Butterfly's Child

by Angela Davis-Gardner

  He started to turn left, toward Funadaiku-machi. The tourists wouldn’t be coming today, he realized—there was no real need to go to the shop—so he went to the right, up the slope toward Maruyama.

  An old man was dragging a bag of coal down the main street of the pleasure district, leaving a gray trough behind him in the snow, and a group of boys, red faced and poorly dressed—urchins, Grandmother Pinkerton would have called them—were shouting insults as they lobbed snowballs at one another. A snowball stung his ear; he turned and grinned, tempted to join the game, but he wanted to get to the shrine while he might have it to himself.

  The stone torii at the entrance and the branches of trees around the perimeter were rimmed with white. He was glad to see that the snow covering the path and garden was pristine; his were the first footprints. When he pulled the rope to make his prayer, snow fell onto his head and down the neck of his coat. He shook out the collar, put his hands together, and closed his eyes. His mind jumped about; he needed to learn some prayers in Japanese.

  He heard footsteps, barely discernible, as though the sound was part of his imagining. But then there was a woman’s voice—“Excuse me”—and he stepped aside to let her pull the rope. Irritated, he moved without glancing at her to the fox shrine at the back of the grounds, pulled the rope, and closed his eyes again. But his solitude had been disrupted. He looked at the fox, his old friend, his broken snout filled in with snow, his eyes erased by it, and brushed the snow from the top of his head.

  “Excuse me,” he heard again. He turned; the woman’s head and the lower part of her face were swathed in a blue cloth. She looked up at him mischievously. “I was hoping to see you today,” she said.

  “Oh?” She didn’t look familiar, though it was difficult to tell with her wrapped up like that.

  “I’ve seen you from the window,” she said. Her mouth moving beneath the cloth was enticing.

  “What window?”

  She turned and nodded toward the geisha house below them.

  “You’re a geisha?”

  “Do you think so?” she said, still with that flirtatious expression. “Thank you.”

  He looked at the fox to hide his confusion.

  “You like our fox,” she said. “Is he carrying prayers for you?”

  “You’re very inquisitive,” he said, adopting her tone. “But you haven’t answered my question. Are you a geisha?”

  She pulled back her scarf, revealing a prominent nose and a pointed chin. “What do you think?” she said.

  “Well … maybe so,” he said.

  She laughed. “We may as well be truthful. I am a maid who cleans the geishas’ floor. You and I are similar, Mr. Foreigner, both of us mongrels. I think your mother is a Japanese and your father a Westerner. Am I correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “There are many of us in Maruyama. But you have not been living in Japan.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Your speech confirms it. And I’ve seen you here often—a stranger, with urgent prayers.”

  “I’m praying to find information about my mother, who was a geisha.”

  “Ah?” Her face was interesting, the way its expression changed so quickly.

  “I know my mother brought me to this shrine, so I think she might have lived in the house where you work.”

  “People come to Umezono Shrine from all over Maruyama,” she said. “So this is not a good clue, I’m sorry to say.”

  The picture of his mother was beneath his heavy coat and shirt today, in the money belt to protect it from the snow; he couldn’t take it out here.

  “Could we meet tomorrow?” he said. “There’s something I’d like to show you.”

  “It is not so easy for me to leave my work. But perhaps on Saturday at this time I can meet.” She covered her face with the scarf, gave a bow, and walked quickly away.

  “Wait,” he called, “tell me your name,” and started after her, but she scurried across the snow, down the incline, and disappeared into a side door of the house.

  By Saturday, the snow had begun to melt, dripping from the tips of branches and the roofs; rivulets of water coursed down the sides of the street as he climbed the hill to Maruyama. In the main shrine, patches of moss and rocks were visible in the snow, but it was colder beside the smaller shrine, where there was still a heavy white crust on the roof. He greeted the fox—the stone icy beneath his hand—pulled the rope, and prayed that she would come. After a few minutes, he turned to look at the entrance, then at his watch. She wasn’t coming. It was pointless anyway, he told himself. She couldn’t help him, she was only a maid.

  “Good day!” he heard behind him.

  He whirled around. She was smiling, petals of snow on her scarf looking as if they’d been arranged there.

  “Where did you come from?”

  “I was behind the shrine. I like to observe you.”

  “You’re very mysterious,” he said, laughing. “Are you a fox?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I knew you were intelligent. Let’s find a congenial place for our talk.”

  She led him through the back streets of the pleasure district to a small bar, where they sat at a table and ordered warm sake. Her name was Rinn, she said, which meant independent spirit; she had chosen it for herself. Her mother was a prostitute who gave her to the geisha house when she was a baby; the nationality of her father was unknown. “He left me his curly hair,” she said, taking off her scarf. “Therefore some unkindly call me a Jew.”

  Though her hair was pulled back tightly from her head, Benji could see that it was wavy and glossy black. “I think it’s nice hair,” he said. “Very nice.” He wanted to touch it.

  She put the scarf back on.

  “No, leave it off,” he said, but she tied a firm knot beneath her chin.

  “Do you always wear it?” he asked.

  “Maybe not always. What have you brought to show me?”

  He took out the tin, carefully unwrapped the picture, swathed now in several layers of rice paper.

  “This is my mother,” he said, “and father.”

  She studied the picture. “Much as I thought,” she said.

  “You’re too young to have known her, of course,” he said. “But I was hoping perhaps you could introduce me to an older geisha who might remember her face.”

  “As a lowly maid, I cannot make an introduction. You must be a wealthy man to meet a geisha.”

  With a sigh, he put away the picture.

  “Perhaps I could take the photograph,” she said, “and show it to someone myself.”

  “Oh, no—I couldn’t part with it.”

  “You don’t trust me?” she said with a false pout.

  “I don’t know you at all,” he said, “but even if I did … Maybe you could ask your okasan if she knows of a geisha called Cio-Cio-san by her patron—she killed herself when he betrayed her.”

  “Oh.” Her face went still. She made a movement toward him.

  “I witnessed it,” he added.

  She touched his hand.

  “I was taken to a farm in America—so different from here I thought I was in the kappa world. It was …” He coughed; his throat had closed up. “All my life … But now that I’m here—” He broke off. “All I find is mystery.”

  “Ah.” She was looking at him closely; her expression was steadying.

  “I’ll do my best to help you,” she said. “There is a kind geisha at my house, Megumi-san; I will ask her advice.”

  “Thank you so much.” He felt shaky, suddenly on the edge of tears.

  “Don’t go,” he said, when she rose.

  “I must return to my slave work,” she said. “But one week from today, will you come again to the shrine? Perhaps then I can have some news for you.”

  The next week, and the next, they met at the shrine and went to a bar or restaurant. Megumi-san had not heard of such a story exactly, Rinn said, but she was willing to make discreet inquiries. “Of course, the sui
cide must have taken place not in Maruyama but elsewhere—in the house where you lived—so the geisha may not have heard of it.”

  “Wouldn’t they wonder what happened to her?”

  “Many people disappear in Maruyama,” she said.

  “Don’t you disappear,” he said.

  She blushed, her cheeks a vivid pink.

  “Will you visit me in Juzenji?” he asked.

  She ducked her head. “I will tell you at our next meeting.”

  The next week the plum trees were in bloom around the perimeter of the grounds, a miracle of delicate white blossoms in winter. He stood beside one of the trees, breathing in the subtle fragrance.

  “Do you like our trees?” she said, appearing beside him. Her head was uncovered and her face glowed in the reflected light of the flowers. “The plum tree is sacred to the geisha and others in Maruyama—the shrine is named for plum trees—Umezono. We make prayers with plum seeds—all of us, not only geisha.” She showed him a stone vat he hadn’t noticed before, filled with small dry seeds. There were thousands of seeds; he picked one up and rolled it gently between his fingers.

  “I guess my mother made prayers with these seeds,” he said, “for my father to come back.” He dropped the seed back into the vat. “A waste,” he said.

  “And as a lonely child perhaps sold to the geisha house, she would pray to see her family. I can understand her.”

  He looked at her. “Do you ever see your mother?”

  She shook her head. “She may live here in Maruyama, but I am as an orphan.”

  “You don’t look for her.”

  “She is dead to me.”

  “Because she left you,” he said, “she gave you up.”

  They stood silently looking at the flowers. “I can come to your house the next week,” she said in a low voice, almost a whisper. “Megumi-san has very kindly said she will arrange the time for me.”

  “That’s wonderful,” he said, his heart speeding up. “Please give her my thanks. I’d like to meet her someday,” he added.

  “It is impossible,” she said. “She is a geisha, as I told you.” She tied her scarf back on her head. “I wonder if you would be unhappy to know a woman who is not a geisha.”

  “I would like to know you,” he said.

  Walking home, he began to feel nervous; his invitation to Rinn had been impulsive, without considering how he could arrange it. Mrs. Fukuda was usually at home, and it would be impossible to take Rinn upstairs without her noticing. But at dinner that night, when he stammered his request to bring a female visitor, Mrs. Fukuda seemed pleased. “I will prepare refreshments for you,” she said with a smile, “and go to visit my niece.”

  Rinn arrived late; it seemed to be her habit. He could hardly speak as she came in; he gestured awkwardly toward the table and said, “Dozo.”

  “Do you like my kimono?” she said. “Do you notice the pattern of plum blossom and pine? Chosen just for you.”

  “Very nice,” he said. His hand shook as he poured the tea.

  They sat in silence drinking tea until Mrs. Fukuda’s cat jumped on the table.

  “Naughty boy!” Rinn picked up the cat and held it against her chest; it began to purr loudly.

  “He likes you too, I see,” Benji said.

  “This means you like me as well?” she said, tipping her head to one side.

  “I suppose I do,” he said.

  “I am very honored,” she said, with a little bow; was she mocking him or not?

  “Are you real?” he blurted out.

  She stared at him, then laughed. “I hope so,” she said. “Otherwise I’ve suffered a great deal for no purpose.”

  He looked at her as he poured more tea; it overflowed her cup, spilling across the table.

  She leapt up. “Megumi-san’s kimono!” she cried.

  He ran for a towel and handed it to her. “I’m so stupid, always clumsy.”

  “Don’t worry—it’s blotting out.” She dropped the towel, stepped forward, and kissed him.

  “Ah—Rinn-san.” He put his arms around her: They stood kissing, with the cat twining around their legs, then he led her upstairs.

  “This is my room,” he said. He glanced toward the closet where the futon was stored. He couldn’t think how to proceed.

  “I’d better take off this damp kimono. Aren’t your clothes quite damp?”

  “Oh, yes, quite damp.”

  He undressed and watched her remove layer after layer, then she stood looking at him, her skin luminous in the light of late afternoon.

  “You’re beautiful,” he said.

  “No man has ever said so before. I think you must be wrong.”

  “You’ve known the wrong men,” he said, kissing her. He fumbled with her hairpins and she stepped back to remove them, letting her hair fall. Long and wavy, it reached her waist. He embraced her from behind, to bury his face in her hair, then together they took out the futon.

  Each week that winter and spring she came to the house late on Saturday afternoon; their times together lengthened, as they lay talking into the night. Benji told her about his spasms of anger at his mother for leaving him. He felt guilty, he said, because she must have been in great pain.

  “I understand you,” she said. “You can never know what were your mother’s thoughts—perhaps she felt she had no choice. I think this was true for my mother, though sometimes I feel great anger, as if I am a piece of trash she has discarded. But how can she make her living with children to care for, and how can she perform her job without the risk of children? So she must give them away. At least she found a good geisha house for us, instead of a brothel.”

  Megumi-san was her sister, Rinn said. Both of them had been sold to the geisha house in hopes that each would become a geisha, but in addition to her unconventional appearance, which soon revealed itself, the okasan said that Rinn was too impudent to be trained as a geisha. “Am I too impudent for you?” she said, turning toward him with a smile.

  “If you weren’t impudent, I’d never have met you.”

  “I think you’re very brave,” she said. “I knew your temperament, from watching you. Therefore I made myself brave to meet you.”

  They lay looking at each other.

  “Together we will find your mother,” she said.

  “Even if I never find her,” he said, “I have found you.”

  Frank came to visit. He looked older, the lines so deep in his forehead they might have been made with a knife. They sat in the curdled light of the parlor, with its smell of dusty lace curtains, he clasping and unclasping his hands. The house was fine, he said, the children were well. He did not call them by name.

  An image of a crying baby stabbed at her. Franklin, wailing with a stomachache, breathless, inconsolable. Mrs. Pinkerton gave him paregoric in his milk and he slept.

  She thought of paraffin, the way it lay thick on a jar of preserves, and she stared hard at Frank’s face until it was barely familiar.

  That afternoon during her nap, she dreamed that she was on trial for a great crime but no one would tell her what it was. Her father drilled a hole in her side to measure the depth of the problem. She woke up screaming.

  Hands pulled a tight sleeve over the middle of her body; her arms were pinned to her sides. In the distance she could hear someone playing a piano, badly, a Bach air that had been her first recital piece.

  She sang the air as it should be, but the woman in the next room shouted, “Stop that racket!” and when the nurse came she said Kate had better be a good girl or she’d be moved to a different ward.

  “It is possible that I have a surprise for you,” Mrs. Fukuda said as she and Benji were finishing breakfast.

  “What?” He looked around the room.

  “Come for a walk and you will see.” Her smile was enigmatic. “Bring the picture of your mother, please.”

  His heart leapt. “Why?”

  “Because I am not certain. We shall see.”

  Mrs. Fukud
a washed the dishes with maddening slowness, took off her apron, and led him out the door. They started up Hollander Slope.

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “I do not want to disappoint you too much,” she said.

  Benji could hardly contain his energy. Something to do with his mother. The sound of the cicadas vibrated in his body.

  Halfway up the hill they turned in to a small flagstone alleyway and walked past houses of brown wood, tile roofs. A red cloth flapped on a clothesline; two boys, one with skinned knees, jumped off and onto the curb, pushing and laughing in their game. At the end of the alley was the massive stone wall that marked the neighborhood’s boundary.

  They stopped at a house shadowed by the wall; a frail woman leaning on a cane greeted them. Mrs. Fukuda made introductions; the woman’s name was Mrs. Kondo, and her husband awaited them inside.

  Mrs. Kondo led them into a musty room where her husband was setting glasses of cold barley tea on the table. “Please sit down,” she said, and they settled themselves at the table. There was silence while Mr. and Mrs. Kondo studied Benji. He looked at Mrs. Fukuda; she was gazing elsewhere.

  “Forgive me,” Mr. Kondo said, “but the son I remember was light-haired.”

  What son? Benji felt like shouting. There was much to be said for American directness. Thinking of Mr. Matsumoto’s lessons, he bowed and said, “I am blond.” He touched his dyed hair. “My effort to look more Japanese.”

  “Ah so desu ka,” Mr. and Mrs. Kondo said in unison. They looked at Mrs. Fukuda, who nodded and smiled.

  “Benji-san, show them the picture,” she said.

  His hands trembling, Benji took out the rice-paper box Mrs. Fukuda had given him, unwrapped layers of tissue, and laid his mother’s picture on the table. Mrs. Kondo held it close to her face. “This is the woman I remember.”