The Courtesan and the Samurai

by Lesley Downer

  ‘Please … don’t leave me here,’ Hana gasped.

  There was a thud as the great doors slammed, leaving her alone in the dark and cold.

  When her eyes had grown used to the blackness Hana looked around desperately. There had to be some way to escape, but there was nothing, only shelves stacked with sheets and pillows and piles of boxes and broken trunks, picked out in the thread of light that filtered between the massive doors. Slumping against a locked chest, she wept with rage and fury and terror.

  As the line of light moved with agonizing slowness across the floor, she twisted and turned but the ropes were firmly knotted around her wrists and ankles. Finally she managed to wriggle into a sitting position and toss back the long strands of hair that tumbled across her face. She was bruised and covered in dust, her nails were broken and her fingers torn and bleeding.

  Sobbing, she ran through the events of the day before, trying to work out the moment when she should have realized what was happening. She saw Fuyu’s pinched face and hard eyes and heard her wheedling tones as she spoke to the old woman. ‘I’m sure we can come to some arrangement,’ she had said. Some arrangement … The words sent a chill through her. Surely even Fuyu couldn’t have done something quite so terrible? Surely she couldn’t have sold her … The thought loomed like a monster in the darkness, pressing down on Hana, crushing her with its presence.

  If it really was true, she was doomed, she thought. Her only hope now was to be docile. Then perhaps these people would let down their guard and give her a chance to escape.

  She had daydreamed about the Yoshiwara so much and now she was here – but it was a dreadful place, entirely different from her imaginings. She remembered how she used to pore over the pages of The Plum Calendar, imagining herself walking the Five Streets. The characters in the story had seemed like old friends – sweet-natured Ocho, the ravishing geisha Yonehachi and the beautiful playboy Tanjiro, whom they both desired. She’d read the book so often she could recite whole passages from it.

  Trapped with her ancient parents-in-law and a husband she didn’t know and who was never there, she’d escaped into its fantasy world, filling her mind with stories of the fabulous walled city where night never fell. She’d even packed it in her bundle and brought it with her.

  But at the back of her mind she’d always known that a samurai girl like herself could never be Ocho or Yonehachi, except in the pages of a romance. It had all been fine while it was just a daydream. But now she was here, she realized how foolish she had been.

  As the cold crept from the hard floor into her bones, Hana huddled into a ball and pressed her knees to her chin, shivering, too frozen even to think any more.

  She had no idea how many hours had passed when she heard the slow grate of a bolt and the door creaked open. She’d been praying for someone to release her but now she was afraid to see who might step through the door. As a shaft of pale light flooded the room, falling on the shelves and dusty chests and piled-up boxes, Hana shrank back, dreading the crunch of heavy male feet. But instead she heard the patter of wooden clogs and caught a whiff of sandalwood and ambergris.

  ‘There’s no need to look so sorry for yourself.’ Tama’s voice was startlingly loud in the silence. ‘I don’t know why they’ve been so soft on you. They usually beat runaways to within an inch of their life.’

  Framed in a square of light, Tama stood staring down at Hana, her large mouth open in a yawn, her words forming puffs of steam in the frozen air. She was wearing a plain indigo-blue cotton kimono with a thick collar, like a maid. It was hard to imagine that this heavy-featured girl was the same as the painted vision Hana had seen the night before.

  ‘I’m not a runaway,’ Hana gasped. ‘They don’t own me.’

  Tama gave a snort of laughter.

  ‘You wives, you’re all so innocent,’ she said. She crouched down and started to undo Hana’s knots. ‘Of course they own you. Or do you think your husband’s suddenly going to turn up and repay your debt?’

  As the last knot was untied Hana stretched, rubbing her frozen limbs. So Fuyu had sold her. Hot tears filled her eyes and trickled down her cheeks.

  ‘What are you making such a fuss about?’ demanded Tama, taking a quilt from a corner and bundling her up in it. ‘It’s a fine life here. Work hard and you’ll make a good living. You might even be able to work your way out if you’re so eager to leave. Just behave well and Auntie and Father will be like a real auntie and father to you. You’ll be their favourite child, you’ll see.’

  ‘Silk crêpe,’ said Tama, lifting the sleeve of a kimono to show off the design. ‘Tenmei period. Been in this house for generations.’

  It was an exquisite garment in an intense shade of blue with a crimson lining which flashed at the cuffs and around the hem. The skirts were embroidered with plum branches sprinkled with blossom, so realistic they could have been alive, and gold characters swirled across the back and sleeves.

  Hana felt the weight of the garment and the softness of the fabric. She had heard that courtesans wore splendid kimonos but she had never before seen such lavish silks and satins. Her own family had been far from wealthy and her parents-in-law too had kept a modest household. Apart from her beloved red silk wedding robe, she had never worn anything but homespun cotton kimonos.

  ‘You see?’ said Tama. ‘We live well here.’

  Five days had passed and so far nothing terrible had happened. Hana had seen no more of the old woman and the old man. Rolled up in quilts, she had spent the days recovering from her ordeal. She had even been able to retrieve her bundle, which was now tucked away safely in a corner. When she was left alone for a moment, she checked that the contents – the kimonos, the cosmetics set and the precious book – were still intact.

  But she hadn’t forgotten that only a few days earlier she had been a samurai’s wife, pacing the rooms of a silent house; nor could she forget the horrors she had seen as she fled across the city – the desolate streets and ruined houses, the cracked walls and doors gaping open, the ransacked warehouses and the haggard women who lurked, guarding their territory like wild dogs. Again and again in her dreams she saw the deserted streets and woke up gasping and covered in sweat, hearing footsteps pounding after her, seeing women’s hungry faces rising from the ruins.

  Often she dreamed of her parents and her beloved grandmother with her skin like parchment and her bony wrists. If they’d known where she was now they would have been horrified, she thought. But then tears would come to her eyes as she remembered that they were all dead, and her parents-in-law too. The only person who might still be alive was her husband, but he was far away.

  Then she thought of the woman she had passed in the corridor, the woman with the shrill voice who had said that the ships had sailed. She was Hana’s only link to that distant world where men were fighting and dying and where her husband was.

  But as the days went by the memories became fainter, until they started to seem like dreams themselves. Perhaps life in the Yoshiwara was not so dreadful after all. For the time being, at least, Hana was required simply to watch and learn.

  Tama, Hana now knew, was the house’s star courtesan. She had a suite of three rooms – a parlour, a reception room and the sleeping chamber where Hana had slept along with Tama and some of her maids and attendants. The largest, the reception room, was splendidly furnished with an alcove in which stood a vase with plum branches arranged in it and above it a hanging scroll with a painting of a crane. Beside the alcove there were shelves of books and musical instruments propped along the wall. There was also a deep lacquered tray, the sort where one would lay guests’ coats, a kimono rack and a six-panelled screen covered in gold leaf.

  Hanging on the wall was a board with four words brushed on it: ‘Pine, chrysanthemum, eternal, are.’ Hana knew what the phrase meant: like the pine and the chrysanthemum that bloomed in winter when other flowers had died, a courtesan’s charms endured for ever. Only it wasn’t true, she thought. Even the ugly old
woman must have been beautiful once.

  ‘Auntie’, Hana had discovered, was what everyone called the old woman and Hana too had to call her that, though it certainly didn’t mean that anyone was related to anyone else. Auntie was the manager of the house and nothing escaped her gaze.

  In Tama’s sleeping chamber the bedding was so thick and piled so high it nearly touched the woven bamboo of the ceiling. There were tall rectangular mirrors on stands and tubs of creams, paints and powders scattered across the floor, together with lamps, a chest of drawers and a brazier with a kettle steaming on it. Silken kimonos embroidered with lavish designs, gleaming with gold and silver, hung along the wall and on kimono racks, filling the room with their jewel-like colours. Some were draped over incense burners. Hana had never seen such beautiful things in her whole life.

  At first she gazed around, wide-eyed with delight, but little by little the opulence began to make her feel uncomfortable. It didn’t seem right to be surrounded by luxury when there was so much hardship and suffering outside the gates.

  Once Hana managed to peek outside Tama’s suite and caught a glimpse of the closed doors of other rooms stretching along the corridor. In the evening she heard chatting and laughter as men were ushered in. From time to time she caught the sound of a pipe being tapped impatiently on a bamboo spittoon as a client waited for Tama to arrive. In the small hours Hana would be woken by ecstatic grunts and groans bursting through the thin paper walls. Tama’s were particularly loud. Hana tried to sleep through it all but sometimes, despite herself, she was stirred to excitement by the yelps of pleasure.

  As far as Hana could see, Tama entertained four or five clients a night, going from one room to the next. Sometimes she stayed for an hour or two, sometimes less, then she would come back looking perfectly composed, smoothing her hair and adjusting her kimono with a yawn.

  ‘This is my home,’ said Tama to Hana one morning, as they knelt together in the reception room, warming their hands at the brazier. All around was flurry and bustle as maids swept feverishly, poking brooms along the tops of the carved wooden lintels and into the corners of the ceiling.

  ‘I was a little girl when I came here,’ Tama went on. ‘My parents were poor and I was pretty, so it made sense to sell me. I still visit them from time to time and give them money. They’re doing well now. They have a big thatched house and grow so much rice they can sell it and make a profit. My brothers and sisters have married well too, and it’s all thanks to me. So you see, I’ve been a good daughter, I’ve done my duty by them. I remember what a fuss I made when I first got here, just like you did, but do you really think I regret leaving that place? Do you think I’d rather be living in the mountains, hacking the soil with a hoe? I’d be an old lady already.’

  Hana opened her mouth to protest that it was different for her, that she was a samurai, not a peasant; but then she remembered that everything had changed. Her family was dead and her husband had gone to war.

  ‘From the moment Auntie saw me she knew I was something special,’ said Tama. ‘People told me she had been the most accomplished courtesan the quarter had ever known. She taught me the traditions and customs and how to dance and play the shamisen. I got punished too, worse than you, a lot worse. I had to go out on the roof of the house right in the middle of winter and stand there for hours, singing at the top of my voice. I got beaten, too, when I tried to run away. Once I got thrown downstairs so hard I broke my arm. But you have to be punished if you’re going to learn anything. It takes time to understand how we do things here, but I got over it and you will too.’

  ‘Can’t you see?’ Hana retorted. ‘There’s a war going on, that’s why I’m here! Men are fighting and dying, and women too. How can you talk about something so trivial as your customs and your dancing when everything is going up in flames?’

  Tama smiled grandly and patted Hana’s arm.

  ‘My dear girl, the only thing that matters here is whether we have customers or not. Peace is better than war, but now the north is losing, we have lots of southern customers coming in. You’ve heard of the floating world? That’s us, we’re just pond weed. It doesn’t matter what sort of water it is, we float. The only difference the war makes is that we get another sort of woman turning up – quality women, like you, and that’s good for business. As to who wins or loses, what difference do you think it makes to me? None!’

  At the far side of the reception room, young women knelt playing cards, chattering like a flock of birds.

  ‘My attendants,’ said Tama, waving a large-fingered hand in their direction. Some Hana recognized. They’d run in and out as she lay in her quilts, shouting and laughing as if they had not a care in the world. In the evening they looked like birds of paradise in their brilliantly coloured kimonos with quilted hems layered one above the other. Now, in the daytime, with no guests around, they were bundled up in warm padded garments.

  Hana listened to their lilting Yoshiwara brogue with its quaint turns of phrase. It was a coy, flirtatious, silvery language designed to wrap a man around one’s little finger, quite different from the prim tones of a samurai wife. She wondered who they were, these girls, where they came from and why they were here. Some were plain with big mouths and fleshy cheeks, while others looked more refined, but the accent covered up all their differences. Well trained and well groomed, they knew how to preen and look coy. Their origins had entirely disappeared: they were Yoshiwara girls now.

  Tama beckoned them imperiously and they came forward one by one to be introduced.

  ‘Kawanoto,’ said Tama, as a girl with a gentle face and big doe eyes pressed her forehead to her hands. ‘My number one attendant. She had her début the year before last.’

  ‘Kawagishi, Kawanagi.’ Two girls knelt side by side and bowed, one short and smiling, the other long-limbed and willowy. Other young women knelt behind them.

  ‘Kawayu, Kawasui … They’re all Kawa something,’ said Tama. ‘I’m Tamagawa – Tama and Kawa. I’ve given them all part of my name to show they’re my attendants. Anyone who meets them knows they belong to me, so they have to behave themselves!’

  They were the strangest names Hana had ever heard, not ordinary women’s names at all but more like the names of shops or kabuki actors. Kawanoto, the girl with the big innocent eyes – the name meant ‘river mouth’ – took a long iron-stemmed pipe from the tobacco box on the floor and filled the tiny clay bowl. She held a piece of charcoal to it and took a couple of puffs until it glowed, then handed it to Tama with a bow. Tama raised it to her lips, little finger extended. She took a puff and blew a ring of blue smoke. It hung in the air, twisting and elongating before it disappeared.

  She tilted her head. ‘Now, what’s all this about being able to write?’ she said softly. ‘How can that be, when you can barely talk properly? Auntie told me you bragged about it.’

  Hana felt a spark of hope. Maybe they planned to use her as a scribe after all. She was about to say, ‘Of course I can write, I’m a samurai, I’m well brought up,’ but then she remembered and bit her lip. Doing her best to speak with a Yoshiwara lilt, she bowed her head and murmured, ‘To tell you the truth, I can write, just a little. If I can be of any use …’

  ‘Not bad,’ said Tama. ‘You’re trying.’

  She was handing the pipe back to Kawanoto when the door slid open with a bang and a child in a brilliant red kimono burst in, the bells on her sleeves tinkling and her under-kimonos rippling beneath the quilted hem. She skidded up to Tama, dropped to her knees, placed her hands neatly on the tatami and announced at the top of her voice, ‘I saw him.’

  ‘Softly, softly,’ said Tama, beaming at the child. ‘Here.’ She waved to an elderly maid who gave the child a bean jam cake. The little girl smiled proudly. She was an exquisite child with a heart-shaped face, button nose and huge black eyes. Her hair was swept up and topped with a crown of silk flowers. She turned to Hana and bowed prettily.

  ‘How long have you been here, Chidori? Three years? And
how old are you? Seven? You see,’ said Tama, turning to Hana, ‘she already speaks nicely and knows how to behave. Chidori’s one of my junior attendants. You can learn from her.’

  Chidori meant ‘plover’. The name suited her perfectly, Hana thought; she was like a bright-eyed bird, darting and skipping about.

  ‘You’re sure it was him?’ Tama was saying.

  ‘Yes, it was master Shojiro. Coming out of the Tsuruya.’

  ‘The Tsuruya … ?’ Tama wrinkled her forehead and her face darkened. ‘And who might he have been seeing there, I wonder?’

  ‘I stood right in the middle of the road. He came creeping out, looking to left and right. When he saw me, he went quite pale.’

  ‘And so he should. How dare he think he can deceive me! That Yugao, she’s cast a spell over him.’ Tama paused for a moment. ‘We’ll deal with him first and take care of her later. Now, you. Can you write a love letter?’ she asked, turning to Hana, who was waiting quietly on her knees.

  ‘A love letter?’ For a moment Hana was at a loss. Then she cast her mind back to the romantic poems she had learned as a child. She thought of The Plum Calendar and the words Ocho had used when she spoke to Tanjiro. ‘To Shojiro?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Tama with an exasperated sigh. ‘I’m going to punish Shojiro, not favour him with a letter. No, to Mataemon. He’s a southerner and hasn’t been coming here long. He hasn’t a clue how to behave, but a bit of encouragement will set him alight. We need to make him think I’m mad for him!’

  There were writing materials on the tatami beside a candle with a square paper shade. Hana ground some ink, trying to conjure up The Plum Calendar as she rubbed the ink stick back and forth on the stone.

  ‘What about this?’ she asked. ‘ “Shall I have to sleep/All alone again tonight/On my narrow mat/Unable to meet again/The man for whom I long?” Something like that?’

  ‘My, my,’ said Tama, her voice rippling sarcastically. ‘A girl with a classical education! It’s a little high-flown for Mataemon. Write this: “Last night you were in my dreams but I woke to find you gone and now my pillow is wet with tears. I yearn to see you.” Do several. I can use them for different clients.’