Butterfly (30 page)

Belasco's play was put on in 1900. Their life had been very different then—in retrospect a model of moderation and balance. In those days Kate was never cruel to him, not in the vicious way she had since become—at least it seemed that way to him now. But when Puccini's opera premiered at La Scala four years later, she had gleefully planned a trip to Milan to see it and had taunted him mercilessly when he squirmed. But in the end other pleasures retained her and they did not go.

Now it had come to the Opéra Comique and there was no way to get around it. He tried to steel himself but deep down knew it to be impossible. Ten years had passed since Butterfly's death, and she had gradually receded from where she had loomed in the forefront of his mind; but she was still the one thing that tormented him beyond all else.

The opera made him suffer even more than he had anticipated. Everything was so distorted as to be hardly recognizable; nonetheless he could not help seeing himself and Butterfly on the stage. The representation was a grotesque caricature, and it was obscene that he should attend it kneeling in Kate's box. But the worst part was the music; for images and words he could keep at a distance and shut out at will, whereas the singing voices floated up and enveloped him like a penetrant perfume, living phantoms of the timeless sorrow or joy contained in moments long buried.

The scenes in the opera resembled none that he could dredge up from his memory, and yet they belonged somehow to his past. Not the words, not the decor, but the emotion; and this emotion he was forced by the music to relive and to suffer afresh. For the voices bore on their song more than the words attributed by an ignorant librettist, they recreated the sinuous movements of the
soul in ecstasy and in pain. Their love, their separation, the betrayal, Butterfly's lament and death—he was made to relive it all, as it were, from within.

Friends came to see Kate in her box and together they laughed at the sentimental slave who wept over an operatic
fait divers.

98

(The Nagasaki ms.)

For me at least, life in Paris eventually settled into an almost monotonous routine. In the welter of new companions and distractions, Kate, though never relaxing her hold, left me more to myself. In the beginning I whiled away the leisure hours with desultory reading; in time, certain subjects caught my fancy and were pursued more intensively. Kate, always avid for knowledge, spurred my diligence; it did not escape me that I was treated best when her intellect was regaled with spicy, consistent fare.

I spent many afternoons at the Bibliothèque Nationale and, as I became more immersed in topics relating to art, in divers museums. These excursions, I might add, never led away from Kate's dominion, for the least stir of desire brought an excruciating reminder of my condition and of my mistress; thus restrained, I did my best not to notice the beguiling faces and figures that I passed, and my expeditions were always narrowly purposeful. Some of my research eventually found its way into certain obscure journals; few and insignificant as these are, they did much to render my life bearable.

By some fluke of destiny, Butterfly was dragged into the public eye. With deplorable distortion and increasing notoriety, her story was publicized in the news, then in a magazine, then on stage, and finally as opera. Much against my will, I had to
accompany Kate to the Paris première of the last. It was a cruel experience, and it stirred up memories of Butterfly which until then I had largely succeeded in suppressing. To channel off my preoccupation, I took to studying things Japanese. The obsessive memories eventually abated, but not my interest, and once again I approached the language that I had begun to learn under Butterfly's tutelage. Kate, in whom the short sojourn in Nagasaki had kindled a lasting curiosity, was only too happy to broaden her knowledge and encouraged me in my struggles with that difficult tongue. The greatest impetus, however, came from my lost daughter, who began drifting frequently into my thoughts. I had no hope of ever meeting her, but that did not prevent me from daydreaming, and in those imaginary encounters we spoke in Japanese.

Would Kate have undertaken a second voyage? Perhaps; but if she contemplated another visit, she waited too long.

99

There were five or six of them, elegant, high-spirited, ferociously handsome women; at one time Pinkerton might have been titillated to find himself at their mercy, but now he abominated their willful immodesty and their vicious laughter. Above all else he hated to see Kate in their company.

“. . . and how old is she?”

“Twelve, thirteen . . . What is it, Henry?”

“Thirteen—too delicious! The cherry is just ripe. You mustn't let it go to waste, darling.”

“Do you want it? To pluck for your birthday?”

“Oh, I'd love it!”

“I'm sure you would, my dear Françoise, and so would I, but
don't you think it'll be more piquant to have Papa here do the plucking?”

“An excellent thought, Anne-Marie. Bravo!”

“I suppose we're all invited to the show?”

“I can hardly wait ...”

“Just think, a family of slaves! Papa here can make her big and soon there'll be three generations.”

“How amusing! If they breed well, you can sell the little ones. Baby slaves, guaranteed-pure incest, ha, ha—they'll sell like hot rolls. It's a gold mine, better than the Suez Canal. You'll make millions, Kate.”

“Seriously, darling, why don't you get the girl over here. I'm sure that legally Henri has every right to claim her, with the mother dead.”

“You know what, we ought to have our slaves interbreed. ...”

“Haven't you ever thought of having Marika or Chantal breed with Henri or . . .”

Pinkerton had long since learned to suppress all emotion in front of his mistress's friends, for any sign of dismay or protest was sure to bring out their worst, and some among them had less restraint than Kate, as he well knew. But this time he was unable entirely to conceal his fear. Would he stoop to that as well, or would he at last rebel? Already the confrontation loomed, and he almost felt he could rise to the occasion.

Luckily the ladies, intoxicated with hashish and champagne and their own dissipation, noticed nothing and perhaps for the same reason did not apparently retain what had so roused their enthusiasm: for months he lived in dread, but the matter was never taken up.

100

(The Nagasaki ms.)

I have often wondered what our life would have become if Kate had not taken ill—or would the illness, by an inner necessity, have ineluctably struck? At forty, though marked by time and debauchery, Kate was still stunning. But as the disease gnawed from within, that proud veneer of beauty began to fade. Not swiftly, not from one day to the next, yet for us who revolved around her like planets about the sun, the disintegration came with a speed that took away our breath. When bravado and denial fell away, there were no farewells, no explanations—there was not time; lovers, friends, servants, slaves, all were dismissed in a packet.Only Marika and I accompanied her to our property at the foot of the Pyrenees—near the beautiful cemetery at Valcabrère—purchased a year earlier as if in anticipation. There we lived secluded in a moldering old house without luxury or comfort, without servants, and with not a mirror on the wall.

The doctors had given her six months, possibly a year. But the following spring it appeared that she was, if not recovering, at least holding the assailant at bay. Her pain seemed less insistent, and she was able to listen to me read for long periods. She even took to riding on days when she felt particularly strong. Months went by and there was no relapse. We settled again into a semblance of normal life, and if death still sat in the antechamber, we no longer paid any heed. The routine of daily life had reasserted its claims.

101

Pinkerton was forbidden to look at her face, though he could not help catching glimpses now and then; in any case, he did not have to see it to follow the course of the disease. Her sleek body wasted away week after week like a worm-infested tree; she seemed to shrink before his eyes. Some days she was so weak that she could not move; in his arms she was like an antique doll with fragile limbs and peeling paint. Only her voice did not change, but she had not always the strength to talk.

And still the debauched mind refused to relinquish its pleasures; perhaps it was a desperate effort to stave off death. Each day she would have Marika hold her skin to skin against her own vigorous body; and the cold lips, barely moving, continued to demand the smiles and kisses of love. Pinkerton noted with relief and also a certain surprise that Marika never showed repugnance; he had always admired her apparent immunity and at the same time found it alienating. Far more surprising was the fact that his own desire for Kate did not subside but grew instead. An insane longing now possessed him, a longing impossible and wayward: to have her child before she died. Such was the new obsessive yearning that his strangled instincts began to torment him as they had not since the belt first imposed its tyranny. One day, on the verge of frenzy, he confessed it to his mistress; it was the first time in all their years together that he had dared speak of his own desire.

Unprepared for such an outlandish declaration, Kate let out a little laugh, half in embarrassment and half in anger. A tense silence followed. He, on his knees before the bed, did know what more to say.

“Look at me, Henry,” she ordered unexpectedly in a hard voice. “Look at my face.”

She was half-reclining, with her head a little sunk into the large square pillow against which it lay propped. The long dark hair fell in a cascade of sensuality; in its midst lay a mask of death. But death transfigured, for the skin that stretched over the skull and its tenuous shreds of flesh was still fine and seemed to glow in its fragile translucence, while underneath the contours and features rose and fell in eloquent testimony of past glory. To Pinkerton, her face had been the most beautiful thing on earth, and she, knowing that, had guarded it jealously from his eyes, in former years to sharpen his passion and in past months out of pudency. Death now veiled that face, but when the initial shock wore off, he was able to discern the beauty, so ephemeral now and so frail, that clung piteously to the baring bone. Tears came to his eyes; he did not know whether he was moved more by the vision of enduring beauty or of fading life.

“Do you still want my child?” she asked with bitter mockery. Her emaciated lips twisted into a ghastly smile that once again conjured up the vision of a death's head come to life. He had to force himself not to avert his eyes. She was watching his every reaction; set deep in the pallor, her dark eyes looked unnaturally large and burned with he knew not what unquenchable passion or fever. Too seized to speak, he stood up in front of her, and taking her hand in a manner unwonted, brought it to where the answer could be touched.

Her smile slowly faded. She did not take her hand away, but after a while drew him toward her onto the bed. When his face was sufficiently close, she took it in her hands and gazed long into it as if searching for some remnant or reminder of better, bygone days. In her eyes he saw no defiance or derision, only a deep, quiet sorrow.

“It's too late, Henry,” she said mournfully. “I shall never have a child now. Never.” The terrible earnestness of the last word seemed to linger in the air; her despair made him want to weep.

“But I'll unlock you,” she told him with unaccustomed
gentleness. “Not today—I'm feeling too weak.” Drawing him closer still, she held his head so that his face pressed against her neck. “Some time when I feel better, I'll unlock you,” she continued soothingly. “I shall. I promise.”

102

(The Nagasaki ms.)

As the days became warmer, Kate went riding almost every morning. Swaying a little stiffly in the saddle with her exquisite skeletal head proudly thrown back—for she no longer hid her ravaged beauty—her long gaunt figure wrapped in its black riding cape could have been a Romantic artist's vision of Death. The peasants, understandably, did not like to meet her. She always rode alone, often for hours and returning too exhausted to dismount or call for help. Marika and I had to take turns watching.

One day she did not return. I went looking for her at noon, but it was a hopeless undertaking, since I had no idea what direction she had taken. Late in the day, gendarmes brought back her body; a peasant had found her. Her neck was broken.

We cleaned off the grime and laid her on the bed as we always did. Marika wept. Dry-eyed and dazed, I contemplated the face that had ruled my life. It seemed at peace and despite the extreme emaciation very beautiful. Her eyes were closed, her lips almost wore a smile; she could have been sleeping deeply. These fifteen years she had been my wife and yet we had not once lain together. All that time I had not even dared hope for what would have seemed a defilement; I, her slave, her dog—it had been right to contain my animal desires with that terrible lock. Yet she
had let others defile her, I thought with rage, and remembering her recent promise to consummate our marriage, I was buffeted by waves of the bitterest despair.

103

“Marika,” he turned and said suddenly. “Where is the key?” He was kneeling in his usual position at his mistress's bedside.

Her sobs had quieted, but her face was still blurred from weeping. “Why?” she asked with a trace of suspicion.

“I'd like to have it.”

She glared at him. “Why?”

Her insistence made him flounder. “Marika, please . . .” Helplessly, he lowered his eyes.

Suddenly she understood, and her face flushed with anger and incredulity.

“You dare!”

“She promised . . .”

“Promised? Promised what?”

Reflected against her indignition, his shame burst; he felt it spread over him like a sticky corrosive varnish. Yet his heart flared, not. with desire but in a frenzy of berserk frustration.

“She promised to unlock me!” he wailed, but softly, as if fearful of being overheard. “Just once, before she—”