Butterfly's Shadow Read Free Page B

the mishap must be her fault.
    ‘Shit! Sorry!’ He waved his arms helplessly. In this fragile, papery room he felt huge and clumsy, at a loss.
    The girl made a small, traditional speech of welcome and bowed again. Sharpless translated. Pinkerton nodded.
    ‘Right.’
    He tried to think of something more. There was a pause. He glanced at Sharpless for guidance. The pause lengthened into a silence, then a few words exchanged, in Japanese.
    ‘She asks what religion you observe.’
    ‘Oh! Right.’ This was way beyond what he had been expecting. ‘My family . . . we’re Methodist. Not relevant here, I guess.’
    Sharpless passed on as much information as he felt was helpful. She nodded. Another pause. More murmured words. Sharpless translated as the girl turned expectantly towards the lieutenant.
    ‘She asks when you wish the ceremony to take place.’
    ‘What ceremony?’
    ‘The wedding.’
    Pinkerton frowned and Sharpless added, ‘I explained earlier—’
    ‘Oh, sure, right. It’s a marriage.’ A note of impatience. ‘I didn’t think we needed an actual ceremony . . .’ Unspoken: to hire a hooker.
    ‘In her eyes she will be your wife, lieutenant.’
    To Pinkerton’s growing irritation Sharpless went over the situation again: there would be formalities; the girl was not a prostitute.
    ‘She expects a ceremony.’
    Pinkerton was short of time, already due back on board for a duty watch. He reached into his back pocket and brought out a flask of bourbon. On a low side table were two tiny porcelain cups, and unscrewing the bottle he poured a measure into each. He handed one cup to Cho-Cho, and raised his own, encouragingly, in a toast.
    She waited, the cup held lightly in her fingertips, eyes flicking from one man to the other, seeking guidance. Pinkerton’s cheerfully expectant mood had sagged. He raised his porcelain cup again, attempting to revive the festive spirit.
    ‘Bottoms up!’
    She watched as he drained the cup.
    ‘I now pronounce us man and wife.’
    Pinkerton nodded at Sharpless. ‘Can you tell her we just had the ceremony? Tell her it’s the American way.’
    He liked the phrase, he felt justified: you could say it was the American way under present circumstances. Sharpless kept repeating she wasn’t a hooker, but what other kind of girl wouldsign up to a ‘marriage’ with a visiting sailor? She must know the ropes. If it was a case of keeping up appearances, he was prepared to go along with the game, though it wasn’t cheap: the licence cost $4, the lease of the house $30, and there would be running expenses, food and so on. He had noticed a dumpy servant girl hovering outside the door; she’d probably need to be paid. Still: the place looked clean, and he could end up spending three or four weeks here. It was definitely preferable to a dubious Madam establishment in some backstreet in town.
    ‘You will need to put your signature to the marriage contract,’ Sharpless said, ‘to observe the correct procedure—’
    Pinkerton found his fellow countryman a bore, a real pen-pusher.
    ‘Right. Just fix it.’
    He felt the consul’s eyes on him; cold yet fierce, the look a senior officer might hand out. Pinkerton found himself straightening up to attention. He adjusted his tone:
    ‘Sir? Thanks for your help.’
    To his dismay, the girl was now kneeling, her forehead touching the woven mat that covered the floor. What was he supposed to do here? Uncertain, he reached out and took her hands; raised her to her feet. For the first time they were close, touching, her face lifted to his. He was aware of the texture of her skin: smooth, not rosy like the girls back home, but pale, a sort of ivory, with a sheen like a peeled almond. And her eyes were almond shaped, as he had heard them described, but shining, with the glow of an uncut gem. She was smiling up at him. Even though she stood very straight the top of her head was way below his shoulder. For a moment he was caught up, sensed an odd