Butterfly's Shadow - Lee Langley [2]
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