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By Root 608 0

she was a tea-house girl, it had been a commercial arrangement, but she was a sweet kid and he hoped she had found other protectors as generous as he had been. The existence of a child lurked at the back of his mind, but as a dim ghost of a thought; he pictured for a moment a sort of infant Cho-Cho, a tiny Japanese girl in a cute kimono such as he had seen in the market. There was little reality to the picture, and certainly he felt no sense of connection. The image that retained a hold on him was of Cho-Cho herself, clad in silk, a porcelain doll, the gentleness accompanied by a surprising passion. (Though, there again, he wondered whether ‘passion’ was something they taught the girls, a tool of their trade; a classy way to turn a trick.)

‘It’s a great place for a visit,’ he told the new boy, and threw in a few facts: the system of the temporary wife, the house, ‘home comforts’.

It was this mood of easy nostalgia that led him to the road round the harbour and up the hill, to take a look at the wood and paper house – if it still existed – where he had enjoyed sweet nights of pleasure on the futon, and learned to eat raw fish.

He was explaining the curious concept of a Japanese yard – ‘a bunch of rocks, gravel and moss, basically’ – as they rounded the last bend and came in sight of the house. To his surprise, the area around the house appeared to be filled edge to edge with green plants; vegetables, by the look of it. At the far end chickens pecked and clucked. The door of the house was open, and standing in the entrance they saw a small figure, thin, very upright, in a plain blue kimono. She called out, her voice clear and firm.

‘Pinker-ton! O-kaeri nasai! Wel-u-come home!’

Sub-Lieutenant Jensen was confused: surely the so-called marriage had been a temporary affair? He glanced at his senior officer who was staring, aghast, at the woman in the doorway.

‘I saw the ship,’ she called, ‘with your telescope. I knew it was you.’

She spoke English, surprising both men. Pinkerton was not often at a loss; he reckoned he knew how to handle a difficult situation. The problem here was that he was uncertain what situation he was confronting. Maybe the girl had prospered, had stayed on in the house, and was merely pleased to see an old client back in town. That must be it.

Then, almost invisible behind Cho-Cho, clutching at her knee, he saw the child; blue eyes fixed on his, blond hair bright in the dimness of the room. He was wearing a sailor suit. A living doll. And from the blurred jumble of images that occupied the inside of Pinkerton’s head, one sharp memory emerged: himself as a child, posing for a snapshot, holding his mother’s hand, on a visit to the State Fair. Staring at the child now, it all flooded back: the grinding music of the carousel, the crowd, the smell of hot dogs and the taste of cotton candy. The great treat, he recalled, had been for your dad to win a stuffed animal or a doll at the shooting range. A doll as big as a real live child. He recalled the snapshot, mounted in a leather-bound album rubbed at the corners, put away in some drawer. He had been wearing a sailor suit.

Cho-Cho drew the boy close and stood waiting, her hands on his shoulders, as the men approached.

‘Here is your son. He is called Joy.’

Then, as the child darted forward and flung his arms round Pinkerton’s knees, Cho-Cho knelt, touching her forehead to the ground. She rose to her feet, smiling.

‘You can talk to him. He will understand. He is an American boy.’

Jensen saved the occasion. He stepped forward and introduced himself. The words flowed: he had heard so much about Japan, Lieutenant Pinkerton had told him what a great place Nagasaki was . . . He talked on, the soft Southern vowels filling the silence.

Years later, in command of his own ship, under enemy fire, Jensen recalled that occasion as the moment he recognised he possessed qualities of leadership. At the time, he was aware only that Pinkerton seemed frozen, incapable of speech.

Within the house, out of sight, Suzuki was about to leave for the late factory shift. She