Broken Butterflies

by Henry W. Kinney

Nishimura was almost at the end of his patience, still he made a last effort. "But don't you know that there are many others to whom a Diet member may be useful. Some one wants to help build up Japan's merchant marine, and he naturally needs a subsidy. So he comes to me, and I look into the proposition and it seems worthy, and he pays me for my trouble in examining it, ten, twenty, thirty thousand yen. And another wants the right to place signs on all the Government telegraph poles, and I look into that, and I get another ten, twenty thousand yen. It is all so plain; every one knows it."

"But it seems to me that comes pretty close to accepting bribes, and you said just now that that proved unhealthy for the Manchuria and the Kwantung officials."

"Oh, hell!" He had to resort to English for emphasis. The host, who had been sitting by wonderingly, compassionately tendered him a drink with his own hands. He swallowed it hastily. "That's altogether different. These are officials under the law, and such are not allowed to take bribes; but we legislators, we're not officials under that law. Do you think we could be expected to work for nothing. Of course, nobody expects that. And then even the officials, nobody cares much. In the opium scandal, Kata got only six months for accepting a bribe, and some of the other big men got about that or less—and, of course, in many cases the sentences were very properly deferred. You must have read in the papers how it was given out that some of the leaders held such high orders that they could not be prosecuted, because it would be a national disgrace to send to jail men holding such honorable decorations. Ah, some day," he sighed and held out his cup for more sake, "some day I may be such a high official myself."

The host had seen that the guest of honor was becoming wearied. He clapped his hands, the shoji slid aside and six geisha appeared, with samisen and drums and bustled about, making ready for their performance. The men stretched themselves out more comfortably. As the geisha danced, the sake was passed ceaselessly. Nishimura was becoming sleepy, yawned stentoriously.

The host took the hint. "And now, Nishimura-san, would you retire?"

"Yes, I think so. I'm sleepy and a little, just a little drunk." The host waved his hand and the geisha disappeared. The men arose. Nishimura was led off, leaning heavily on his woman, arm flung over her shoulder. In the doorway he looked back, smiling flabbily, insinuatingly. "Well, so-long, gentlemen. Have a pleasant rest. O yasumi nasai."

The girl led him off, wobbling dangerously. Kent ran to her assistance, and between them they managed to convey him precariously down stairways and through long corridors, to her rooms. The woman sank to her knees, bowed, her forehead almost touching the mats. "Thank you very much. I am sorry that I have troubled you." She stepped into the room. The partition closed behind her. Kent found himself alone. He looked about for Kittrick, but no one was in sight. It was late. The samisen play and singing had ceased. As he wandered through the long hallways he lost his bearings in the vast, labyrinthic house. From the garden below the soft plash of a fountain came up to him. In the silence the great gilt carvings, intricately fashioned lanterns hanging from the eaves, shining surfaces of lacquer refracting lustrously dim light filtering through paper shoji, the air of beauty, still, dream-fraught, brought the impression of a fairy palace asleep. But as he faltered on, seeking the room whence he came, past row on row of rooms, closed shoji, he sensed rather than heard a minute quaver of sound, the faint sibilance of a multitude of whispers, coming from all about him, from behind frail walls and paper partitions, stirring of unseen men and women, titillation of restrained giggling, indefinite, intangible, blending into a vague murmur, a composite, infinitely low, indistinct background of sound.

"Oh, there you are. I have looked for you everywhere." He heard a soft laugh behind him. It was the girl who had sat with him at the feast. "Come." A soft little hand clasped his. He had been perplexed at his helplessness, alone in that great house, silent except for the subdued murmur of bought caresses, purchased kisses, the parody of love played by these poor, painted houris behind the shoji. So he suffered her to lead him on, uncertain as to what was about to come, still relieved at having again definite destination.