Butterfly's Child

by Angela Davis-Gardner

  This was no letter to send to a girl. He crumpled the page, stuffed it in his pocket, and began again. Dear Flora, How are you? How is school? I hope you are very well, and your family too.

  I have had many adventures. Maybe someday I can tell you about them, though it would be better if I could see you. I don’t know when, though.

  I am on a train just like the one shown above, on the way to San Francisco. The train is going too fast for me to write straight, so I hope you don’t think I’m drunk. He erased drunk and substituted don’t think I’ve forgotten Miss Ladu’s—Mrs. Keast’s, rather!—penmanship lessons.

  So I’d better say good-bye for now. I will write to you again, though. Say hello to the plum trees for me. Your friend, Benji.

  P.S.—How is your little gray kitten? Maybe a cat by now.

  He put the letter in an envelope and wrote decisively, To Miss Flora Rosser, Plum River, Illinois, then laid his hand on the envelope. Her fingers would touch where his had been. Maybe she would think of that, though probably not.

  Mrs. Weber had packed food for the journey—corned beef sandwiches, hard-boiled eggs, corn bread, coconut cake. While he was eating, the man across from him woke with a snort, rubbed his small, bloodshot eyes, then stared at Benji as if he were the continuation of a dream.

  Benji smiled and introduced himself; then, since he felt a rude question coming on, he added, “I am Japanese by heritage, but I have lived in America for many years, so I am also an American.”

  “You see all kinds, riding the rails.” He was Homer Skakle, he said, a farm-equipment salesman from Omaha, on his way home after three months, but it had been worth the outlay of time and money. Farmers were lulu over the new McCormick thresher. He began eyeing Benji’s food. “I’ll give you ten cents for one of those eggs.”

  “I might be needing it,” Benji said. “It’s a long way to Denver.” Mrs. Weber had advised him to take a hotel in Denver, to get at least one good night’s sleep.

  “You can get anything you want in Omaha. Train stops there for an hour. Chicken pie, venison.”

  “I can’t buy chicken pie for ten cents.”

  Skakle reached in his coat pocket, jingled his change. “All right. I’ll give you thirty cents for the egg and some cake. Haven’t eaten since before Dubuque.”

  “Fifty,” Benji said.

  “You Japs drive a hard bargain. That’s how you beat those Russkies, I guess.”

  “Japanese,” Benji said. “Russian.” Ignoramus. He quickly repacked his food into the lunch box and moved to another car. He leaned against the seat with his eyes closed, imagining shoving a whole egg into Skakle’s mouth. It was the kind of thing he used to tell Kuro. His eyes stung, thinking of Kuro, but he’d be damned if he would cry.

  In Omaha he changed to a faster train equipped with Pullman cars. Though he could afford only coach, he walked through the train after it got under way to see the sleeping cars and the fancy parlor he’d heard about. The parlor was decorated with flowered carpets, painted ceilings, and chandeliers that swayed side to side with the movement of the train. There was a group of men at a table playing cards; their cigar smoke filled the room. One of them gave him a hard look; he turned and headed back to his seat.

  In the next car he was startled to see a Japanese man sitting alone, smoking a cigarette and gazing out the window. He was a thin, balding gentleman in expensive-looking clothes.

  Benji walked slowly past him, hoping the man would glance his way, but he continued to look out the window. There was an open book in his lap, the pages written in what must be Japanese. At the end of the car, Benji pushed open the door and stood for a few minutes on the platform between the cars, enveloped by the exciting turmoil of the train’s sounds and smells. This was no time to hang back; he hadn’t met a Japanese person except Tsuneo in all these years. Quickly, before he could change his mind, he went back into the car, stood beside the man’s seat, and said, “Excuse me, are you from Japan?”

  The man looked up at him, not speaking for a moment. “I am Japanese,” he said, “with my home in San Francisco.”

  “That’s where I’m going!” Benji said. “San Francisco, then Japan. May I talk to you?”

  The man nodded at the empty seat across from him. “Dozo,” he said.

  Benji removed his hat and sat down. His heart was hammering.

  The man handed him a card: Yasunari Matsumoto, Purveyor of Fine Tea and Silk, 1633 Dupont Street, San Francisco, California.

  “I have not seen Japanese east of Denver,” Mr. Matsumoto said. “You are not pure Japanese, of course.”

  Benji looked at his reflection in the window, his shoe-polish-blackened hair, streaked in some places he hadn’t noticed with the hat on, his eyes like his mother’s, and his nose, pickle shaped, like Frank’s. He felt a burst of anger at Frank.

  “My mother was from a samurai family,” Benji said. “She’s no longer living, but I’m going to Japan to find my relatives.”

  “Ah.” Mr. Matsumoto smiled and put aside his book, so Benji continued, telling him he’d grown up on his American father’s farm and had just left to go to San Francisco. As soon as he made his fortune, he was going to Japan.

  Mr. Matsumoto folded his hands beneath his chin. “How shall you make your fortune?” he said with a little smile.

  Benji glanced down at Mr. Matsumoto’s card.

  “I’d thought about the import/export business,” he said. “My father did some of that in Japan.”

  “But already you know farming. Many Japanese in California are successful in this. Too successful for some,” he added. “The white farmers are very angry that Japanese do so well. But you can do this also, make good profit growing strawberries, lettuce, or sugar beet.”

  Benji had decided he would never plow another row. Instead, he said, “That would take too long.”

  “You think to make fortune in one month?” Mr. Matsumoto laughed, covering his mouth.

  “No, but … I need to get to Japan as soon as possible.”

  “You must have patience. I can introduce you in California. I know many people, including Hakumi, the biggest grower of strawberries.”

  “Thank you very much,” Benji said. “I’m experienced in business too.”

  “How can this be, on a farm?”

  Benji told him about working as cashier and bookkeeper for Red Olsen.

  “Ah so? But this is difficult way to make a fortune. I think you had better work hard on a strawberry farm, then become manager and owner. That way you can make your money.”

  Benji looked down at his hands, the coat sleeves that were too long in spite of Mrs. Weber’s alterations. He felt foolish; he should go back to his seat.

  “You haven’t told me your name,” Mr. Matsumoto said.

  “I don’t know my family name yet. My first name is Tsuneo.” If he showed Mr. Matsumoto his mother’s picture, he could read the back of it for him. Then at least he would have his samurai name.

  “You are Tsuneo in farmland?”

  “No, Benjamin Pinkerton. Benji.”

  “I think you had better adopt some temporary Japanese last name. Sato, maybe. Easy for Americans to say.”

  Benji reached in his pocket to take out the picture, glanced across the aisle at the family there, the woman and one of her daughters watching them curiously.

  “I’d like to talk to you about something later,” Benji said. “In private. Maybe at the Denver station? I think the train stops there for an hour.”

  “I disembark in Denver, I’m afraid, and will be on the way to my hotel.”

  “I’m getting off there too. Could we meet?” Benji took a deep breath; he’d never been so bold as this.

  “I will be very busy, meeting with matrons interested in my silk. But …” He took a small notebook from his pocket. “Perhaps tomorrow afternoon we can meet for tea at Brown Palace Hotel. This where I stay; anyone can direct you. Shall we say four o’clock?”

  “I’ll be gone by then.”<
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  “In that case, please come visit me in San Francisco. I shall be there in a week or so.” When Benji did not move, he bowed slightly.

  “Thank you,” Benji said, imitating Mr. Matsumoto’s bow. “I will see you there.” He returned to his seat and stared out at the endless sea of prairie grass. He thought of going back with the picture, but Mr. Matsumoto had dismissed him coldly. Maybe they wouldn’t like him in Japan either, for not being pure Japanese. But he was Japanese in his heart; he would show them.

  They arrived in Denver early the next afternoon. The train jolted to a stop, shuddering and creaking. Newsboys raced up and down the platform, yelling, waving newspapers. A man reached out the window, grabbed a paper. He and the people around him began to talk loudly. One woman broke into sobs. Benji heard “San Francisco” and “earthquake.” He scrambled off the train and bought a newspaper.

  FLAMES RAGE UNCHECKED. SAN FRANCISCO HEAP OF EMBERS.

  He stared down at the headline, the drawing of the city on fire. His destination.

  San Francisco, California, April 18, 1906. An earthquake at 5:16 o’clock Wednesday morning immediately followed by fire destroyed the business portion of San Francisco and a big part of Santa Rosa.… Wild rumors have been circulated that 3,000 are dead, but we believe this will be no more than 1,000 persons, and 200 are probably Chinese.

  People were shouting, shoving past him. A woman with thin gray hair sat on a suitcase, her head in her hands.

  All the district between Market Street and the bay, including Chinatown, is in flames, he read. The beautiful Stanford University is in ruins. President Roosevelt and Congress …

  He tried to read further, but his eyes wouldn’t work. He let himself be swept along by the crowd.

  The mass of people parted ahead of him, flowing in two directions. He saw a few people clustered around a man who had fallen. “Jap,” one of them said.

  Mr. Matsumoto. Benji forced his way through the crush, using his valise as a shield. A man was bent over him, holding his wrist.

  “Is he dead?” Benji cried.

  “No, but his heart is going double time.”

  Benji squatted beside him. “Mr. Matsumoto, it’s me, Benji. From the train.”

  Mr. Matsumoto’s eyelids fluttered. He said something in Japanese.

  Benji picked him up and carried him toward the station. “Coming through,” he shouted. “Emergency, coming through.” In the station house, he shouted for a doctor.

  “No doctor,” Mr. Matsumoto said. He opened his eyes and looked at Benji. “Take me to Waraji. Wazee Street.”

  Benji found a porter—a colored man in uniform, guiding people into hansoms—and asked if he could direct them to Waraji’s on Wazee Street.

  “That’s in Hop Alley,” the porter said. “China and Jap town. Take the number-two trolley.” He pointed to a small train car, clicking along the street on rails. “Only two blocks from the last street, on Sixteenth Street.”

  “We need a hansom—this man is sick.”

  “White folks gets all the hansoms,” he said, shaking his head.

  Benji reached into his pocket for a five-dollar bill. “Please, sir?”

  The porter looked at the money, grinned, and whistled to an old colored man in a cart. “Hop Alley,” he said. “Mighty quick.”

  Benji held Mr. Matsumoto upright as they drove past the tall buildings of downtown Denver. He was startled when he looked straight ahead: the Rocky Mountains, snow-covered and wrinkled, just as they looked in the pictures, but much larger than he’d imagined. They filled the whole sky.

  They came to Wazee, a muddy street lined with small shops, cloths hanging over the doors, and larger buildings that looked like warehouses. A few men were in the street, gathered around a cart with a broken wheel.

  “Waraji,” Benji shouted to them. “Where is Waraji?”

  A man with a kerchief around his head pointed down the street, talking rapidly in what must be Japanese. He had never dreamed there were Japanese in Denver. He felt a flood of affection for the old man, now leaning against him, who had brought him here.

  They stopped in front of a plain wooden building. The driver helped Benji take Mr. Matsumoto inside. The hallway was dark, lit by a single gas lamp; at the end of the hall was a room filled with long wooden tables. Two men sat eating at one of the tables; they looked up and one shouted, “Eeh! Matsumoto-san.” He called to someone in the kitchen, and a ruddy-faced man appeared. Mr. Matsumoto took his hand. “Shin-san,” he whispered. All the men followed as Shin-san helped Mr. Matsumoto to a smaller room and laid him on a bed there.

  Tears slid down Mr. Matsumoto’s face, and he said something in a reedy voice. Benji heard “San Francisco.”

  “Wah!” the men said. One grabbed at his hair and ran out of the room.

  “Doctor for Matsumoto-san?” Benji said.

  “No doctor,” Shin-san said. “We take care of him.”

  A wet cloth was brought, and smelling salts, a blanket, some whiskey. Mr. Matsumoto opened his eyes; he must have just fainted from the shock, Benji thought.

  The men, talking nonstop in Japanese, helped Mr. Matsumoto stand and led him to the dining room, where they brought him food and more whiskey. Mr. Matsumoto continued to cry, gesturing as he talked. Shin-san translated for Benji: He was worried about his friends and thought his shop must have burned.

  “You save Matsumoto-san,” Shin-san said with a bow. “Domo arigato.”

  More people arrived and crowded onto the seats at the tables. Some looked at Benji curiously, but after Shin-san explained in Japanese, they gave deep, enthusiastic bows. He was given whiskey, some familiar-tasting soup and noodles. Soba, he remembered. His mother had made noodles like this.

  Soon he was sleepy; he wanted to put his head on the table. Their valises were at the station, he realized; he should go get them, but he couldn’t stir. Someone led him to the other room, to a bed, and put a cover over him. He fell asleep with the sound of Japanese in his ears.

  The day after the earthquake, Benji took Mr. Matsumoto to the office of The Denver Post to learn what they could about survivors. They jounced along in Shin-san’s cart, which had a listing wheel, the motion shifting them back and forth against one another. Mr. Matsumoto counted on his fingers the names they’d be looking for: Hiko Ueda, his helper, and several friends who had shops near his in Chinatown.

  “You have no wife?” Benji asked.

  “Once I had a wife, but she died of a fever. Better than to die in the fire, I think.”

  There was a rambunctious crowd outside the newspaper building—men and women of all ages elbowing for room to look at a list posted on the window. A woman in a lavender hat and veil fainted and had to be carried away. Mr. Matsumoto remained in the cart while Benji wriggled through the crush and read the names: Annie Whelan, killed while asleep in her bed, 2782 Sacramento Street; Myrtle Minze, Langdon Street, killed under caving wall; unknown white men, Front and Vallejo Streets … There were no Japanese listed.

  A man with a cigar clenched between his teeth came to post more names. “No Chinks,” he said, glancing at Benji. “Read the newspaper.”

  Benji bought a paper from a newsboy, scanned the front page, and read aloud to Mr. Matsumoto: “An eyewitness reports that the Chinamen are streaming out of Chinatown, which is in cinders. The Chinamen are not reporting their dead, nor are the Italians and Greeks.”

  “No one is asking them,” Mr. Matsumoto said. “And no one mentions the Japanese, who also live in Chinatown.”

  They picked up their suitcases at the train station, then started back to Waraji’s.

  In the distance, the white line of mountains gleamed in the light. “Too many mountains in America,” Mr. Matsumoto said, with a dismissive wave. “Mount Fuji is better, standing alone.” He closed his eyes and folded in on himself; they rode the rest of the way in silence.

  At dinner, Mr. Matsumoto made a speech to the crowd gathered in the restaurant. Benji heard his name: Shin-san told
him that Matsumoto had praised him for treating him as a son would do. Afterward, there were toasts to Mr. Matsumoto, who was leaving the next day, and to Benji.

  As they were getting ready for bed, Benji said, “Matsumoto-san, I’d like to ask you a favor.”

  “Anything,” he said, with a bow. “You have saved me.”

  Benji found the tin deep in his pants pocket and took out his picture.

  “This is my mother,” he said, kneeling beside Matsumoto’s cot.

  “Ah so.” He held it up to the light. “And your father. Now I understand your face.”

  “Could you please translate what’s written on the back?” Benji held his breath while Mr. Matsumoto took a small pair of glasses from his pocket and arranged them on his nose.

  “It says Officer … some name I cannot pronounce.”

  “Pinkerton.”

  “And Cio-Cio—this means Butterfly—June thirteenth, 1888.”

  “And her last name?”

  Mr. Matsumoto studied the picture. “I believe she was a geisha. Geisha do not have last names. These are given only to persons of upper classes in Japan. Many Japanese living in Denver have no last name.”

  “But she was from a samurai family.” He choked back tears.

  “Perhaps so. But she would erase her name, I think.”

  Benji turned off the lamp and lay staring up into the dark, his eyes burning. At least she could have left him a name. Now all he had was Tsuneo, borrowed from a stranger in a circus.

  The next morning, Benji and Shin-san took Matsumoto-san to the station. “Please come to me after some time for recovery,” he said to Benji, then gave a quick bow and hurried up the steps of the train.