Butterfly's Shadow - Lee Langley [55]
Argument and counter-argument circled inside his head as he sat waiting for some sign of life in the small, pale face, the fragile body. It occurred to him distantly that both ships would by now have sailed, Pinkerton’s on to the next port of call, and the liner carrying away his niece with Cho-Cho’s child.
Only later did the question surface in his mind: how could blood have found its way on to the child’s kimono, and what exactly had Nancy witnessed in the house on the hill?
25
Cho-Cho became aware of pain. A movement of her head sent the pain twisting through her; throat on fire, mouth parched. The pain filled her. She lay flat, eyes closed, feeling her way through blankness as though stepping into night without lamplight.
Why was there pain? Where was she? And then, her heart leaping – where was Sachio? He should be by her side as usual, pressed against her hip, asleep, breathing noisily, mouth half open. She listened and could hear no sound of childish breath.
Sharp as a blow, recollection flooded in. The world collapsed, crushing her. She made one frantic movement, and fell back, crying out his name, but managing no more than a rasping croak that tore her throat.
A hand in hers, a voice murmuring.
And now she opened her eyes: blurred, Suzuki’s face hung above her like a waning moon, hushing her gently. She was alive, and the child was gone. A tired sadness enveloped her, a slow understanding that emptiness, bitter longing and regret would be with her for always.
As her throat healed, she found herself able to speak – after a fashion – whispering a few words to Sharpless while he leaned closer, at her bedside. The ship had sailed, of course? He nodded.
She lay still; only the tears moved, slipping easily from the corners of her eyes, finding a path down her face, into her mouth, salty.
Whispering, she asked to be left alone.
In the weeks after the child was taken, Suzuki knelt by Cho-Cho’s futon, watching the pale face, fleshless as a skull, her eyes closed against a world she had been prevented from leaving with honour. She refused to speak to Sharpless; he presented himself regularly at her door and was turned away by Suzuki, who whispered an apology.
As a diplomat and an American he had double the opportunity to experience antagonism, and he dealt with its various manifestations – disdain, contempt, resentment – with equanimity. ‘If you can’t take the heat, stay out of Japan,’ he said to one distressed businessman from Texas. ‘Why should they like us? We sent in Perry’s black ships, we opened up trade – by force. We bring change, when they prefer tradition. We’re too loud, too upfront. For good or ill we will transform this country, and neither we nor they know how it will all work out.’
So he was no stranger to hostility. He understood why Cho-Cho, who had been his friend, was now his enemy: he had saved her life, and he could not be forgiven. For the present, at least Cho-Cho was inert. When she was stronger, strong enough to move about the house, that was when he feared she might harm herself; finish what she had already attempted.
Was it the bird that brought about the change?
The bird, a finch, its dark plumage lit by an orange flash at the breast, dropped out of the sky one late autumn day and hopped about the tiny garden searching for seeds or berries, head cocked, alert. Cho-Cho, at the window, looked out listlessly. The bird hopped closer, almost to the entrance, sharp eyes taking in the motionless figure in the window. For a moment or two bird and girl observed each other. Then, with an upward swoop, the bird was gone.
Next day it was back.
Each day Suzuki placed a bowl of miso soup and a small plate of fish and rice beside Cho-Cho, hoping she might be tempted. Usually she removed the plate, untouched. Today, as the bird came up the path in a seemingly random zigzag that brought it closer to the house, Cho-Cho took a few grains of rice from the plate, slid back the shoji and sprinkled the rice