Blinded with rage and hatred, he pictured Kitaro’s body on the moonlit ground. His blood was roaring in his ears. He knew that if the Commander went for his sword he would kill him instantly and Kitaro would never be avenged. He fumbled for a cartridge, pushed it into his rifle and set it to his shoulder.
For a moment he hesitated, his finger on the trigger. To fire on one of his own commanding officers was a capital offence. He’d be shamed, court-martialled and sentenced to death. But the war was over and they were all going to die anyway. He reminded himself that the Commander had executed many of his own men. He saw the list of rules in the training hall, all ending with death by ritual suicide. If the Commander fell, all his men had to go down with him; that had been the most blood-chilling of all.
Still Yozo couldn’t bring himself to pull the trigger. But then Kitaro’s dead face swam before his eyes. He had promised to avenge him, he had given his word, and the duty of revenge took priority over all others. It was a matter of honour. He would shoot the Commander down like a dog, as brutally as Kitaro had been killed.
Yozo tightened his finger on the trigger. There was a bang, deafeningly loud, a plume of smoke puffed out of the barrel and the butt slammed into his shoulder as the rifle recoiled.
Through the smoke he saw the Commander lurch, his eyes and mouth open and blood spurting from his stomach. Slowly he stumbled backwards and his arms flew out. For a moment his eyes met Yozo’s and Yozo fancied he saw a look on the Commander’s face, a look almost of surprise. Then he staggered and crashed to the ground. Yozo heard the thump as he fell.
Shaking, Yozo ran towards him. He wanted to check that he was really dead. Then a bullet whistled past Yozo’s ear and he swung round and caught a glimpse of a black uniform and a conical helmet. It was the southern sniper he’d been searching for.
Yozo knew he should raise his rifle, but he no longer cared whether he lived or died. The Commander’s death poem echoed in his ears: ‘Though my body may decay on the island of Ezo …’ He’d stayed alive all these months knowing that he had to avenge Kitaro’s death. But he’d done that now and he could die with honour.
Yozo turned to face the enemy guns and, as he did so, he saw the events of his life pass before his eyes. Yes, he thought, this was how it was meant to be. He would die here beside the Commander and his body too would decay on the island of Ezo.
Summer
19
Hana braced the toes of her right foot against the thong of her clog and lifted it a little, testing the weight. The huge heavy clogs were like shiny black hooves, raising her so tall she could see over the heads of everyone around her. Outside she heard the murmur of the crowd, the chink of the iron rings at the top of the firemen’s staffs as they struck them on the ground and their hoarse shouts, ‘Stand back, stand back! Make way for Hanaogi of the Corner Tamaya!’
She was perfectly painted, from the petal of red on her lower lip to her white-powdered hands and feet. Her toenails were stained with safflower juice a delicate shade of pink, her hair was oiled and padded and moulded into an enormous halo, split like a peach, with silken tassels swinging at the back, and her headdress, spiked with tortoiseshell and silver hairpins and dangling mother-of-pearl ornaments, was so heavy it made her neck ache. Inside the sumptuous kimonos her chest prickled with the heat, but she was barely aware of it. There was something else on her mind.
‘Are you sure it’ll be all right?’ she whispered, throwing a last desperate glance at Tama, who was straightening her obi. Tama was dressed in lavish kimonos exactly like Hana’s, with a brocade coat over the top embroidered with a white crane on the shoulder and a silver and gold tortoise across the back and skirts.
‘Yes, of course. Just concentrate on your figure eight.’ Tama smiled, momentarily revealing the black-painted teeth in the white face. ‘Do exactly as I taught you.’
‘What is it?’ wheezed Auntie. She too was in her best kimono, an elegant black silk affair with a red obi. Her eyes were startlingly yellow in her chalky face, her lips a livid slash of red.
‘As always,’ said Tama. ‘What to do when he finds out …’
The old woman drew back her lips in a smile and patted Hana’s arm.
‘Don’t you worry about that, my dear,’ she cooed. ‘He’ll be so excited he won’t even notice. They never do.’
‘Just make sure he has a good time,’ said Tama. ‘Do everything I taught you and you’ll do well. Enough worrying. It’s time to go.’
The door slid open and a hot damp breeze wafted in, bringing with it enticing smells of grilling sparrows and roasting eel, charcoal and woodsmoke, and the scent of the purple irises that bloomed along the central boulevard. The child attendants adjusted their faces and stepped solemnly out, Chidori carrying Hana’s smoking set in a silk cloth in her plump hand and Namiji holding her writing materials. The four attendants, Kawanoto and Kawayu, plump smiling Kawagishi and willowy Kawanagi, followed in height order, smallest first, in identical red kimonos. After a suitable pause Tama strutted out on her enormous clogs, quilted hems swinging.
Auntie tugged Hana’s collars, straightened the bow of her obi and adjusted the hems of her kimonos. ‘Remember, take your time,’ she said. ‘Keep your head high. Make them look up to you!’
Lifting her skirts with her left hand, Hana rested her right on the shoulder of one of the menservants, took a breath and stepped out into the steamy air. There were gasps and the sound of breath being drawn in, then utter silence. The men gazed at her, rapt. Hana surveyed them through her lashes – the shiny shaven pates, the gleaming topknots, the wide eyes and jaws gaping open. She might be a chattel to be sold to the highest bidder, she thought, but she would never let them see the smallest hint of anger or pain. She would make them look up to her, just as Auntie had said. She drew herself up and looked straight ahead. Every movement, every gesture, had to be perfect.
Hana had practised the figure-eight walk until her legs were aching and her feet rubbed raw by the thongs of her clogs. It had been hard enough to learn to balance on the tall unwieldy footwear, let alone to make every step graceful and seductive, to swivel her foot provocatively and let her body sway as she moved; and this was the first time she’d had to do it for real.
Now she tilted her right foot till the clog was nearly on its side, kicked it out and traced a wide semicircle in the dust. In the silence she could hear the inner edge scraping along the ground. Her skirts opened, allowing the onlookers a glimpse of a slim white ankle and a flash of crimson crêpe de chine, before the heavy fabric fell back into place. She planted her foot in front of her, turning it out like the character for eight. Then she took a breath, rocked delicately back and forward, and, with a toss of her shoulder and hip, she kicked out her left clog, dragged it around in an arc and brought it up to join the right.
Beside her, Tama promenaded with the same fantastic gait. Chidori and Namiji progressed in front like two little boats tugging two great ships, with a flotilla of attendants and servants bringing up the rear. There were menservants in front and behind. One carried a huge lantern with the peony crest of the Corner Tamaya, two held oiled parasols over Hana’s and Tama’s heads, while others pushed back the crowd and scurried about clearing twigs and dead leaves from the path.
Hana breathed the moist air of the summer evening, lost herself in the beat of the drum, the jangle of the rings on the firemen’s staffs, the murmur of the crowd. Raised on her clogs, she could look out over the sea of heads to the rows of red lanterns glowing along the eaves, making the street as bright as day. From below came awed whispers. ‘It’s Hanaogi, Hanaogi. As beautiful as a dream.’
The procession made its way from the Corner Tamaya along Edo-cho 1 through the gate at the end of the street, then along the grand boulevard to the Chrysanthemum Teahouse, by the Great Gate. On a normal day Hana could run there in a moment or two but today it took her an hour.
From the teahouses along the boulevard came the twang of shamisens, the chink of sake cups and the sound of
singing and laughter. Men’s voices mingled with the high-pitched tones of women and people crowded the balconies, staring down at the procession.
At the door of the Chrysanthemum Teahouse servants helped Hana down from her clogs. Mitsu was waiting on her hands and knees. ‘Welcome, welcome,’ she cried.
Hana smiled at her. In the months since they had first met, Hana had attended many parties at the teahouse and often sat on the bench outside in the daytime when there were no clients around, enjoying a pipe. They were old friends now.
Ushering the party into the shady hallway, Mitsu slid open a door. Chidori and Namiji went in first, bobbing politely. The attendants filed in next, then Tama swept in. Kneeling outside in the hallway, Hana heard her voice, loud and clear: ‘Gentlemen, please welcome our new star courtesan: Hanaogi!’
Keeping her eyes lowered, Hana slipped in.
She was in a banqueting hall glimmering with gold and lit by sputtering candles in huge golden candlesticks. Men sat cross-legged at low tables overflowing with dishes of food and flasks of sake, their faces flushed. Geishas and a couple of jesters sat among them.
Right in the middle was the man who had paid for the whole celebration, the man who would be her patron for the night. Hana smiled as she saw the broad face and sensual mouth. His slanting eyes were fixed on her with a look of naked desire.
It was strange to think that she knew him far better than she ever had her own husband. They had sat together over sake and talked; he had told her she was beautiful and had been kind to her and brought her presents – rolls of kimono fabric, luxurious bedding. He had even asked her about herself, though she had been careful to give only the vaguest of answers. He was not handsome in a classical way, she realized, but he was obviously brilliant and ambitious. He had an appealing energy about him and he was young, only a few years older than her. And as she knew, he was a southerner, though little by little his dialect had begun to sound softer to her ears.
Until now, Hana had always thought of the conquerors of their city as brutish uncultured men. She had told herself that the war would soon come to an end and they would all be gone. But the news only grew worse and worse. No one came looking for her; no one arrived to claim her, redeem her debt and take her away. And they were good clients, these southerners. They booked her; they paid their bills.
There was only one worry. This man had paid for her virginity, but he would soon discover that she was not a virgin at all. ‘It’s the same with everyone,’ Tama had told her. ‘Women sell their virginity again and again. For him it’s enough to be known as the first patron of a famous courtesan.’ Still, she wondered how he would feel when he discovered; and she hoped she would remember everything Tama had taught her.
It seemed an interminable length of time before Tama finished smoothing her skirts and raised a red-lacquered saucer full to the brim with sake. ‘Well, gentlemen, this is indeed an auspicious day,’ she trilled. ‘Here’s to Masaharu-sama, our host, and the new courtesan of the Corner Tamaya, Hanaogi!’
Men, courtesans, geishas and jesters raised red saucers and downed the cold sake. ‘Masaharu-sama! Lucky fellow!’ one shouted. ‘Make the best of it!’ yelled another.
One of the guests stood up and made a speech about how Masaharu’s military exploits and brilliant career faded to nothing when compared to his conquest of the loveliest courtesan ever to be seen in the Yoshiwara. He rambled on, swaying and slurring his words, his eyes like slits in his puffy face.
Masaharu shuffled impatiently. He too was flushed. Perhaps he had drunk so much he would fall asleep as soon as the meal was over, Hana thought. She didn’t know if she would be pleased or sorry.
At long last the banquet was over and Hana was back in her chamber at the Corner Tamaya. Her attendants removed her headdress and hairpins and dressed her in a thin, almost transparent night garment, tying the silken obi so that it would come undone easily, and tucking sheets of folded paper tissues into the belt.
She hesitated for a moment and took a deep breath, then slid open the door of the bedroom. Masaharu was leaning on an armrest, sipping sake and smoking a pipe with a long silver stem. The kimonos she had worn that evening were draped on racks around the room, shimmering with gold and silver, and the wadded damask bedding and black velvet coverlet were laid out. A couple of lamps burned. He held out his hand as she closed the door behind her.
‘Never has a man persisted so long with only the reward of seeing your beautiful face!’ he said, stretching out his long slender fingers. She was aware of the faint scent of his skin, his tawny high-boned face, the excitement that burned in his eyes. ‘You’ve enchanted me.’
She stood looking down at him, aware of the picture she made with her slender body enfolded not by layers of heavy fabric but only the diaphanous silk gauze of the long, loose night robe.
‘I know how it is with you men,’ she said teasingly. ‘You love to hunt but once you’ve captured the deer …’
‘Ah, but you’re not just any deer …’
He reached up and tugged her obi and her robe fell open, then grabbed her hands and pulled her down on top of him. Laughing, she tried to resist but he was too powerful for her. He rolled over and put his mouth to hers and she felt a tingle run through her, as of something awakening deep inside her. She realized she’d never before felt the soft touch of lips on hers or known how arousing it could be. Whenever she had lain with her husband it had been a peremptory affair which took place late at night, in the dark. She’d always hoped it would be over quickly and lain waiting for him to slump on top of her and push her aside. She had never imagined it could be like this.
‘Let me look at you,’ said Masaharu. He tugged down the collar of her robe and began to lick and nibble the soft skin at the nape of her neck.
‘I can’t believe I have you to myself,’ he whispered. He licked her throat and chest, then put his lips to her nipple. She quivered and closed her eyes as he brushed his hand along the inside of her soft white thighs. Tama had taught her how to fake pleasure but tonight she knew she wouldn’t need to.
Gently he pushed her legs apart. She was glad she kept her hair neatly plucked and clipped. Tama had told her that a man could tell the degree of a woman’s sexual skill by the way her hair was trimmed and she knew by the sureness of his touch that Masaharu was an adept.
She felt the warmth of his breath as he gazed, murmuring, ‘Beautiful, like a rose,’ then began softly stroking and tugging and pressing, exploring every crevice until he found her tenderest place, which no one but she had ever touched before.
‘The precious jewel,’ he whispered, and as she felt his tongue lapping, licking up the juices that welled out, she remembered Tama saying that men thought of a woman’s juices as the elixir of life. Then a spasm overtook her, blotting out her thoughts, surging through her until she no longer knew what he was doing and making her cry out in a voice she hardly recognized as her own.
After a while she raised herself on her elbow and brushed her fingers across Masaharu’s slim young body, admiring his smooth skin and firm muscles. Remembering Tama’s lessons, she ran her tongue down his chest and across his nipples, tasting the salt, enjoying his groans of delight. Then she took his penis in her mouth – the Jade Stalk, Tama had called it – and began to lick and suck it, playing it like an instrument, drawing out his pleasure, hearing him groan as she brought him close to release, then pausing before bringing him close again.
Finally she climbed on top of him and began to move and felt the hot spurt inside her as his body arched and he let out a shout.
‘You’re too cruel,’ he groaned, panting. ‘I wanted to conserve my seed. Now we’ll just have to start all over again.’
Laughing, she flung her arms around him. The night was just beginning.
20
A month had passed since Hana had made her début. She was expected to accept clients for more than just sake and chit-chat now, but there were other more subtle changes. People treated her diffe
rently and she felt different too. She carried herself with a new confidence. Admittedly she was a prisoner with a debt to repay and there were clients she would have preferred not to sleep with, but that was a woman’s lot. There had been no delight in sleeping with her husband either. Now, when she looked back at her old life, she felt as if she had been even more of a prisoner then.
Hana loved the early afternoons when there were no clients around and she could sit with her hair carelessly tied in a knot, in a thin summer kimono, fanning herself and smoking a pipe or sipping iced tea from a thick ceramic beaker. As soon as she had bathed and dressed on this steamy summer day, she strolled around the corner to Otsuné’s house. As she ambled along she thought back to what Otsuné had said the day after her début.
They had been downing chilled buckwheat noodles which Otsuné had bought from a passing vendor, dunking them by the chopstickful into small cups of dipping sauce spiced with horse-radish and scallions and consuming them with a slurp.
‘Auntie’s proud of you,’ she had said. ‘Business had gone down badly at the Corner Tamaya – all over the quarter, in fact – but now you’ve brought it back to life. Men love you, that’s what Tama says. You were wasted being a wife and hiding your talents away.’
‘I only have a few clients,’ Hana had replied, smiling. ‘Auntie said I was to say No as often as I liked and make them wait as long as I liked.’
‘That way they’ll want you more and more, so your price will rise and Auntie’ll make more and more money,’ Otsuné reminded her sternly. ‘It’s all to do with money, don’t forget that.’
Hana smiled to herself. The air was hot and humid and the sun beat down on her. Bamboo screens hung all along the upper storeys to keep the interiors shady and cool. She could hear the tinkle of wind chimes and smell the flowers planted along the Yoshiwara’s lanes. On the street everyone bowed to her as she passed.
The Courtesan and the Samurai Page 16