-Cio-san, his Butterfly, when the uguisu warblers nest. He is late, but he will come. His ship has been delayed—perhaps a storm at sea—but soon she will see him at the entrance to their house, his Navy satchel over his shoulder, his pale blue eyes watering a little, and when he embraces her, his mustache will prickle her mouth and he will smell of sweat and salt.

  But last spring he did not come, nor the three previous springs, Suzuki-chan reminds her. Why does madame believe he will keep his word this year? Suzuki makes a sour face as she flaps at the tatami with her cloth.

  Because he is a man of honor, she replies, and several times each year he has sent money through Sharpless, so he knows she is waiting. And she and the fox god have a strong premonition that this will be the year.

  He will come because he must come. The packets of money are not enough; there are still large debts at the geisha house to be paid, as her geisha mother has lately reminded her. If she is forced to return to the geisha way, Benji will be taken from her and will be an orphan wandering the streets of the pleasure district, destined to become a servant, or worse. So Pinkerton will return this year. Her skin is alive with the knowledge of it. She and Benji will be saved.

  She is not surprised, then, that on a warm May afternoon when the hydrangeas are in bloom all over the hills and fragrant roses spill over the gates of houses, Sharpless arrives with his news.

  He is a tall thin gaijin with a neck like a crane’s, and sometimes he stutters when he speaks; it amuses her to think that he is a diplomat at the American consulate, such a nervous man, but he is her friend and confidant, and her connection to Pinkerton.

  He gives her the envelope of money, an odd expression on his face, not quite a smile. There is something more; she catches her breath.

  “I have had a letter,” he says.

  “From Pinkerton-san.”

  “Yes.”

 
“He is coming.”

  Sharpless nods.

  “Soon?”

  “Yes. However …”

  She spins around the room, embraces Benji and Suzuki, and kisses Sharpless on the cheek, making him blush. Then, taking Benji and Suzuki with her, she runs to the shrine to give thanks to all the gods.

  Now she is preparing, singing as she cleans the Western-style room where Pinkerton smoked his pipe and studied his Navy papers. She drags the lumpish chairs outside to beat them with bamboo swatters, dust and white hair from Pinkerton’s cat flying. She freshens her summer kimonos by draping them over the shrubs as an American woman might do—this will bring her luck, she thinks; the pale yellow and lavender kimonos rise and fall in the air like butterflies. Benji has been practicing his English sentences. “Welcome home to Papa-san,” she coaches him, holding up the photograph of Pinkerton for him to address, and “Benji is one smart boy.” Benji resembles his father physically, with his American nose and blond hair, though his hair—the color of butter—is darker than Pinkerton’s. Otherwise he looks Japanese; he has her eyes. Pinkerton will be not only surprised but deeply pleased to see such a son and will want to provide for him. She is certain of this in spite of Suzuki’s pessimism.

  When Pinkerton had asked to be her danna, she’d said yes without hesitation, for he seemed steady, a man who could bring her a new ease. As she made her farewell at the okiya, she did not put red beans of uncertainty into the rice presented to her geisha mother.

  Benji was born nine months after Pinkerton’s departure, and these have been the happiest years of her life. In her time at the geisha house in Maruyama, she could not have dreamed of being able to care for a child of her own. There was sensual pleasure in nursing and bathing Benji when he was a baby, and in smelling his sweet feathery hair and playing with his toes. She carried him everywhere, but now he is big enough that he can walk with her and hold a parcel or two when she goes to market like a housewife. They stroll along the bay to look at the ships and the changing shades of sky and water. He knows all the colors in Japanese and English, and he asks astonishing questions: How far does the water go? What makes the waves? Where is America? She knows he is a prodigy, even though Suzuki laughs at her for saying so. When Pinkerton returns, he will marry her and give up the Navy to become a Nagasaki businessman, as he had said he would like to do, and they will raise Benji to be an educated man, perhaps a scientist or doctor. She will never again have to dress for geisha parties with vulgar men who made her tie the cherry stem with her tongue, then giggled like schoolgirls when they boldly took the cherry from her lips with their own. So when Pinkerton arrives, she will please him in every way, and she will wear his favorite kimono, black with a river of butterflies.

  One morning, a thunderstorm rolled in from the bay—ink-black clouds, lightning, a heavy downpour—but then there was a sudden clearing: a brilliant blue sky, sun shining through light needles of rain. Fox wedding weather, auspicious weather. She sent Suzuki to the harbor for news, and an hour later, when she heard Suzuki’s geta clattering toward the gate, she knew.

  “He has come!” she cried, when Suzuki entered the room.

  “Yes, madame.” Suzuki gave a deep bow.

  “You see?” She embraced Benji, who was sitting beside her, playing with the new string ball she had made him.

  “But, madame.” Suzuki came closer; her face was grave. “I am sorry to tell you that Pinkerton has come with a wife—an American wife.”

  She stared at Suzuki’s plain face, her wrinkled eyelids. “Then it is not Pinkerton.”

  “I have seen them myself, entering a hotel. The owner said Mr. and Mrs. Pinkerton had registered and could not be disturbed.”

  “She must be his mother.”

  Suzuki shook her head. “She is too young. A young woman with yellow hair, fresh like a lemon.”

  “His sister,” she said.

  “I’m sorry, madame, but I have made several inquiries. There is no doubt. She is his wife.” Suzuki nodded once, twice, for emphasis.

  For a moment the air went black before her eyes.

  “Mama?” Benji leaned against her. “Is Papa-san coming?”

  She turned to him, taking his rosy, innocent face in her hands. “Yes, Papa-san is coming.”

  She jumped up. “Stay here,” she told Benji. “Be a good boy. You will see Papa-san before long.” In the kitchen, she packed some fried tofu, then hurried outdoors. The rain had ended. Pinkerton’s white cat crouched below the maple tree, staring up at a nest of young wrens, his tail swishing. Bad-luck cat. She threw a pebble at him and he streaked from the yard.

  She went down the hill and up another, to the pleasure district of Maruyama, passing small shops and teahouses crowded with people. A geisha she knew well, Mayumi-san, who’d had to give up her son last year, waved at her from a balcony. At first Mayumi-san had tried to disguise him as a girl, saying there would someday be a new geisha in the house. Now people said Mayumi-san was crazy.

  She looked down at the street, studying the cracks in the flagstones. Some fortunate few geisha sons were adopted by wealthy parents, but this would not be the fate of a mixed-race child with yellow hair.

  The plum trees around the borders of the shrine were wet, their oval leaves glistening with rain. She pulled down a branch; the fruit was still green, but she plucked two plums and took them to the stone vat of sacred plum seeds, where she made a prayer. Slowly she approached the stone fox, placed the tofu on the ground before him and bowed, then gazed at his mysterious eyes, his wise smile. “Help me, Inari-san.” A breeze rustled through the leaves above them, sprinkling her with drops of rain. She closed her eyes. If she were very clever, Inari-san said, she could find a way.

  As she walked out of the shrine and down the hill, a plan began to take shape in her mind. She stopped at Taiko’s carpentry shop and called to him from the entrance. Once a houseboy for Americans, Taiko-san not only spoke but wrote English. Many geisha and courtesans came to him when they needed love letters for their foreigners.

  He soon appeared, greeting her with a lively smile. “Ah, you have been away too long,” he said. “Please take some tea.” He was a winsome man of middle age, his hair still black; he had always favored her.

  She explained that she needed assistance quickly, a brief note.

  “Hai, hai.” He disappeared into the dark recess of his shop and returned with paper, pen, and ink; they sat together on a bench.

  She dictated her words and he translated, writing in careful English script: Mr. B. F. Pinkerton: Come immediately to see your son, Benjamin Franklin Pinkerton the younger, or Benji as he is known. Sharpless-san says this knickname may sound both American and Japanese, as indeed he is by birth. That he is your son I swear by my life, my honor, and all the gods. Some few poor words of English he can speak but not many. He is very good and smart and can count to 100. He likes fresh fish but not salted ones. He must go to America with you now. Sincerely, Cio-Cio.

  Postscript: Take care of him always, American wife of Pinkerton.

  Taiko-san, no longer smiling, put the letter into an envelope, hesitated, and gave it to her with a deep bow. “Please be in good health,” he said. He did not meet her eyes.

  She bowed and walked back up the hill, her body heavy, as if the air were pushing her back. She must be resolute.

  She found Suzuki in the kitchen, boiling potatoes. Speaking in a low voice so Benji could not hear, she told Suzuki what they would do. Suzuki gasped and covered her mouth with her hands.

  “First show this letter to Sharpless-san and entreat him to accompany you to the hotel. Do not return until the letter is in Pinkerton’s hands.” Sharpless would make certain that Pinkerton did as she asked.

  While Suzuki was gone, she packed Benji’s trunk, the one she had brought when she came here from the geisha house with Pinkerton. The chalky odor of the interior almost made her buckle; she would never again embrace him or cook his favorite soba noodles. He would be wild with grief
at first. She could see him curled on the floor, his arms tight over his face. She took several shaky breaths. She would never see his young man’s face. But Pinkerton would give him a home, a bright future in America. Her son would not live in the back alleys of Maruyama, picking through garbage, his face streaked with dirt. She could not falter. For Benji’s sake, she must summon all her courage.

  Suzuki entered the room and knelt beside her.

  “The letter has been delivered to them privately at their hotel. At first Pinkerton cannot believe the boy is his, though Sharpless-san assured him this is so.”

  “He will believe when he sees him. The wife?”

  “She is shocked. But she has a soft face.”

  “Good. Help me prepare.”

  In the room where she kept her kimonos, she knelt before the small round mirror to apply the makeup. She would look exactly as she had that first day when she struck his heart. She rubbed wax into her skin, then, her brush trembling, applied thick white paint over her face, covering her lips and eyebrows, leaving a subtle line of natural skin just below the hairline. Using fresh brushes, she painted the lids of her eyes a delicate pink and feathered on brown eyebrows. Bright red for the mouth. The mask gazed back at her from the mirror, her Cio-Cio face.

  Suzuki painted the white makeup on the back of her neck, leaving the serpent’s forked tongue of unpainted skin below the hair. Her hair was thick but for the bald spot on the crown that was caused by the tight hairstyle of her maiko days, when she was training to be a geisha. Suzuki arranged the hair on the top of her head in hills and valleys, using a swatch of yak hair at the top.

  Just as she had done in the geisha house, Suzuki helped her dress: a gauzy red petticoat, a white cotton blouse with a red collar and long red sleeves, and a floor-length petticoat of white. Then the kimono, an explosion of colorful butterflies down the front, swirling around the hem and up toward her shoulder as if in flight.