The Courtesan and the Samurai

by Lesley Downer

  ‘Isn’t it poisonous?’ she whispered.

  ‘What a child!’ said Saburo. ‘Not if it’s properly prepared. It’s the king of fish. But don’t you worry your pretty head, it’s not for you. This is a dish for men! Except for the shogun, of course. He wasn’t allowed to eat it in case it killed him – though in the end we managed to get rid of him without the help of fugu. Isn’t that right, gentlemen?’

  Hoots of unruly laughter filled the room. Hana had forgotten that they were all southerners here.

  ‘Hanaogi-sama is right though, your honour,’ Chubei said modestly. ‘Only the most skilled chefs can prepare fugu properly. It’s a very delicate job and easy to make a mistake. You just have to brush the liver with your knife and the whole fish is tainted.’

  ‘Dicing with death,’ Saburo said, rubbing his fat hands together. ‘That’s what makes it exciting.’

  ‘There are a lot of deaths every year,’ said Chubei. ‘But not at the Corner Tamaya. I’ve been serving fugu for years and I’ve never lost a customer yet.’ He leaned forward. ‘Did you know that they’re the only fish that close their eyes? When you kill one, it closes its eyes and makes a crying sound, like a child.’

  The apprentices had laid out knives and two trays, one labelled ‘poisonous’, the other ‘edible’. Holding down the thrashing fish with his left hand, Chubei took a long knife and brought it down with a thunk, cutting the tail off with a single blow. A moment later the fins and mouth too were lying alongside the quivering body. It had all happened too fast to hear whether or not the fish made any noise. The carcass heaved and the gaping hole where the mouth had been opened and closed convulsively.

  ‘Bravo!’ the guests shouted. ‘What a master!’

  Chubei sliced the mouth in half, scraped the board clear and put the fins in the tray marked ‘edible’. Saburo leaned forward, his eyes gleaming, as the chef drew his knife along the spine, eased it between the tender flesh and the skin and peeled the skin back. Hana noticed that his hand was a little unsteady and wondered uneasily how much sake he had had. There was a ripping sound as Chubei tore the skin off in a single piece, transforming the gleaming fish into a lump of inert flesh, then gutted it and wrenched out a shining, jelly-like sack.

  ‘The liver,’ he said, putting it on to the tray marked ‘poisonous’.

  ‘Female,’ he added, pulling out the ovaries and putting them too on the ‘poisonous’ tray, along with the skin and eyes. He cut the clean flesh into slices so thin they were almost transparent and arranged them on a round plate, overlapping like the petals of a chrysanthemum.

  ‘Chrysanthemum, flower of death!’ Saburo was beaming and licking his lips. ‘Who wants to be the first to try?’

  Hana remembered the white chrysanthemums displayed at her grandparents’ funerals and shivered. This was not a good time to think about death.

  She broke apart a pair of chopsticks, took a few slices and dipped them in soy sauce. Saburo opened his large mouth, closed his eyes and put his head back and she placed the morsel delicately on his tongue. He savoured it slowly, rolling it around his mouth, then sucked in his lips with a smacking sound.

  ‘A hint of poison,’ he said, beaming. ‘My upper lip is going numb, yes, and my tongue. And I have a distinct tingle right here. Feel! It’s going hard.’

  He grabbed Hana’s hand, pressed it against his bulging groin and gave an ecstatic sigh followed by a belch. In the background the guests laughed obsequiously.

  ‘What a sensation. Have some, gentlemen, have some. We’re going to have fun tonight!’

  The white-jacketed apprentices ran up from the kitchens with plates of blowfish and Kawanoto and the other attendants arranged slices of the delicate flesh on small plates and distributed them to the guests.

  ‘Bring on the fugu fin sake,’ shouted Saburo. ‘Time for some games! Let’s get our clothes off!’

  *

  Whenever Saburo forced a drink on her, Hana had covertly tipped it away. It was important to stay sober, to be ready for whatever was to come. But he insisted she try the blowfish fin sake and watched closely as she removed the toasted fin, inhaled the aroma and lifted the cup to her lips.

  ‘Down it, all of it!’ he said fiercely.

  The sweet sake had a faint toasty taste. She put the cup down and felt warmth creeping through her limbs as her head began to swim. The room seemed to stretch away into the distance and the clamour of voices faded to a dull echo, like a far-off din of bells. She felt as if she was floating and tried to raise her arm and couldn’t. Her lips and tongue grew numb, her eyelids heavy and an ache of desire stirred in her loins as the potent liquor worked its magic.

  Saburo reached out a plump hand and grabbed her kimono collars, pulling her face close to his. The smell of his sweat and the moist heat of his large body overwhelmed her as his cheek brushed hers, but the rub of cotton against her skin shocked her back to her senses. She must not allow him to grope beneath her clothes, no matter what. He was tugging at her voluminous skirts, panting hard, when shamisens began to thrum and drums to beat and a singer launched into an erotic ballad. Saburo raised a bleary eye to see what was happening and Hana gathered up all her strength and pushed his hands away.

  The blowfish fin sake was taking effect. Cheeks flushed and loins on fire, a couple of the guests were already grabbing at the girls. Others had started a game of forfeits. The attendants and geishas were well practised and it was nearly always the men who lost. At first the loser had to empty a cup of sake but then the game changed and the forfeit became an item of clothing. The men tore off their sashes, then their robes and under-robes, with those in western clothes doing better. By the time Masaharu had removed his lounge jacket, collar, necktie and waistcoat, some of the others were down to their loincloths. Hana, Tama and Saburo watched, refusing all demands that they join in.

  Then the men started clapping their hands and shouting ‘Chonkina!’ Shamisen and drum started up a rhythm and the attendants and geishas rose to their feet and formed a circle, moving like sleepwalkers in a slow, swaying dance. The music stopped and the girls froze in their tracks – all but small, smiling Kawagishi, who was visibly staggering. While the men cheered and laughed and clapped their hands, she took off her underkimono and stood unsteadily in her red silk underskirt, the brown skin of her body contrasting oddly with her white-painted face. Sweat slicked her small young breasts.

  Soon the room was awash with bodies. Kawagishi slumped, totally naked, against a flabby-faced paunchy fellow, giggling helplessly while he mauled her then pushed her over on to her back, while Kawayu, sullen no longer, rolled about with the youthful government official, Hana’s one-time devoted admirer, emitting loud groans as he ripped off his loincloth and mounted her.

  Hana watched his scrawny buttocks rising and falling and his skinny back quivering. No party she’d been to in the Yoshiwara had ever descended to such levels of abandon. It made her all the more afraid of Saburo’s power and his appetite. He was pretending to be drunk but she could see that he wasn’t. He was keeping a steely eye on her.

  The guests and the women were rolling among piles of discarded clothing when Chubei slipped in and whispered something to Saburo.

  ‘Yes, of course, you fool! Bring it in!’ barked Saburo. A moment later Chubei returned, panting and red-faced, and placed a small dish in front of him. It was heaped with livid chopped flesh.

  ‘The liver, your honour,’ he said, pressing his head to the floor obsequiously. ‘I knew you’d ask for it.’

  Saburo ran his tongue around his lips. ‘Just what I need, a drop of poison. Just a touch, a little chill, a hint of numbness. I want to feel my mouth go numb and my prick come alive. That will put some spice into the evening.’ He turned to Hana and pulled her nearer to him. ‘Then we can join in the games!’

  36

  The kitchens were hot, crowded and noisy, full of maids rushing in and out and apprentices chopping. Women crouched in front of stoves, blowing on the charcoal embers till
they glowed, sending clouds of smoke puffing up to the blackened rafters. In his rough cotton trousers and indigo blue jacket, Yozo could have been any of the men who worked in the Yoshiwara. There were plenty hanging around, waiting to help unsteady guests when they left, even carry them to the gate if necessary, chatting about how much sake they would buy with their tips.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind trying fugu liver myself.’ Chubei raised a cup of sake unsteadily to his lips and gulped it down, spilling drops across his plump fingers and down his stained white jacket. His cheeks had turned dark red and his shaved pate under the thick roll of his headband was shiny with sweat. ‘It’s supposed to be a real thrill. Tasty too, they say. Sweet, oily, creamy.’ He tapped the edge of the tray marked ‘poisonous’, heaped with sinister-looking chunks of fish, and gave a solemn shake of his large head. ‘But I’m not one for dicing with death.’

  ‘Me neither,’ said Yozo dryly. ‘It’s a game for rich men.’

  Squatting in a corner, he tapped his heel on the earthen floor and breathed out hard, trying to hide his impatience. Not long had passed since Chubei had taken the blowfish liver in to Saburo. Saburo would probably eat just enough to make his lips tingle and his tongue go numb so that he could enjoy the frisson of playing with death, like most connoisseurs; or, if he wanted a bigger thrill, he might taste a little more to set his genitals tingling too. But there was also the chance he might overdo it. Every time there was a noise from the banqueting hall Yozo jerked round, but nothing ever seemed to happen.

  Above the clatter he heared shouts and laughter, the beat of drums and the thrum of shamisens. He grimaced and clenched his fists. He couldn’t bear the thought of Saburo’s hands on Hana’s body. He had been waiting for the chance to smuggle her out of the Yoshiwara for so long but now the moment had come he realized just how much could go wrong. But the plan just had to work.

  He thought of the last conversation he had had with Hana and remembered her bright eyes, her laughter, the curve of her cheek and the feel of her soft hand in his. A woman like her should not be in a place like this, let alone be forced to pander to a creature like Saburo. He smiled to himself. If Enomoto or Kitaro had been here, or any of his other companions from his European days, they would have told him he had gone soft, that a man’s place was with his comrades, and he would have agreed – till he met Hana.

  ‘It’s a mighty aphrodisiac, fugu liver.’ The tips of Chubei’s ears had flushed purple in the lantern light. ‘Rhinoceros horn has nothing on it, nor ginseng root neither. You should see what they’re getting up to in there – and that’s just the fugu fin sake. That old slug wouldn’t share the liver with anyone. I’d give a thousand ryo he’s worried about satisfying our Hana. He’s probably afraid he won’t be able to perform. Rich or not, I hate the idea of that old fox making off with her. We all do. If anything happened to stop him, none of us would raise a finger.’

  Yozo glanced at him sharply, wondering if the chef suspected anything. Everyone knew he took messages to Hana. He stared at the other men with their skinny legs and leathery faces, roaring with laughter at some joke, and wondered how much they knew too.

  ‘You wouldn’t believe the tip the old boy gave me,’ Chubei was saying. Smoke filled the room and the lids of the cooking pots rattled. All across the quarter, people seemed to have gone entirely mad. The street was full of clogs clattering feverishly, shrill voices and shrieks of wild laughter and squeaks and grunts as if people were coupling like animals in the road. Yozo drummed his heel on the floor, scowling. Everything depended on being ready and seizing the opportunity when it came. It would have been easier by far to have been back on the battlefield, he thought. He’d have to apply all the lessons he’d learned there. But then he remembered the blazing ruins of Hakodate and the Commander’s face looming in front of him and shuddered.

  The doors of the banqueting hall burst open. ‘Help! The master’s poisoned!’ people were yelling as the whole place erupted into chaos.

  Yozo sprang to his feet. He had hardly dared hope the old man would be stupid enough to overdose on blowfish liver. He couldn’t stop a grin of sheer exultation flashing across his face. Then he frowned and checked that his dagger was firmly in his sash. It was time for action.

  There was a whimper behind him.

  ‘Not … Not my fault.’ Chubei seemed to have shrivelled inside his bulky chef’s jacket. His face was grey and he was gripping the edge of the counter, his cheeks quivering.

  Father burst through the front entrance in a cloud of stale tobacco smoke, his cotton jacket half off his shoulders, his spongy belly hanging over his sash. Yozo cursed silently. He hadn’t expected him to appear so soon. Everyone else might be drunk, but not Father. He would be keeping an eye on Hana. She was, after all, his most valuable investment.

  ‘What have you done?’ he bellowed. ‘You’ve ruined us.’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with Chubei,’ Yozo said brusquely. ‘Saburo ordered the liver and ate it. He’s not going to die. He’s given himself a scare, that’s all.’

  Father’s jaw dropped and he gaped at Yozo as if he couldn’t believe anyone would dare answer him back. Yozo returned his gaze. The other men were racing towards the banqueting hall. Scowling, Father swung round.

  ‘Get back here, all of you. Shut the doors. We need to keep this quiet. Tajima, you’re a smart fellow, you come with me.’

  ‘It could be the drink. Alcohol exacerbates fugu symptoms,’ said Yozo carefully.

  ‘We’d better get a spade just in case,’ Father grunted.

  Yozo looked at him questioningly.

  ‘We’ve got to dig a hole and bury him up to his neck,’ said Father. ‘It’s the only remedy. The coolness of the soil draws out the poison.’

  Holding a lantern, he waddled off along the dark hallway, low to the ground like a sumo wrestler, panting noisily, moving fast for such a heavy man. Yozo followed a couple of steps behind. He paused at the door of the banqueting hall. The stench of smoke, burnt candle wick, stale tobacco, sake and vomit spilt out, as thick as a wall. Half the candle stands had toppled over. Luckily the candles had gone out before they could set the place alight, otherwise the house would have gone up like a tinderbox.

  Keeping behind Father, Yozo strode across the room, treading on soft damp flesh in the gloom. Naked men and women sprawled on top of each other, arms and legs splayed, or crawled around feebly, fumbling through heaps of clothes. Glancing round, he noticed Masaharu in the shadows at the side of the room. He was the only one who seemed to be still fully dressed. For a moment their eyes met. Yozo looked frantically for Hana, but she was nowhere to be seen. Auntie was running to and fro, withered hands pressed to her head, her malevolent old face glaring like a devil mask in the candlelight.

  ‘Father,’ she wailed. ‘Thank the gods you’re here. Do something, fast! We’ll never trade again if this gets out.’

  Gruff voices bawled, ‘Fool! What are you doing?’ ‘Get out of the way!’ ‘Open the screens, give him air!’ ‘No, keep them shut, keep him warm!’ On the other side of the room Saburo’s bodyguards were jostling each other, crowding shoulder to shoulder in their silken livery, peering down at something on the floor.

  As Father and Yozo pushed between them, Yozo heard Hana’s voice gasping, ‘Saburo-sama, Saburo-sama!’ Father held up his lantern.

  Yozo stared down at him. Splayed on his back like a giant cockroach, legs and arms twitching, was the man he’d seen on the street that night in Batavia, the monster who’d traded in opium and kept women prisoner. Saburo’s eyeballs were bulging as if they were about to burst out of his head, his mouth gaped open and saliva dribbled across his rolls of chin and down his sumptuous black silk collars.

  His eyes found Yozo’s face and he gave a distinct flinch as if he recognized him too, then his body went rigid. He was wheezing as if struggling to catch his breath.

  Hana was on her knees next to him, her hands pressed to her mouth. She looked up at Yozo with huge eyes. Her face was wh
ite under the thick make-up. Tama was next to her. She seemed perfectly composed but there was a tic in her cheek and an odd gleam in her eye. Yozo had a sudden suspicion that they had goaded Saburo into eating more than he should have. It would not have been difficult.

  ‘I told him to stop,’ Hana whispered, her voice shaking. ‘But he wouldn’t. He kept eating more and more. He wanted me to have some too, but I refused.’

  ‘He kept saying, “You think I’m not a man?” ’ Tama said to Father. She was careful not to look at Yozo. ‘Every time we begged him to stop he ate more. Then he started complaining his feet were cold.’

  Yozo knelt beside Saburo and lifted his hand, his fingers sinking into the spongy flesh. Saburo’s arm was stiff, his skin clammy, and a sour stench seeped from his pores. When Yozo managed to find a pulse through the rolls of fat, it was sluggish and faint. Some of the guests and guards were beginning to groan and there were panic-stricken shouts of ‘My feet. My feet are cold.’ Yozo wondered whether Chubei’s knife could have tainted one of the three fish, or one might have been particularly potent. It happened sometimes.

  ‘We need to get him into the ground,’ Father barked. ‘Fast, or we’ll lose him. Tama, get Hana out of here.’

  Tama took Hana’s arm and pulled her to her feet. As the guards stepped back to let the women pass, Hana’s legs seemed to give way under her. Yozo sprang forward but Tama glared at him, hooked her arm around Hana and dragged her out of the room with a rustling of silk.

  ‘Tajima, get the men digging,’ said Father. ‘Round the back of the house, away from the road, where no one can see. And tell them to keep it quiet.’

  A couple of the guards were looking at Yozo strangely. He guessed they had seen him move towards Hana and had recognized him from the fight they had had a few months earlier. The last thing he needed now was trouble.

  Stepping hurriedly across the bodies and piles of food he bumped into Masaharu, picking his way towards the door. The southerner’s collar was askew and his shirt was hanging out of his western trousers but Yozo could see he was totally sober.