Free Butterfly by Paul Foewen

Butterfly, Pinkerton could still not be quite certain if the fragrance that enveloped her person and permeated her clothing was entirely natural or came in part from a perfume she used. When he asked, she would only smile. Ethereal rather than exciting—her body was very discreet with odors, he had early noticed—the distinctive and subtle aroma reminded him a little of sandalwood or fine incense. On winter evenings when they lay crushed under a mountain of heavy covers, Butterfly would tell him stories from old Japanese romances, and in one there had been a prince who exuded an exquisite perfume. “Just like you!” Pinkerton had exclaimed in spontaneous delight and, snuggling close, had covered her with kisses. Then he had stopped listening, his mind had wandered; with his face pressing into her shoulder, he had tried to imagine what a butterfly would smell like to a sensitive enough nose—exactly like his wife, no doubt! This conceit had made him bubble over with amusement and an absurd sense of pride. Ordinarily, however, he took her fragrance for granted, like so many other things. It was only when he left her that he began to miss it. In a moment of loneliness it occurred to him that he could have taken along a yukata or some other piece of clothing impregnated with her scent. Had he known how long he would be away, he might have asked her to send one; more than once he wished he had, but each time it seemed too late to write and ask.

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    (The Nagasaki ms.)
    Marika was to come to my room that night. Scarcely able to contain my desire, I had pressed her to accompany me immediately, but she said she had to attend Kate, who would be returning shortly from riding with Lisa. I could not argue against that and waited out the rest of the day in a state of extreme agitation.
    Once alone, I was no longer so sure I wanted her to come, and this uncertainty added to my unrest; at moments I positively wished that she would not, for it would be awful beyond conceiving if Kate were to find out. Furthermore, I sensed that my lust for Marika was somehow tearing me from Butterfly. It was only three weeks until my departure: soon I would be back with her, my wife, far away from all that was troubling me: Kate, Marika, family, business. More and more I was realizing that my stay in Japan would be a long one. What I should do there was a moot question, but the last five months had persuaded me that Butterfly and I could not live together in America. And if ever there had been doubts about our marriage, they were gone. My whole being, I felt, was joined to hers in a lasting and unfathomable way, and my flesh cleaved to her with a tenacity that I noticed above all when I visited other women, for without exception I found myself loving Butterfly through their bodies, so that after a few times I ceased going to them. As for Kate, my feelings were strong and complex, but they made no inroads into my life with Butterfly. My love for Kate—and I could not deny loving her still—was founded upon my appreciation of a potential, whereas with Butterfly the potential, lesser perhaps in scope, had already become reality, a reality to which I now belonged.

    Never had these thoughts been so clear in my head; yet the wayward excitement remained. Marika's wanton perfume stuck to my skin; again and again, like a milkmaid, like a snake charmer, it drew out my desire and made it rear. Drunk as I was on her sensuality, I at first did not want to wash it away and for one brief instant had even considered skipping lunch so as not to have to. In the end I reluctantly yielded to reason, yet my careful ablutions did not expulse her from my nose, which continued to be so boldly haunted that I looked about fearfully lest someone else should notice the smell. For all that I craved Marika's favors, however, I was certain that in the end it would be no different with her as with the others. This conviction made me feel detached and rather