by Lee Langley
LEE LANGLEY
Butterfly’s Shadow
Chatto & Windus
LONDON
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Version 1.0
Epub ISBN 9781407084589
www.randomhouse.co.uk
Published by Chatto & Windus 2010
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
Copyright © Lee Langley 2010
Lee Langley has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
First published in Great Britain in 2010 by Chatto & Windus
Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,
London SW1V 2SA
www.rbooks.co.uk
Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.htm
The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Hardback ISBN 9780701184674
Trade Paperback ISBN 9780701184681
The quotation on page ix is from Requiem for a Nun by William Faulkner, published by Chatto & Windus. Reprinted by permission of The Random House Group Ltd.
The Random House Group Limited supports The Forest Stewardship Council (FSC), the leading international forest certification organisation. All our titles that are printed on Greenpeace approved FSC certified paper carry the FSC logo. Our paper procurement policy can be found at www.rbooks.co.uk/environment
Typeset in Bembo by Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Grangemouth, Stirlingshire
Printed in the UK by CPI Mackays, Chatham ME5 8TD
Contents
Cover
Title
Copyright
Dedication
By the Same Author
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Part Two
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Part Three
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Part Four
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Part Five
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Author’s Note and Acknowledgements
To Neil Vickers
The past is never dead, it’s not even past.
William Faulkner
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
The Only Person
Sunday Girl
From the Broken Tree
The Dying Art
Changes of Address
Persistent Rumours
A House in Pondicherry
False Pretences
Distant Music
A Conversation on the Quai Voltaire
Nagasaki 1925
From the window Cho-Cho saw the rickshaw come to a stop at the bottom of the slope. Watched them climb out and start walking up towards the house, he in his white uniform, buttons catching the sun; she, yellow-haired, in a short dress printed with green leaves. They looked like an illustration in one of the foreign magazines she had seen: a perfect American couple.
At one point, when the blonde woman stumbled slightly in her unsuitable high heels he took her arm, but she disengaged, and continued to walk up the hill, unaided.
Kneeling by the low table the child was trying to master his new wooden spinning top, throwing it on to the lacquered surface to set the red and yellow bands whirling. Trying and failing. Trying again, lips thrust out in concentration. For this meeting she had dressed him with devious care in one of the few family heirlooms she had managed to hold on to: a tiny silk kimono, intricately hand-painted and embroidered in rich colours threaded with gold. On his feet, white socks with a separation for the big toe. A stiff silk bandeau circled his brow.
In a niche on the wall she had placed a scroll, the bold brushwork of the calligraphy glowing in the dimness of the alcove. Beneath it lay a neatly folded length of dark silk, long and narrow, enveloping her father’s ceremonial sword. In her head, her father’s voice: Bushido, the code of the samurai: to fight with honour. To die with honour when one can no longer live with honour.
Honour was on her side today, she knew that. And she intended to fight. She touched the dark cloth, felt the steel within the silk; she must be like steel within her weak body. Her hands shook and she bent to stroke the child’s head, as though touching a talisman.
Approaching the house, Pinkerton looked up as the door slid open. He heard Nancy give a small gasp of surprise.
Cho-Cho wore a gleaming white kimono swirling out at the hem, her hair intricately dressed, smooth ebony interwoven with pearls. Her face was whitened with make-up, her lips scarlet. The rims of her eyes were red, not from weeping, but outlined, according to tradition, with crimson. Framed by the doorway she glowed, as though lit from within. Next to him, Nancy, in her undersized frock and little hat seemed awkward, ungainly. He cut off the thought, guilty to be making such a comparison. Nancy was his fiancée; Cho-Cho a leftover from a regretted past.
Nancy sensed the tension in his body; she glanced up at him, and back at Cho-Cho. She dwelt on this vision, the woman in white, gleaming like a marble statue, her neck frail as a flower stem. Oh, she’s a clever one, she acknowledged with reluctant admiration. She tugged instinctively at her skimpy skirt, straightened her spine: back home she was considered the pretty one of the family.
When they reached the door, Cho-Cho bowed silently, motioned them inside.
‘We should take off our shoes,’ Pinkerton muttered.
Nancy silently kicked off her high sandals, her expression darkening. The instruction had the effect of linking him to the woman and the place, with Nancy a mere visitor ignorant of local custom.
The boy held out the wooden top to his fat
her: ‘Komo!’
Pinkerton’s stiff features creased into an uneasy grin. He took the top. ‘Komo?’ he repeated, ‘Right.’
As the two women watched, he squatted next to the lacquered table.
‘Okay Joey, here we go!’ He set the top spinning. The child clapped his hands, laughing, demanding more: ‘Motto!’
Only the clatter of wood on table surface broke the silence while Pinkerton repeatedly spun the top for his son. Mirrored in the lacquer, the sphere appeared to be balanced on its own tip as it twirled.
Nancy studied the child: the stiff band tied round his brow partly concealed the blond curls. In the richly patterned kimono he seemed very Japanese.
She said, formally, ‘What a beautiful . . . outfit that is.’ Adding, to fill the continuing silence, ‘So colourful.’
Cho-Cho said, ‘In a family, such a robe is passed from father to son.’ She spoke slowly, spacing the syllables with care, aware of the pitfalls of this alien tongue, where consonants jostled each other disconcertingly, giving her words an odd inflection. ‘It is called takarabune, treasure ship design. On the ship, if you look, there are ten precious ob-u-jects connected with happy marriage.’
Once again Nancy felt upstaged. Was this woman trying to make out that she had enjoyed a happy marriage with Ben? She felt anger building within her but her features remained as expressionless as Cho-Cho’s mask-like face.
She touched Pinkerton’s shoulder. ‘Ben, will you leave us for a little. I want to speak to – the lady, in private.’
Pinkerton hesitated, but Cho-Cho decided the matter. She gave the tiniest of movements, a twitch, a turn of the head, and he got to his feet. He slipped on his shoes and the child followed him out into the patch of garden. Together they studied the plants, and Joey methodically identified them one by one, in Japanese, then in the English his mother had taught him.
A snail was slowly making its way across the path of moist earth in front of them, and the man and the boy watched, crouching to observe the steady progress of the creature, its antennae waving this way and that.
Pinkerton reached over and gently removed the bandeau from around the boy’s head; ruffled his hair, freeing the curls. From the dark rectangle of the doorway he heard the murmur of Nancy’s voice. A silence. Cho-Cho responding, barely audible. Then Nancy. A longer silence. Nancy again, a murmuring stream. As his father watched, Joey picked up the snail and tilting back his head, held the shell and squirming body above his open mouth. Horrified, Pinkerton knocked it from the boy’s hand, startling him. The small pink mouth curved into a downward arc.
‘You don’t eat a live snail, Joey!’
Pinkerton wondered queasily if perhaps they did. They ate fish with hearts still beating, and shrimps jumping on the plate.
The snail had moved on, leaving a shining trail. Pinkerton tried to think of something cheerful to say; he smiled at the boy but no words came. How long would the women go on talking?
The child was growing bored and fretful: he was hungry, he said, tugging at Pinkerton’s sleeve. Then Nancy appeared in the doorway, and hurried over to them.
‘Let’s go!’
Pinkerton stood up, brushing his knees, and glanced questioningly towards the house.
Nancy said sharply, ‘It’s okay. Everything’s settled.’
‘Settled? What d’you mean? What’s going on?’
She took the boy’s hand and crouched beside him. She said, speaking with exaggerated care, ‘Joey: you come. With us. Now.’
Pinkerton said, irritably, ‘You don’t have to speak so slow, he understands just fine.’
She leaned closer: ‘You are coming on a visit with your daddy.’
Pinkerton could see no sign of Cho-Cho. Nancy stood up; she seemed very much in control of things.
‘You’re sure this is okay?’
Her nod was decisive. The child between them, each holding a hand, they set off, walking slowly down the hill away from the house, until, with an exclamation, the boy broke free, pulling away.
‘Koma!’ He ran back towards the house.
‘Joey!’ Nancy called. ‘Wait!’
Pinkerton said, ‘He forgot his spinning top.’
The small figure vanished through the door. A moment later they heard a howl from within.
Nancy, above the screaming, yelled, ‘I’ll deal with this,’ and ran, leaving Pinkerton in the road. A moment later she reappeared, holding the child in her arms, his face against her breast. He was squirming, sobbing, and Pinkerton said loudly, ‘Nancy? What in hell? We can’t do this—’
‘Let’s go.’
She was already in the rickshaw. He climbed in after her, looking back, expecting Cho-Cho to appear at the door. He heard Nancy whispering, trying to soothe the child, saying how everything would be okay, would be just fine, would be great.
As the rickshaw rattled down the dirt road, Suzuki, trudging home from the market, saw them in the distance: the golden couple side by side. Between them was the child.
Nancy called to the rickshaw man to go faster. Neither she nor Pinkerton noticed that seeping from the sleeve of Joey’s silk kimono into the green leaves of her dress a garish flower had begun to bloom: a bright red bloodstain.
*
Pinkerton, in a hurry, threads his way through the crowd towards the harbour where he is to meet Nancy, to say goodbye before she leaves.
He is late, and he sees her now, leaning on the rail of the liner, searching for him on the quayside, anxious, looking this way and that, and close beside her the child, dressed in a plain cotton outfit, staring down, eyes wide with fear, at the water widening between the harbour and the hull as the liner pulls away.
Pinkerton’s ship will sail tomorrow, taking a different, longer route home. Their lives hang suspended in a floating no man’s land and he feels a heaviness like a knot somewhere within him, a sensation he will learn to live with. Everything has moved so fast, there has been no time to alter course – or so he has convinced himself.
He turns away, and heads for the other end of the quay.
On the ship, Joey looks up, startled, alarmed, by a noise like the roaring of a wild beast. The lady with yellow hair laughs.
‘That’s just the horn, Joey.’
She tells him again that he is going on a visit to a place called America. His father will be there. He recalls his mother telling him stories about America, a place with tall buildings and bright flowers where one day they might live.
Clutching the rail he sees Nagasaki grow smaller, disappear, and he begins to cry again, calling for his mother, sobbing that his home is drowning in the sea. The lady seems to understand, and tells him that though he cannot see it, Nagasaki is still there.
‘Look, Joey. Watch.’
Through a square hole in the deck she descends small wooden stairs, and slowly vanishes, first her feet, then her body, until all of her is invisible. Then her head pops up and she climbs on to the deck again.
‘Okay, Joey? You couldn’t see me, but I was always here.’ She takes his hand. ‘Now! Let’s get you some ice cream. Did you ever eat ice cream?’
Later she shows him big fish she calls dolphins leaping high into the air alongside the ship, and after dark when his tears come again, she carries him up on deck, hushing him, rocking him in her arms, and he sees the foam around the boat glittering with a magic green light, the waves dancing as though lit by lanterns from beneath the water. She holds him close to the rail and a warm wind blows in his face and dries his tears.
‘Look, Joey, phosphorus, isn’t that great? Isn’t that fun?’
Above the harbour, Suzuki watches the naval vessel sail between the lighthouses to the open sea beyond. Somewhere on board is Lieutenant Pinkerton. She murmurs bitter curses beneath her breath, calling down on him future suffering and a painful death.
She had never liked him, even before she saw him, hating the idea of the imperious American ordering a Japanese bride like someone calling for breakfast. The last time
he left she suspected he would never return. How much better it would be had he stayed away.
Both ships have left now, cutting through the waves, needing no wind to guide them. How free they are, the visitors, coming and going, careless of what they leave behind, broken, or destroyed.
The harbour closes behind him and Pinkerton takes his last look at land, catching that moment, that heartbeat, a shadow between the flawless rim of sky and sea when the horizon is blurred; a moment that occurs both in leaving and arriving, which he had looked out for, that day three years before, when he sailed into Nagasaki for the first time.
PART ONE
1
The voyage had been rough, the seas high and vicious, the weather ugly. When he saw a smudge of land hazy on the sharp rim of the horizon he gave thanks. All day they had ploughed through the Japan Sea straits, progress slowed by storm damage to the hull. Close to land, there seemed to be no break in the low mountains, until they came to the narrow entrance of a round bay which opened into another, inner bay. From the map Pinkerton knew that around the shores of this inner harbour lay Nagasaki. He yearned for firm ground under his feet, looked forward to some comfort and, more important, pleasure.
Gliding silently through the narrow passages, they passed the sentinel lighthouses flashing port and starboard, the surrounding hills dark against the night sky. Around them the lights of small boats bobbed on the water, and then, in a semicircle, like an amphitheatre he had once seen in a schoolbook about ancient Greece, the lights of the city, glittering like fallen stars on the hillside, reflected in the black water. With luck Nagasaki would bring him what he required: a good meal, and a not-so-good woman. He’d ask Eddie what to do; Eddie had the experience. They were the same age, twenty-three last birthday, but Eddie seemed years older, and he knew the territory; he’d lay dollars to buttons Eddie would have the answers.
They went ashore next morning, early, in a sampan that set them down on the waterfront. The encircling hill was steep, in some places too steep for houses. Here and there it had been terraced for gardens that looked no bigger than a handkerchief and Pinkerton could see tiny figures bent low over whatever modest crop they were tending. When they stood upright, with their shallow straw hats and thin bodies, the figures looked like mushrooms growing in the green patches.