Butterfly's Shadow - Lee Langley [58]
‘The waterfront?’
It was not an area frequented by respectable young women. He shrugged and moved off, pedalling comfortably.
As they neared the port she asked him to slow down as she peered left and right, studying the sleazy shopfronts and rundown dwellings, the stalls busy with people bargaining, buying, selling. And, threading their way through the crowd, American sailors from a ship newly docked, coming ashore on leave. Young men, looking curiously alike in their white uniforms, pink faces expressing astonishment at this unknown, alien world. Cho-Cho noted one or two of the sailors pausing at shop doorways, hesitant. Lost.
She tapped the rickshaw man on the shoulder.
‘Mission house.’
Mrs Sinclair was at her desk going through papers. She looked up and saw the girl waiting outside the door. She beckoned her in.
‘Cho-Cho?’
‘Mrs Sin-cu-lair, I want to learn to cook American food.’
‘Why would you want to do that, my dear?’
‘Ah, perhaps I could get a job, with an American family. Perhaps you have a book of recipes that I could borrow?’
It sounded a reasonable reply, and Cho-Cho’s expression was guileless, but Mrs Sinclair had a feeling she was being fooled. Still, what harm could come of lending the girl a book of recipes?
The red and white cookbook was dauntingly thick: too many pages, too many recipes.
Chapters were arranged alphabetically by main ingredients (Beans, Rice & Grains; Meat) or by course (Appetisers & Snacks; Desserts). Cho-Cho studied the headings doubtfully until she came to ‘Cooking Basics’: this might be the place to start. There were ingredients, methods and something called ‘menu plans’ which she could ignore. She was looking for some familiar words, and finally she found them: meat loaf, hash brown potato, apple pie. But would it be like Momma makes?
She looked down the page: two pounds of ground beef, two eggs, one yellow onion, one cup breadcrumbs (or three slices stale bread), brown sugar, ketchup, mustard . . .
She handed Suzuki a list of ingredients with a grimace. ‘See what you can find in the market; it won’t be easy, but the cooking looks simple enough. It just says mix and bake.’
Her first attempts were disastrous: the meat loaf crumbled, the potatoes burned and even the birds rejected the apple pie. She persevered, and soon produced results at least recognisably similar to the distressing examples Pinkerton had brought back from the ship. Now she sent for the marriage broker.
He had grown sleeker and less eager to please since their last meeting. Business was good and he had little need for a scrawny woman of twenty with a scar on her neck.
Cho-Cho greeted him briskly and did her best to conceal her dislike of the man. She had a proposition:
‘I plan to open an eating house. Small, simple, in the harbour district. I need a loan.’
‘Against what security?’
She gestured to the table: wrapped in scarlet silk, her father’s sword.
The broker was a realist. He was aware that the sword, however precious, would not cover the expense of opening even a modest establishment.
‘What makes you think you can succeed? We have plenty of such places.’
‘Not like mine.’ She called to Suzuki, and the maid appeared with a tray spread with small dishes.
Cho-Cho handed her visitor a plate containing a selection of unfamiliar items. Intrigued, he picked up a morsel with chopsticks, and tasted it. His eyes bulged; he rubbed his head, went through an elaborate pantomime of shock, dismay and disgust. He disposed of the mouthful.
‘This is filth.’
‘Yes!’
She had a memory flash of Pinkerton one morning trying a mouthful of fermented bean paste, spitting it out and asking, incredulously, ‘What is this filth?’
‘It is natto,’ she told him. ‘Traditional breakfast food.’
‘It stinks,’ Pinkerton had replied, ‘and I never want to taste it again.’
‘This is meat loaf. Traditional American food,’ she told the marriage broker. ‘My customers will be Americans. Homesick sailors.’
The marriage broker considered her words, put a question.