‘Let’s get out of here,’ he shouted, grabbing at Yozo’s arm. But as Yozo tried to follow, he lost his grip and the guards, who had scrambled back on to their feet, closed in around him. The northern soldier turned and Yozo could see him struggling to get back, until he was swallowed up in the crowd.
Yozo cursed. He’d managed to do exactly what he’d promised Marlin he wouldn’t – get into trouble. If the guards arrested him, they’d discover he was on the run, Marlin and Otsuné would be punished and the plan to rescue Enomoto would be ended before it had even begun. He had put his hand on his dagger and turned to face his assailants, when there was a piercing screech.
‘Stop that, right now!’
Silence fell as a steely-eyed crone, sheathed in black from head to toe, bore down on him. She had a crinkled, malevolent death mask of a face and a shiny black wig perched on her head and was flailing her cane. Yozo flinched as the stick cracked down on his skull. She had raised her arm to hit him again when there was a rustle of silk.
‘Auntie, Auntie. I know this man.’
Yozo pulled himself free of the guards and swung round. Women in gorgeous kimonos with painted faces had emerged from the house and were standing in the entranceway. Right at the back, almost hidden from view, was a delicate figure, tiny and exquisite. Her hair was in an ornate coil and she wore a kimono that shimmered voluptuously in the sun, but beneath the finery Yozo knew her. It was Hana.
In the hush every word rang out clearly. ‘He’s one of my staff – a terrible troublemaker – and I take full responsibility. Guards, let him go.’
The guards fell to their knees, bowing. ‘Yes, madam,’ they grunted. ‘Sorry, madam.’ They stood up and backed off, muttering curses.
‘It’s Otsuné’s cousin from the countryside,’ Yozo heard Hana say to the old woman. ‘I promised I’d keep an eye on him.’
She stepped forward and waved her hand dismissively at Yozo. ‘You – the maids will take you to my rooms. Stay there and behave yourself until someone comes with orders.’
As the maids ushered him away, Yozo caught a glimpse of a huge figure coming out of the main entrance on stubby legs. The man turned towards him and Yozo thought he caught a glint of recognition in his bulging eyes. Then the man climbed into the palanquin and the porters heaved it on to their shoulders, groaning, their faces purple and the veins standing out on their foreheads.
As the palanquin moved away, a thick finger prodded open the bamboo blind at the back and the beady eye reappeared. He was staring at Hana.
The blind remained open as the palanquin carved a path through the bowing crowd and careered into the distance with its train of liveried servants scampering behind.
29
Yozo stood awkwardly at the entrance to Hana’s luxurious living room. In the soft light that filtered through the paper screens that walled one side of the room, he could see that the floor was covered in trays of half-eaten food, broken chopsticks and overturned sake flasks – debris from an extraordinarily extravagant banquet. Incense had been thrown on the brazier and the scent suffused the room, a complex blend of aloe, sandalwood and myrrh. Yozo recognized it – it was the fragrance that wafted from Hana’s sleeves.
So this is where she belongs, he thought, bemused. While he could be perfectly at home on board ship or in a fort or on the battlefield with a rifle slung on his back, here, in a sea of hangings, drapes and kimonos, he felt distinctly out of place. Once he might have been able to afford a woman such as this, but now, in his current straitened circumstances, she was way beyond his means.
But there was something poignant about the place, too. Luxurious though it was, he knew she couldn’t leave. The courtesans of Europe might have chosen their profession but she was trapped here, like a bird in a golden cage.
He prowled up and down. He should be outside on the street, he thought, frowning, searching out comrades, not lingering in a prostitute’s parlour. Yet still he stayed. After all, he told himself, he had to thank Hana for intervening and saving him from arrest. But there was another bond that held him too, to do with Hana herself.
Something else was bothering him – the toad-like man he’d seen climbing into the palanquin. He remembered the fear on Hana’s face when she’d heard the bell toll the previous afternoon. Could it have been because she knew she would have to spend the night with him? Looking around the room, Yozo saw that the cushions in front of the gilded screen were squashed flat as if a huge body had lain on them. He punched his fist into his hand and grimaced, picturing the fellow he had seen enjoying himself here in Hana’s boudoir.
A couple of steps took him across the room to the sleeping chamber. He stared at the pile of bedding in the corner – finest silken damask, red crêpe with black velvet borders, heavily scented. Kimonos hung on the walls and on racks and there was a sword rack pushed to the side of the room, but he saw with relief that the futons were scattered around the floor as if a courtesan and her attendants had slept there, not laid out side by side as they would have been for a courtesan and a guest.
Something metallic was poking out from under a kimono. It was a box, not lacquered or inlaid with ivory like the kind a client would give a courtesan, but a plain metal box such as soldiers carried. He had one himself. It was a shock to see it amid the perfumed silks of Hana’s sleeping chamber. She must have had a husband or lover or brother or father who had been in the war and had sent it back, he thought. He turned away. The war was behind him and he wanted to keep it that way. Stifled by the swathes of fabric, the quilted kimonos, the perfumes, creams and powders, he hurried back to the reception room.
Sitting cross-legged on the brocade cushions, he picked up a long-stemmed pipe. The toad-like man had looked at him as if he knew him, he thought. He was sure he had seen him somewhere before too, though he couldn’t for the life of him think where. Then a faint whiff of opium smoke wafted through the paper screens and in a flash Yozo remembered.
Opium. It had been nearly seven years before, when he and his comrades had been shipwrecked on their way to Holland and had had to spend fifteen days in Java, in the port of Batavia, the most diseased, fever-ridden place he’d ever known. Yozo had been out one night with Enomoto and Kitaro when they’d lost their way and ended up in a maze of alleys reeking of spices, opium and sewage.
They had been stumbling through the darkness along a particularly noxious back street when a door had opened and a girl had burst out and run straight into him, sending him staggering against a crumbling wooden wall. In the glare from the open door, he had caught a glimpse of a white face with slanted eyes and sharp cheekbones, lit with a yellow light. The girl’s mouth was open, contorted with fear, and her pupils huge.
He had been picking himself up when a crowd of men burst out, dragged the girl to her feet and hauled her, screaming and kicking, back inside. Yozo, Enomoto and Kitaro had taken one look at each other and were about to go to her rescue when a dark shadow appeared, filling the doorway. It was a man as bulky as a sumo wrestler, with a small head and eyes that disappeared into folds of puffy flesh, more like the overlord of a Japanese yakuza gang than any local man. The girl too, Yozo realized now, had looked Japanese.
‘What’s going on?’ Yozo had shouted.
‘She’s my property.’ The man had a high-pitched, tinny voice. ‘This is a private matter, no need to trouble yourselves. Thank you for your help, gentlemen.’ As the door slammed shut they had heard screams from inside and sounds of beating and Yozo had realized as he turned away that if he hadn’t blocked the girl’s path she might have escaped.
Much had happened since then and Yozo had almost forgotten the incident. But now he remembered, as clearly as if it had been yesterday, the yellow glare falling from the open door and lighting up the fetid alley, the woman’s pale frightened face, the gleam of the man’s eyes. It had been dark and Yozo had barely glimpsed his face, but it had been so distinctive he could picture it still. He had grown fatter and more bloated since then, but it was t
he same man.
Thinking back, Yozo remembered that they had reported the incident to the Dutch authorities in Batavia; but once he and his friends had found their way out of the maze of alleys they’d realized that they’d never be able to locate the house again. The authorities had told them it was in a part of town that decent people steered well clear of and that the area was rife with criminal gangs engaged in everything from opium trading to trading in women. Japanese women in particular were in great demand, they had heard, to be sold as concubines to wealthy Chinese merchants. There were murders there too and they were advised not to venture that way again.
Yozo picked up a piece of charcoal, held it to the bowl of the pipe and puffed until the tobacco glowed red, thinking hard. It was best to say nothing to Hana. He had no proof and, even if he had, there was nothing she could do about it.
He blew out a plume of smoke. He would have to keep his eyes open, though. If no one else was prepared to shield her from harm, he would make sure he did.
30
Hana paused outside the doors to her rooms and took a breath. She knew plenty of men and Yozo was just another, she told herself sternly, and that was all there was to it. Only it was not, not at all.
She remembered the shouts and scuffling as she had come out of the house a little while earlier, how she had seen Ichimura’s bush of hair bobbing about in the middle of a mob of hoodlums and gasped in horror as he had disappeared under a barrage of whirling arms and topknotted heads.
Then the next moment Yozo had been there. She hadn’t even had time to wonder what he was doing there but had watched, breathless with admiration, as he dispatched the thugs with calm efficiency, delivering punches here and kicks there like a martial arts master. And now – unless he’d run off – he was waiting for her here, in her rooms.
Timidly she slid open the door. Yozo was sitting cross-legged, smoking a pipe. His eyes lit up as he saw her and she shut the door and knelt opposite him. He had smoothed his hair and tidied his clothes and was quite transformed from the rough street fighter she had seen a few moments earlier. She took in the contours of his face, his direct gaze and strong mouth. He was looking rather stern.
‘I thought Otsuné and Jean told you to stay out of trouble,’ Hana said teasingly, trying to keep her voice light and playful.
‘You saved my skin,’ he said, returning her gaze steadily.
She sighed. In her luxurious quarters, surrounded by lavish hangings, with damask cushions neatly arranged beside lacquered tobacco boxes and a pile of futons visible through the double doors in the sleeping chamber, he could have no more doubts about what she was. ‘So my secret’s out,’ she said at last. ‘I so much hoped you would never find out what I do.’
‘You certainly live in great splendour,’ he said, raising an eyebrow. ‘I’ve never seen such luxury. You must have plenty of admirers, so many that you can pick and choose.’ He refilled his pipe, turning the plug of tobacco over and over in his fingers until they were stained brown. When he spoke again his voice was low. ‘But doesn’t it worry you that there’s such a heavy price to pay? I saw the way that man looked at you as he left. You don’t even know who he is, yet you let him fondle your body. How can you bear it?’
Hana recoiled as if he had hit her.
‘None of us has any choice in our lives,’ she retorted, her voice shaking. ‘Not you either. Courtesans are not like other women, we’re another breed. Maybe I wasn’t always so but I realize it now. And I am not ashamed of what I do.’ She drew herself up. ‘Anyway, you’re wrong. I do know who that man is. His name is Saburosuké Kashima and he’s rich, far richer than you’ll ever be.’
Yozo scowled. ‘Rich, you say? Do you know where his money comes from?’
‘He’s a merchant with a huge trading empire.’ Hana tried to keep her voice defiant but it wavered uncertainly. He was looking at her in a way that made her feel uncomfortable.
‘For all you know he might be a money lender who sends thugs to beat people up when they don’t pay him back in time; or he might trade in opium or women.’ Yozo paused. ‘I think I came across him once before, in Batavia. If I’m right, he may be dangerous.’
Hana took her fan from her obi. ‘There are bad men all over the Yoshiwara who come here to hide from the law. I’m not such an innocent as you seem to think. And anyway, I’m perfectly safe here in the Corner Tamaya. Auntie and Father would never let anyone harm me – they’ve invested too much in me.’
Her voice trailed off as she realized she had never talked like this to anyone before. Men paid her to take an interest in them, not tell them about herself. But Yozo didn’t seem interested in her body so much as how she led her life. Suddenly she was touched by his concern. ‘I’m meant to be able to choose who I sleep with – and I always have, until now. But Saburo’s different. If Auntie can make money out of forcing me to sleep with him, then she will, and I’ll have to.’
She leaned towards him. ‘It was Saburo’s first visit, and I was lucky. He fell asleep and slept like a baby all night.’
Yozo tapped out his pipe and spread his hands on his thighs. They were tanned and muscular, a working man’s hands. Hana reached out and put her hand on his. ‘But thank you for caring what happens to me.’
He put his pipe down, sprawled on one elbow and fixed his eyes on her, propping his head on his hand. There was something about him – even the way he held his body – that was different from any man she’d ever known. He was dressed like a serving man in borrowed clothes – she recognized the clothes Otsuné had given him the previous day – and his face was scarred and suntanned like a farmer’s, yet he carried himself as arrogantly as a prince.
Hana was used to men falling at her feet. She could make herself whatever they wanted her to be – their lover, their confidante, their mother; that was what they paid her for. But with Yozo she knew she couldn’t play-act. She had assumed she could bewitch any man, but with him she found herself a little in awe. He seemed to see through her mask to the child inside. She was not even sure if her famed beauty had the slightest effect on him.
‘Where did you say you’d met Saburo?’ she asked.
He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘It wasn’t in Japan,’ she said. ‘It was somewhere else. Have you been … outside Japan?’
She stared at him, wide-eyed, beginning to realize what it was that made him seem so different. No one she knew had ever dreamed of leaving Japan. That was where foreign sailors came from and where Otsuné’s Jean came from. Yozo too had something of that quality of belonging somewhere else, of knowing things she didn’t know and being part of a world she couldn’t even imagine.
‘You said you would tell me everything,’ she whispered, moving closer to him. Her arm brushed his and she felt a tingle of excitement.
He stared into the distance for a while, then picked up his pipe again, turning it over and over in his hand. ‘You know the saying: “A nail that sticks out must be hammered in”? People think we’re polluted, me and my friends, because we’ve been abroad and mixed with people like Jean. They say we’re spies or traitors, not true Japanese.’ He smiled, but it was a sad smile.
‘I don’t think that,’ she said. ‘But have you been to Jean’s country? I’d like to know what it’s like, the place where he comes from.’
Yozo sighed. ‘It’s beautiful,’ he said slowly. ‘The capital, Paris, is almost as big as Edo, but the buildings are made of stone, not wood, and they’re so high it makes your neck hurt to look at them. Even the sky is a different colour, softer and paler.’
Hana frowned, trying to imagine it. ‘And the people,’ she said. ‘Do they look like Jean?’ She thought of Jean’s huge body, his strange-coloured hair, coarse skin and startling blue eyes, and put her hand over her mouth. ‘The women too? Do they have black hair like us, or are they like Jean?’
Yozo was gazing into the distance as if he was somewhere far away. ‘But in a way they’re right,’ he said softl
y, as if he was speaking to himself. ‘I’m not a true Japanese. I don’t belong here any more, I’ve been away too long. This is a closed world and I’m not part of it. I’ve seen too much, I know too much, I ask too many questions.’
Hana wanted to tell him that she understood, that in the Yoshiwara she too was an outsider, she didn’t belong here either.
‘Where do you come from?’ she asked. ‘Where is your home and your family?’
‘Gone, all dead. Yours too, I suspect. I wasn’t always a poor soldier and you weren’t always a courtesan. You don’t belong in the Yoshiwara at all, do you? You said it yourself – we’ve all had to find ways to survive.’
He sat up, looking at her intently, and she noticed a fleck of gold in his brown eyes. Then he took her hands and raised them to his lips. Hana shivered, feeling the touch of his mouth, then quickly drew back. Her body belonged to Auntie. Even to be alone with Yozo was a transgression. If anyone caught them she would be beaten and she shuddered to think what they would do to him.
Yozo was frowning too. ‘Men pay for this privilege,’ he said. ‘But I can’t afford even this.’
Hana tried to move away from him, to stifle the yearning that burned inside her, but she seemed to have lost all control over her limbs. IShe looked up at him and he took her face in his hands. As his lips touched hers, it seemed right and complete, like the fulfilment of a dream.
The Courtesan and the Samurai Page 23