by Tricia Reeks
***
The light outside is dimming, the ancient sun beginning its slow descent behind only-slightly-less-ancient mountains. Because, though this is the land of its rising, it must also fall, every day, for evening to come.
This is just one of the many small observations you’ve made since you got here.
That no land is entirely defined by one aspect alone.
The sign above the gates, the ones which you presume are only visible back inside the present, says SAMURAI LAND, in bold red letters. But this place also contains at least one painter: you. And at least one geisha: her.
And, over the course of the day, that geisha has become more important to you than you think any of the samurai could ever be.
You have painted her figure, her face, in black and white, in color, on paper, on silk, standing and seated.
You have spent long minutes lost in meditation upon the smallest of her movements, the distant, almost imperceptible flutter of her eyelashes, the angle at which her wrist is tilted when she pours herself some tea.
You have closed your eyes and imagined the scent of that tea drifting across the valley, misting into ethereal solidity within the chillness of the air, becoming a bridge across which you can walk.
Now, you are painting her again, standing once more in her doorway, looking out in wistful distraction, as though waiting for something. For someone, perhaps.
For you?
You can but hope.
Well, you can only hope. Being as you don’t think she even knows you exist. It must be someone else, then, it follows.
You feel inexplicably jealous, all of a sudden.
You begin to wonder, more inexplicably still, if your ex-girlfriend is sleeping now in someone else’s bed.
A shrike comes to rest on a small branch, just outside your cabin.
Then it takes off, and seems to carry your panic away in the wake of its wings.
You feel foolish.
You are five hundred years away from your old girlfriend, your old life.
You are still perhaps five hundred feet from the best chance that this new one has yet offered.
Patience and meditation is key, you realize. Another revelation.
You still have two weeks left.
Good things, you remember, come to those who wait.
***
You have been waiting for a further few days. Have settled into a calming, meditative routine. Drinking tea with your attendant in the morning, and then shooing him off and painting the geisha for the rest of the day.
Every evening, you’ve observed her in her doorway, as though she’s also been waiting, and then she has closed her shoji doors and extinguished the lanterns inside, an air of sadness about the way she turns to shut the nighttime world without.
Your paintings of this time have been growing progressively more subtle, even refined; tinged increasingly with gentle blues to reflect the sweetly bitter mood.
You’re quite proud of them.
You hang them on the walls, filling up the empty space.
Your attendant, in between pouring your tea and bringing your breakfast, has tried to insist that emptiness is just as important as shape and line and fullness, to the sensibilities of the Ancient Japanese.
You listened, and glanced at the small instructive scroll he gave you, but you seem to have misplaced it now. With the floorboards cluttered with offcuts of silk and discarded paper, there’s no telling where it could be.
Besides, your approach is filling you with a sense of achievement, even a sense of success. You feel, though you think this only quietly, as though you may actually be slowly approaching your guaranteed moment of Zen.
You think this moment, ultimately, will have something to do with the geisha’s mysterious and covertly erotic face.
You are sure of it.
You look across the valley at her, and paint her, and feel more certain still.
Suddenly, as if you had shouted this feeling out loud, that face turns towards you. The geisha, at last, is aware you’ve been watching her, studying her, turning her into art.
She smiles.
Your heart leaps.
She blushes. Her cheeks go redder and redder, beneath the paleness of her makeup, until they are brighter red even than fake-blood on snow.
She hides her blushing behind a fan, turns her head away coyly.
Amidst the wind and the whirligigging passage of birds through the valley, you are certain you can hear her laugh. A gentle, melodic, happy laugh.
The soundtrack to the waterfall that’s painted on your door.
***
This evening, she looks at you before shutting out the nighttime world.
The mystery, the eroticism in her face, her smile, is no longer quite so covert.
She doesn’t douse her lanterns so quickly this evening.
You can clearly see each nuance, each line, each curve of her silhouette as she removes her sash, her kimono, and readies her body for the comfort of bed.
You are enchanted.
And glad that you are sitting down, and that your attendant isn’t here.
You resolve to stay up all night, rendering that shape on paper.
***
Today, you shooed your attendant out of your cabin before he could even pour your tea. And long before he could tut disapprovingly about the overabundance of naked female silhouettes plastered on your walls.
You have a new, more forthright plan.
You will alternate your paintings with sheets on which you write love letters, secret messages, and sweet nothings, all in fine, ornate, and deeply calligraphic script.
In your own language, of course, but you’re sure she’ll get the gist.
You hope so, anyway.
Because, when you have written each of these sweet nothings, messages, and letters of love, you intend to fold the sheets of paper into origami shapes, after the birds which ballet dance beyond your open doorway, and cast them out into that same aerial arena, to float across and land, you hope, on the valley’s other side.
***
Several early attempts—suicidal swallows, sacrificial shrikes—cascaded without ceremony to join in, unwittingly, with the artificial mayhem of the conflict below.
But one—a courageous crane—made the crossing completely intact.
The geisha had been looking down concernedly upon the full-fake-blooded massacre, and you had thrown it, your love letter, at that moment in the hopes of distracting her from such a fake-distressing scene.
As you watched the folded paper catch an updraft and start to soar, and then begin to glide back towards the earth, a simple slave to gravity, you grew more and more worried that she wouldn’t notice, that she wouldn’t turn to look.
At the very last second, she spun, reached out, took hold of the bird in her hand.
Unfolded it, tenderly, with her elegant fingers.
Read it.
Held it up to her face to breathe in its scent.
Or your scent, perhaps.
Then she blushed again, and returned inside, and poured herself some tea, the letter laid out before her.
Every time you sensed she was rereading, your heart began racing with joy.
***
Now, you are back to waiting again, your arms outstretched into the evening air, preparing for receipt of her reply.
***
It didn’t come. Not last night.
It hasn’t come this morning, either.
You are beginning to worry. She hasn’t even opened her shoji doors today.
Without her to look upon, you cannot even paint. You simply sit upon the floor of your cabin, fretting, biting your ink-blackened nails, twisting and tearing at renegade scraps.
Then, in the corner of your vision, you catch sight of a figure, a female form, making her way up through the snow, back to her cabin. She is carrying a lot of art materials, some cradled in her arms, some upon her back.
You want to go over and he
lp her, lighten her load, but a rudimentary comprehension of propriety suggests that you cannot, you must not, until she gives the right signs.
You’re hopeful that the right signs will come by way of those art materials, and that you will then have opportunity to visit her and apologize for not helping her now.
You are hopeful that you will visit her and do other things, too.
You are not ashamed of your desires.
***
You’re in the middle of a painting when the paper bird, a crane, flutters in through your open doors.
In the distance, in her own doorway, the geisha is watching and, you think, smiling.
The paper bird lies, as though sleeping, as though spent, its migration complete, spread out across your open palm. You begin to unfold it, embarking upon a strange and strangely enchanting autopsy, peeling apart the delicate planes of this origami organism, feverish to reach the even-more-delicate bones of the text.
However, when you do arrive, those bones reveal scrimshaw in Ancient Japanese only.
Not knowing in any way what her elegant calligraphy says, you cannot, not yet sure if you’ve received a proper invitation, go across the valley to ask her.
Your only recourse is to go and seek out your attendant, and perhaps the customer service assistant, back by the gate.
You set off, briskly, into the snow.
In your last glance across the valley, you see that she is no longer standing by her door.
***
“Sorry,” says your attendant. “I read the relevant history, but it was all translated.”
“The entrance exam they gave us was all translated, too,” the customer service assistant offers. He looks genuinely apologetic. A little embarrassed.
The attendant looks as though he thinks you’ve been drinking too much saki.
You quite want to punch him.
But, bearing in mind the decorum with which you think an Ancient Japanese painter should conduct himself, you refrain.
“We understand how this might be problematic,” the customer service assistant continues. “So, to make up for this, we’re prepared to offer you a further discount. How does forty-five percent sound?”
“Fifty-five,” you counter.
“Fifty?” he says.
“Done,” you agree.
At least you needn’t carry any more art supplies back up the hill.
***
When you arrive at the top, however, you find that the hopes you were cherishing only this morning have been well and truly, finally, dashed.
Across the valley, the geisha is bowing her head before somebody else.
A ronin.
In his hand, you can just make out a half-unfolded bird.
She must have made at least one unsuccessful attempt at the crossing, you realize, just like you.
As you watch, breath catching, the ronin removes his terrifying helmet.
You recognize the face of your former employer.
The geisha draws her shoji doors shut.
***
You kneel on the floor of your cabin, staring at the first successful painting you ever made of her face. Your doors are closed, too, and you have stuck all the remaining and scrap sheets of paper and silk over them, covering the waterfall, which reminds you of how you imagined her laugh.
As you stare at this collage, as your eyes tire, as you lose focus, a sudden, inexplicable peace washes over you. The tranquility of surrender.
You lie down upon the floorboards, which are empty again, clean.
No matter which past you are in, you realize, or which future, the present is always the same. You are always the same. You are a loser.
You burp and it tastes more than a little of saki.
This then, at last, is your moment of Zen.
Back to Where I Know You
Victoria Zelvin
Lady Ariadne wore her most important memories in a vial around her neck. Of course, Lindi assembled the concoction for her, though Ariadne chose which memories to include. She had to make do with fourteen—for memories are more than sight and sound, they are sense and the thrumming of hearts and the taste of skin and the scent of perfume. The more detailed the memory, the more all those little bits take up more and more space, so only fourteen to start, enough to know what is there and what is important. The Lady chose her memories, her favorite ones, and arranged them in chronological order. Lady Ariadne was a romantic, so of course she assembled them into a love story, all her favorite parts on display with appropriate cue cards.
They read, in order:
1. The First Time I Ever Saw Your Face
Lindi was beautiful in the golden light. Her skin was deep, dark, and even in tone, and Ariadne’s first memory of spotting her was the sudden stab of jealousy that left an ebbing trail of admiration in its wake. Ariadne remembered approaching her but not why, but such is the state of memories. With some waning confidence, she did approach Lindi to wrest her name from her.
“Lindi,” Ariadne remembered repeating, tasting the word on her tongue. It was a beautiful name, and Ariadne remembered telling her so. She remembered the way that Lindi’s head ducked in embarrassment, turning her face away from the Lady so that she could compose herself enough to say that it was a family name, and that it had belonged to her great-grandmother, a software developer.
Lindi would spend part of the night explaining just what that meant, but Ariadne did not remember exact words. She remembered the way that Lindi raised a dark hand to cover her mouth when she laughed, so that Ariadne could not quite see her smile. She remembered the scent of Lindi’s perfume, as though she had bathed herself in rosewater, and Ariadne remembered asking her where she might get some for herself. She remembered the first time they touched, an innocuous thing, remembered Lindi saying, “Oh, you have a hair,” and then reaching out to pluck a blonde strand from Ariadne’s shawl as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Shivers shot down the Lady’s spine at such casual contact.
Lindi never did quite say why she was attending the gala in the first place, for Ariadne knew even then lovely Lindi was neither nobility nor military, but Ariadne only managed to ask her whether she would return to the gala tomorrow night.
“Or am I never going to see you again?” Lady Ariadne asked, and Lindi reached up to cover her smile. Ariadne remembered thinking to herself, and tomorrow night, I’ll see that smile.
“If you remember how to find me,” Lindi replied, dropping her hand. She was no longer smiling.
2. And the Sound of Your Voice
The gala went on, as galas tend to. This one would last for weeks, with each party and each family attempting to outdo the other. That day, multicolored lanterns floated around the ceiling. The galas were for a recent military victory, quashing an uprising on the conquered lands to the south, but Ariadne remembered barely clapping for the incoming heroes. They were of no interest to her then. She was the third daughter with no inheritance to her name, useful only to the least of the lesser sons, not military heroes. Ariadne peered around her sister’s shoulders, shunted to the back of the entourage as always, and did so much peering that her mother, the Matriarch, had pinched her ear like she were a child. It was with ear still smarting that she found Lindi.
Lindi was that night, and the color reflected warmly within her dark skin. Ariadne made her excuses to her mother and elder sisters before slinking off, the invisible spare-spare daughter, to find Lindi.
Ariadne came up from behind her and slipped her hands over the other woman’s eyes—a bold thing indeed for such company and one she knew so briefly!—and yet it seemed natural. “Guess who?” Ariadne urged, smiling.
When Lindi turned, catching one of Ariadne’s hands in hers, Ariadne did indeed get a sight of that smile. Lindi smiled, all teeth, wide and white, but it is not the firmest detail in Ariadne’s mind.
No, it is the sound of Lindi’s voice, light and pleased, as beautiful as her dress. “You remembered,” Lindi said, and
Ariadne held tight to the other woman’s hand so she would not cover her smile.
3. A Stolen Kiss
This memory is short.
In a dark corner, tucked behind a curtain spilling from a large column, with Ariadne leaning her back against the cool column, and Lindi leaning near her, hand by Ariadne’s head, too close to be polite but Ariadne could not care. Then Lindi said, “I hope you only think me bold,” and kissed her, full on the lips. Just a peck, just a little thing, over too soon, and still a blush blossomed across Ariadne’s face as though it were the first time.
Lindi gave a smile, a small one, and cupped Ariadne’s flushed cheek in a hand. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?” Lindi asked, rubbing her thumb over Ariadne’s cheek.
Heated, Ariadne managed only to say, “If you remember.”
4. Loving You
The first time they made love is a haze. It is hot and wet and salty, but faded. As though from a dream, there is a light film over the entire occasion, preventing a proper coherent memory. It is minutes of ecstasy. The feeling of sex with one’s eyes closed, the memory of her own chest rising and compressing under another’s body.
Lindi made the first move. Ariadne echoed, only a beat off the other woman’s rhythm.
5. I Remember Her
Ariadne remembered pining for days, with only the fading memory of Lindi’s fingers upon her skin to sate her.
When Ariadne found her, Lindi startled, looked behind herself as if expecting Ariadne to address someone else. Ariadne checked for onlookers, then caught Lindi’s chin in her fingers and kissed her.
“But, yesterday was Saturday,” Lindi said when they parted.
“Yes,” Lady Ariadne replied, dragging out the sound of the word. “What’s that got to do with anything, silly?”