They climbed another hill to a quiet, elegant street lined with two-story dark-wood buildings. “Your gee-sha,” Oliver said, with a wave of his hand. Benji’s heart sped up. He saw no women, only men walking quietly along the street, Japanese and a few well-dressed foreigners. The doors of most buildings were closed, but a few small places—a bar, a confectioner’s—were open, light spilling onto the flagstones. Benji heard snatches of French and some language he didn’t recognize. At the end of one block was what seemed to be a restaurant, with an elaborate garden in front; from beyond the heavy closed doors, Benji could make out the muffled sounds of a woman singing and the eerie melody of a plucked instrument, perhaps a shamisen. “Let’s go in,” he said. His mother might have performed in this very place.
“Too rich for the likes of us,” Oliver said. “Come on.”
They turned left, walked through a maze of streets, paused in a bar to fortify themselves, and Oliver led them to what he called the best house in town.
It was a long, low building where young women knelt in cubicles open to the street; in each, an older woman beckoned and called out to passing men. Benji glanced down the row of women in their bright kimonos and garish mouths, some sitting with their heads bowed, some staring straight ahead, expressionless.
It looked like one of the pictures Miss Cross had shown that night. Maybe she had brought her camera here. He thought of the hall in Stockton, the boos for the suffragist, his photograph. It had done him no good to show her the picture. He felt a twist of guilt. But it had probably all blown over by now, the incident forgotten.
“I fancy that one.” Alex pointed to a small woman—a girl, really; she looked no more than fourteen—in a red kimono.
Oliver and Henry both made choices, and the three stepped up to the cubicles.
“What about you?” Oliver called to Benji. “Don’t you like girls?”
Benji turned away from them, heading in the direction of the geisha quarters. Shameless, all three, even Alex; he should have known better than to come with them. The crowds were larger now, and he didn’t recognize any of the shops or streets. He went faster, moving through alleys that smelled of urine and rotten vegetables. He slipped on something, almost fell. Someone laughed: a boy sitting alone on a curb. Please take me to the geisha quarter, Benji tried to say in Japanese, then “Geisha-san,” in English, holding out a coin. The boy snatched the coin, hitched up his pants, and started trotting down the street. He was skinny, his legs like sticks, but he moved so quickly that Benji could hardly keep up. Nothing looked familiar as they ran past back entrances, barrels of garbage. Two drunk workmen were slapping each other on the back, laughing. Maybe the boy hadn’t understood, or maybe he was misleading him deliberately, for more money. But they jogged into a quieter area, passing a tearoom, a kimono store closed for the night, then burst onto the wide main street. “Geisha-sans,” the boy crowed, pointing at a restaurant. Benji gave him another coin.
It was the same restaurant they’d passed before. One door was open; he had a glimpse of golden tatami, just as he’d seen in photographs. Several women were singing now, their voices high-pitched and urgent. There was a burst of raucous male laughter, then a woman’s voice alone, half talking, half singing, ending in a squeal. More laughter, then a drum along with the shamisen.
He moved closer, bending to peer in. Nothing but more tatami.
When a man appeared at the door, Benji took out his wallet and removed some money. The man slapped it. “Ie, ie,” he said, with a shooing motion.
Benji backed away, his face burning. A gauche American, no better than Oliver. He took off down the hill, running hard.
He passed a woman gliding along the street: a gleaming kimono, elaborate hair, the profile of a face, painted white. A geisha. He slowed, holding his breath. He wanted to speak, to take her arm, but of course it was impossible, so he went on, his heart pounding. When he turned at the bottom of the hill and looked back, he could make out nothing but a white mask floating on the darkness.
In the morning at breakfast, Benji found a response to his advertisement: Dear Sir, I am Tsuji, owner of Japan Shop. Speak English. You come soon to me in Funadaiku-machi.
With directions from the missionary’s wife, he started once more down Hollander Slope. When he found the area of shops, he turned left and soon was there, walking between long rows of stores that flew American as well as Japanese flags from the eaves. Although it was early, there were a few tourists in jinrickshas, peering in through the open doors of the shops at kimono, woodblock prints, Noh masks, jewelry. There were signs in Japanese and a few in English: PHEASANT SKIN OF POREAT; OLD JAPANESE SWORD AND GUARD AND KNIFE HANDLE; YOUR FINE BUTTON SHOP; and, at the end of the block, THE JAPAN SHOP. Attached to the roofline was a huge sign: SOUVENIR OF ALL KIND.
Inside, two American sailors were buying cigarettes from a gray-haired man in kimono. Benji looked around at the trays of postcards set out on counters, tortoiseshell necklaces—Mr. Matsumoto would like those—silver cigarette cases engraved with scenes of Nagasaki Bay. In a bamboo birdcage, a pair of twig-colored birds chirped and hopped back and forth between perches.
The sailors left and Benji introduced himself, using phrases of English and Japanese to show he was bilingual. The man bowed solemnly and said in English, “I am Tsuji, owner of Japan Shop.” Then, without a pause, he asked, “You have seasick?”
“No,” Benji said, startled. “I’m fine now.”
“Good. You start now? New ship is in harbor.”
Birdcage in hand, Mr. Tsuji led the way to an alley where he had a cart full of his wares. He wedged the birdcage between two small chests and they started out, pulling the cart up the long hill Benji had just descended. He wanted to ask about the wage and the duties, but it was all he could do to keep pace with Mr. Tsuji. They clattered down the long flights of stone steps that led to the wharf, and Mr. Tsuji pointed toward a ship anchored offshore. “Arrival today,” he said. Without further explanation, he loaded two nets of his wares into a small, wobbly boat, gave Benji the birds to put between his feet, and they paddled out toward the ship.
Already some tourists were being ferried to shore in similar boats, Americans by the look of them, mostly men, but a few with their wives, including one stern-looking couple Benji imagined might be more missionaries. Tsuji snatched the birdcage from Benji and held it up as they steered past one of the incoming boats. “Nightingale! Best Japanese bird.” When there was no response, he held up a gleaming tortoiseshell necklace. “Every kind of thing you want—postcard, necklace, doll.” He glanced at Benji, who called out, “The Japan Shop has the finest wares in Nagasaki.” No one looked their way as the Americans were rowed past; maybe Mr. Tsuji wouldn’t hire him, if they made no sales.
Small boats were clustered all along the edge of the ocean liner, like barnacles. There were a few other boats loaded with souvenirs, but most of the small craft were empty, waiting for the remaining passengers. Near the bow of the ship were several coal-loading barges; men scurried up and down rope ladders to feed buckets of coal into the ship’s furnace. Shouldering one of the net bags, Mr. Tsuji scampered up a rope ladder dangling over the side of the ship; Benji followed, clutching the birds.
About a dozen passengers—all of them Westerners—were still lined up on deck, as uniformed men went down the row with official papers and information about hotels. Benji noticed a middle-aged woman defiantly alone, in an oversize hat; he thought again of Miss Cross.
Bowing and still holding up the tortoiseshell necklace, Tsuji went along the line hawking his wares; Benji followed, feeling foolish as he held the birds aloft. Who would buy a souvenir before visiting the town, he thought, but to his surprise there were several sales of postcards and a painting of Nagasaki Bay.
“Next time you come early, we do better,” Tsuji said as they stepped back into the wobbly boat. Apparently it was settled; he had a job.
Frank’s mother said they couldn’t stay in Plum River; the scandal
about the opera would be too hard on the children. Just yesterday, in the general store, Mrs. Cassidy and another woman whispered behind their hands when they saw her; Mary Virginia and Franklin would endure far worse.
She was right; they would have to move.
It took some time to settle his affairs. The Cases bought the land—though the bank took most of the profit, because of his loans—and Keast and Lena were to move into the farmhouse, in exchange for their taking on the twins for a time. They’d wanted to pay him, but he refused; what they were doing to help him with Elmer and Rose was of incalculable worth, and it wouldn’t do to have his father’s house fall into disrepair. A farmhouse without land would be hard to sell, as he pointed out to Keast, so they were doing him a favor in that way too.
He planned to send for the twins once he established himself in the farm-machinery business and could buy a house of his own in Cicero. His sister’s house would be full to bursting as it was, with his mother taking over the only spare room, and Franklin and Mary Virginia moving in with their cousins. His sister said there was no room for him except in the shed, but it was solidly built and could be weatherproofed and heated with a stove in winter. That suited him fine: He’d be glad for the privacy, and he would be on the road for Wilkes Brothers’ Farm Equipment most of the time anyway.
They set out for Cicero at daybreak on a Monday morning in early September, Frank in the buggy that carried his mother, Franklin, and Mary Virginia; the Swede drove the cart loaded with their belongings. Frank took the long road around Plum River and Morseville and the heart of Stockton, so they could avoid the stares of busybodies.
They passed the fields he and the Swede had planted in wheat this year. Case and his threshers had already been at work there, the sheaves shining golden in the first light. The farm that his grandfather and father hacked from sod and rock. How many times had he heard that story? His father would be enraged but not surprised. Would spit on the ground. A fool and his farm are soon parted. He would never understand how Frank had tried, all the labor, some good years, some bad luck. Least of all would he understand about the opera, or moving on account of it. Darn-foolery, he’d call it.
Frank glanced back at his mother, holding Mary Virginia; she was staring straight ahead, her eyes red from crying. It was hard on her, but it was hard on him too, something no one seemed to understand.
After all, he’d been born here, in the Plum River farmhouse, and had grown up in these fields and woods. His first memories were of sitting in his father’s lap, holding the reins of the plow, and the smells of fresh-turned earth and damp corn. Eventually he’d itched to get away and never should have come back, shouldn’t have brought Kate here, not with Benji, but there had been some pleasure in these twelve years, even in the hard labor of farming. And Kate—lying with her at night, her firm breasts beneath his hand, her lovely thighs. The laughter that sometimes seized her, bringing tears to her eyes.
He’d been the one to go through Katie’s things. The sewing machine and mannequin he’d left for Lena to use for the time being; maybe someday Kate would be able to use them again. Most of her possessions he’d packed and stored in the attic, but some things he couldn’t leave behind. In his trunk were the locket engraved with their entwined initials, the silver brush and mirror set—only a simple comb was allowed at the asylum—her atomizer of lavender toilet water, her pillow, a feathered hat she’d been wearing the first time he met her, the alphabet sampler she’d made as a child, the first needlework she’d done at the farm and had hung proudly on the parlor wall: Amor Vincit Omnia. Darling Katie.
Franklin sat beside him on the front seat, silent as stone. With his upturned nose and eyelashes that were almost too long for a boy, he bore a startling resemblance to his mother. He was tough, though: Frank had seen to that.
“Want to take the reins?” Frank asked him.
Franklin shook his head.
“Gum?”
Franklin looked at him. “How will Benji find us?”
Benji. Frank stared straight ahead, took a breath to steady himself.
“I don’t think Benji will be back, son.” He put a hand on Franklin’s knee. Franklin jerked away and looked the other direction, into the woods.
“I wasn’t the one to go flouting a photograph,” Frank said.
“Frank,” his mother said.
“Well, I wasn’t.” His ears went hot. And he hadn’t been the one to go sending dirty laundry to some opera writer in Italy. He had written to the man—Puccini was his name, in Milan; Lena had found the address—but hadn’t received an answer to his request for an explanation about the theft of his life.
In his new work he would be Tom Pinkerton—that’s how he’d introduced himself at Wilkes Brothers’ central office in Chicago. He’d have to remain Frank in Cicero, his home base, with the family there, but no one in Cicero knew an opera from an owl hoot.
Frank touched the whip to Admiral’s back and jolted him into a canter. Mary Virginia woke up and began to cry. “Shh,” his mother said. “It’s all right.”
“I want Blondie,” Mary Virginia wailed.
“There will be cats at your cousins’ house,” his mother said. “I’m sure you can have one as your own.”
“I want Blondie. I didn’t even get to tell her goodbye.”
Frank thought of the whiskey packed with his shaving things in the small suitcase. When they stopped for lunch, he could get the bottle out while rearranging things in the cart. The Swede would probably be glad of some fortification too.
“Slow down, Frank,” his mother said. “You’re jiggling us to bits, and the cart can’t keep up.”
Frank pulled Admiral to a sharp halt, leapt out of the buggy, and walked back to the cart. “Let’s change places,” he said to the Swede. The Swede shrugged and stepped down; he didn’t ask for an explanation—he never did. They set off again.
That night they stayed at a hotel in Sycamore, and after a slow start the next morning because of his mother’s dyspepsia, and two hours lost to a broken axle in the afternoon, they arrived late at his sister’s house.
“The children have gone to bed,” his sister whispered, “but we’ve saved some supper for you.” She looked disapproving, her forehead etched with wrinkles. She was a younger version of his mother: brown-haired, heavyset, though without the kind heart. His brother-in-law, Morris, in the background with his pipe, was a weak-chinned man who owned the local feed store and was active in church affairs. He wouldn’t think to offer a drop of whiskey.
Frank looked at the gleaming brass umbrella stand, a rubber plant with leaves so shiny it looked waxed. His sister’s famous housekeeping.
He declined supper, left his mother to settle the children, and went out to the shed. A lamp was burning there and the place was warm, the coal stove already installed. There was a narrow bed, a tall oak dresser, a hat rack for his hanging clothes, a braided rug. No desk, as he’d expressly requested for his work. Probably thought he wouldn’t reimburse them. Tomorrow he’d buy a grand desk with plenty of drawers. He was going to be a success—a natural salesman, they’d said in Chicago—and he knew the ropes, with his experience; he’d introduce labor-saving equipment to farmers all over Illinois. A big rolltop desk. He’d put it by the back window, facing the orchard.
He stripped off his outer clothes, got into bed, and downed the rest of his whiskey. Enough to burn his innards but not enough to knock him out.
It was just as well he’d sold the farm. Maybe that Italian had done him a favor. He was a traveling man at heart, not a farmer, and at last he’d make a decent living, enough for a pretty cottage where there would be room for all the children, his mother too if she liked.
The mattress was thin and hard. For what seemed like hours he hung at the edge of sleep, a jumble of his father’s maxims coursing through his mind—glass houses, stitch in time, small leak great ship, well done twice done, sticks and stones.
He got up, took Kate’s pillow from the trunk, and la
y in bed holding it, a soft goose-down pillow that still retained some of her scent. The truth is, Katie, he told her, I’d have lost the farm eventually.
He woke to the noise of stones pounding the roof, but when he looked out the window saw only a windfall of apples dropping from the trees.
Benji’s salary included living quarters above the Japan Shop, in a small apartment shared with Mr. and Mrs. Tsuji; he occupied their son Haruki’s former room. Haruki, a tall, thin, bespectacled man who was a houseboy for an American missionary couple in the Oura district overlooking Nagasaki Bay, came for dinner the first Sunday.
“My parents are curious about your background,” he said in English, as he sat down at the table. “I have offered to translate.”
Benji thanked him but said he would like to try to manage in Japanese, since this was now his home. Haruki looked disappointed. “Ah,” he said. “I understand.”
For dinner, Mrs. Tsuji served champon, a thick Chinese soup that was a specialty of Nagasaki, she said. When Benji pulled a tentacled sea creature from the soup and quickly nestled it beneath the noodles, Haruki laughed. “Ika,” he said. “Squid.” Benji described his first encounters with American food, the peas he’d chased with a fork, the slabs of beef.
Mr. Tsuji asked about his history in America. Benji told them about growing up on the farm, the long return journey to Japan to find his mother’s family. “And has your mother died?” Mrs. Tsuji wanted to know. They all looked so interested that he poured out the story: his geisha mother and American father, Frank’s desertion and return with an American wife, his mother’s suicide.
Mrs. Tsuji gasped and covered her mouth. The men stared at him.
“I have heard of something like this,” Haruki said.
“When? From whom?”
“I overheard some foreigners chattering about it at my former employer’s house, a few years ago.”
“What did they say?”
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