The Heat of the Sun

louder, but they
still came from beneath us; we were somewhere on the upper floor, the highest level reached by the grand imperial staircase that led up from the ballroom.
    Through a servants’ entrance, a low door in a corner, we entered what appeared to be a Renaissance library. The room was long and narrow. At one end, through mullions of wide windows,
snowy pallor illumined a desk, a Persian carpet that curled up at the edges, and a zigzagging screen pushed back against the wall; what lay beyond was dark, but I was aware of serried books rising
to the ceiling and smells of leather, mould, and dust.
    Isamu crossed to the desk. He flicked on a green-shaded lamp, reached into his pocket, and took out a key. Lamplight disclosed more clearly the lineaments of the room: a carved stone fireplace;
a portrait of some bearded worthy in a ruff; clustered leather library chairs; little low tables. The screen (Japanese, painted with reeds and pools and flying cranes) seemed at first the only
Oriental touch, but I saw a teacup on the edge of a shelf, a vase on a mantelpiece, and a little golden figure of the Buddha in a windowsill. At the far end of the room, massive doors stood between
pillared columns.
    Below, frenetic jazz had replaced the stately waltzes.
    Isamu unlocked a drawer of the desk and produced two items. The first was a heavy, leather-bound album. With reverence that surprised me, he spread it beneath the lamp.
    The second item was a dagger.
    ‘The dagger,’ I said, ‘that she killed herself with?’
    The handle and scabbard were made of gold and silver, inlaid with precious stones. Isamu pulled forth the blade; it flashed in the light. ‘Dagger, it belong to lady’s father. Words
on blade in Japanese,’ he said.
    I peered at the etched characters, a web of meaning with no meaning for me. Isamu translated: ‘ When cannot live with honour, die with honour . Sad words, very sad.’
    I agreed they were. I imagined the dagger, dark with blood, as it slipped from the lady’s hand. Isamu sheathed the blade again.
    He turned a page of the album. ‘And here is lady’s picture.’
    Our shoulders touched as we gazed at the photograph. Fixed in sepia was a Japanese girl, young, almost a child, in traditional dress, posed against tatami mats and papery walls. With her dark
hair heaped high and dressed elaborately, and with her expressionless pale face, she seemed at first a creature wholly alien to me, and yet when I looked in her eyes they were eyes I knew too
well.
    ‘Her name,’ said Isamu, ‘is Cho-Cho-San. They call her Madame Butterfly.’
    A key clunked in the doors.
    ‘Quick!’ In a flash, Isamu slapped off the lamp and drew me, with a suppressed laugh, behind the screen.
    We had just concealed ourselves when the brighter lights of a chandelier filled the library. Then came voices: one low, one high and pealing. My heart hammered and, peering through a crack in
the screen, I saw one of Yamadori’s servants urging Kate Pinkerton to take a seat, to make herself at home, while Kate Pinkerton, fingers interlaced, demanded to know how much longer she must
endure these games. She had removed her mask and flung it down contemptuously as the doors parted again, opening the way to a squat, bulky personage in magnificent scarlet robes patterned with
curlicues of interlacing gold. Oil-black hair, swept into a topknot, surmounted a toad-like face with bulging eyes lined heavily in kohl, and thick purplish lips like chunks of liver. I was
startled: I had pictured Yamadori as a fey creature, a man made of gossamer.
    The servant withdrew at a flick of his master’s fingers to a station by the wall. In all that followed, I was aware of this masked boy, a second Isamu, watching what happened from another
angle.
    ‘My lady.’ The prince bowed deeply.
    Kate Pinkerton inclined her head. I wished I could see her face.
    ‘Prince,’ she began, ‘I’ve come to plead with you.’
    ‘My lady, so hasty? This is not our way.’
    ‘What time have we for ways ? I’m only asking you not to destroy all that I’ve built over these many years.’ Carefully, she toured the room, tracing a finger over
shelves, the back of a chair, a big varnished globe of the world, like a lady of the house checking for dust. Then, quietly, she turned and said, in a voice soaked in sorrow:
    ‘Oh, Yamadori! How can you be so cruel?’
    ‘Was I the one who promised a tender girl my life, then left her?’ His voice was soft