‘I’m leaving,’ Masaharu grunted.
Yozo met his eye. He hardly noticed the broad vowels of his southern accent any more. He’d had plenty of time to get to know him in the months he’d been working at the Corner Tamaya. He knew he was a man he could trust.
‘Good idea,’ he said. He touched the amulet in his sleeve and prayed that the gods would be on his side.
37
As Yozo sprinted out of the Corner Tamaya, he nearly ran straight into Saburo’s gaudy palanquin. It loomed across his path, casting a huge shadow, as if Saburo himself were standing there like a ferocious guardian deity, arms extended, stopping him from leaving. It seemed a bad omen, but he pushed the thought out of his mind.
Coming out on the street, he looked around in astonishment. It was packed with people, clapping their hands and weaving in and out between the cherry trees in intertwined circles with a great clattering of clogs, as if they intended to dance till they dropped. Men in carnival masks with twisted mouths and staring eyes bobbed about, grotesque faces looming out of the darkness.
Yozo looked about him sharply till he spotted a movement in the shadows beside the house. There were two small figures there, bundled in work clothes with their heads and faces wrapped around with scarves.
Masaharu came out a moment later, a slender figure outlandishly dressed in a western-style overcoat. He too glanced around quickly then strode off, keeping to the edge of the road where the crowds were thinnest, towards the gate at the end of Edo-cho 1. The two figures slipped timidly from the shadows and followed after him, heads bowed like servants. They were dressed like youths but, from the way they carried themselves, shoulders softly bowed, scurrying with tiny steps in their straw sandals, it was obvious they were women. To Yozo’s eyes all three seemed dreadfully conspicuous. He walked a little way behind, keeping watch, glancing round every now and then, but the revellers seemed too drunk to notice.
Everything seemed to be going according to plan when suddenly there was a bang as the door of the Corner Tamaya flew back hard in its grooves, followed by gruff voices and heavy footsteps, and two large men stepped out from behind Saburo’s palanquin, their shiny pates and stiff topknots poking above the crowd. Yozo caught the sheen of silken livery and recognized the bull neck and narrow eyes of one and the fox-like face of the other. It was the guards who had looked him up and down in the banqueting hall.
He dodged into the crowd of sticky, dancing bodies, feeling the swirl of movement all around him. He hadn’t expected anyone to come after them so soon. He knew all too well what Father and Auntie would do once they discovered their most valuable courtesan had gone. They would round up every man in the Yoshiwara and every gangster in the district and send them out to search the marshes till they found her. Any accomplices would be tortured and Hana would be tied up, brought back to the Yoshiwara, beaten and probably killed. He grimaced at the thought. He would just have to make sure that didn’t happen.
The guards made for the back of the house. They would be expecting to find him there, instructing the Corner Tamaya lads where to dig, and would discover all too soon that he wasn’t. No matter what happened, no matter what he needed to do to prevent it, he had to stop them coming in search of him and running into Masaharu’s two ‘servants’. He had to make sure Hana was not caught, even if it cost him his life.
A youth staggered up against Yozo and threw an arm around his shoulder, his breath reeking of sake. Dangling round his neck was a comic mask with a puckered mouth and a foolish expression. It was the perfect disguise.
‘Lend me that,’ said Yozo, pulling it over his head. The youth, flushed and bleary-eyed, reeled off, too drunk to notice.
Fumbling with the strings, Yozo tied on the mask and pushed between the swaying people to the edge of the crowd. Masaharu was well ahead of him by now, turning on to the grand boulevard. Flutes tootled and drums banged feverishly and the crowd danced faster and faster. The sweet smell of opium smoke drifted from the splendid teahouses and even the Chrysanthemum Teahouse was quiet and dark as if the guests were lost in poppy-fuelled dreams.
Peering through the eye holes of the mask, Yozo saw the large ugly guards rounding the corner of Edo-cho 1 towards him. They were scowling furiously, shoving people aside, leaving drunkards sprawling in their wake.
At the end of the grand boulevard was the Great Gate, lit with red lanterns. Usually there were visitors pouring in and out, but today Saburo had taken over all five streets and the massive doors were barred and bolted. The tattooed gatekeeper was at his post outside the guard house, along with a hefty figure Yozo recognized with a surge of relief – Marlin. He caught a glimpse of Masaharu too, just arriving at the gate, and saw that his two charges were with him. As Yozo watched, the gatekeeper left his post and walked quickly towards the small side gate in the shadow of the willow trees. Behind him Yozo could hear the indignant shouts of revellers. The guards were closing in on him.
He felt for his dagger. He had to put them out of action before they got any closer to the gate, and it had to be done quickly and cleanly, without drawing anyone’s attention to them. There would be no room for mistakes; he would have only one chance. He would have preferred to challenge them to a fight, of course – man to man, in an honourable way – not hide behind his mask and take them by surprise, but it was too risky to start a brawl. In the dark no one would notice a couple more bodies on the ground.
He pushed his way towards them through the dancing crowd. For all their fancy uniforms he could see they were nothing but gangsters. The bull-necked man was barging in front, glaring around. Invisible behind his mask, Yozo lurched into him, staggering as if he were drunk. He felt the heat of the man’s flesh and smelt his sweat and the sour stench of his blood as he drove his dagger hard into his stomach. He twisted the knife sharply to stop the flesh gripping the blade, then wrenched it free.
The man’s eyes widened and he reeled, arms flailing. Blood trickled from his mouth and he crumpled, keeling over on top of the fox-faced guard who was behind him. The fox-faced man too crashed backwards and his skull hit the paving stones with a crack.
There was a moment’s silence then a yowl of ‘Fool! Get off me!’ as the guard tried to push clear of his comrade’s huge body. Yozo lunged for the man’s throat and felt his dagger slicing through bone. The guard made a gurgling noise and was silent.
The scuffle had taken only a few seconds and made barely a ripple in the crowd. Yozo wiped his dagger on his sleeve and tucked it back in his sash. The deed was done, though not as cleanly as he had wanted.
He pulled off his mask, tossed it aside and sprinted for the gate, trampling over revellers and knocking them out of his path. Unless he was very fast indeed, he would miss the chance to slip away unnoticed. Masaharu and his two followers had already gone through.
Yozo paused to salute Marlin, suddenly realizing that this could be the last time he saw him. He looked at his overhanging brow, deep-set eyes and square jaw covered in bristles, remembering his face peering down at him through the open door of the bamboo cage and the weight of his hand on his shoulder, holding him back, that night when he had been about to attack the Commander. He pictured Marlin, arms and legs sticking out of his rough peasant’s clothes, pushing past the southern guards and the foreign sailors and swaggering straight through the Yoshiwara’s Great Gate and along the boulevard, his head poking up above the crowds. The Frenchman had saved his life again and again and had been a true friend to him – perhaps the best friend he’d ever had.
Marlin thrust a sword, a gun and a bag of ammunition into Yozo’s hands. ‘Be careful,’ he said. ‘There’ll be a lot of people out there looking for you. More, once tonight’s deeds become known.’
Yozo nodded. ‘I’ll miss your company,’ he said, and he meant it. ‘I’ll be back when all this is over.’
‘We’ll meet again,’ said Marlin. ‘Enomoto, Otori, all of us. And we’ll see the shogun back in his castle. You remember what Kitaro used to say: �
��One for all, all for one.” ’
Yozo laughed and shook his head sadly, remembering Kitaro and his love for Dumas’s famous novel, all those years ago in the West.
‘Long live the shogun!’ he said. ‘I’m in your debt. I’ll find some way to repay you.’
‘It’s enough that we’re friends.’
Yozo held out his hand western-style and Marlin shook it, then slapped him on the shoulder.
The gatekeeper was standing by the small side gate, glancing over his massive tattooed shoulder, holding his stave and grimacing fiercely. Yozo bowed. He knew he risked severe punishment for letting them through. Unexpectedly a grin flashed across the gatekeeper’s face as Yozo darted past him.
Outside, palanquins lined the crooked road that wound across the Moat of Black Teeth and up to the Japan Dyke, which rose like a wall, black against the night sky, with lights flickering along the top and here and there a bonfire sending up a shower of sparks. Clouds scudded across the moon. The lantern-lit street had been so bright Yozo hadn’t even noticed it was full. Now it cast a cold light on the great wall of the Yoshiwara and the stalls and willow trees outside it.
Most of the bearers were asleep, curled under the shafts of their vehicles. One splendid, rather official-looking palanquin was drawn up right at the gate. Masaharu was pacing up and down in his western overcoat. He pulled out a purse and pressed it into Yozo’s hand. Yozo tried to push it away, then changed his mind and tucked it into his waistband. He opened his mouth to thank him but Masaharu raised his hand, his face stern.
Yozo bowed. A few months ago he would never have imagined he might come to admire and even like a southerner. ‘I hope we have the chance to meet again,’ he said.
‘I’ll make sure we do,’ said Masaharu. ‘Good luck.’
Otsuné was beside him, dressed in indigo work clothes. She had pushed her hood back and Yozo could see her sweet, round face and the thin lines that wrinkled her pale brow. She was smiling, blinking away tears. She gripped Yozo’s arm.
‘Be quick,’ she said. ‘We’ll do our best to make sure no one suspects anything.’
She and Marlin had become like family to him and it was a wrench to say goodbye. He bowed, wishing he could give her a hug, like a Frenchman would, but he knew she would have been shocked if he had.
Hana was in the palanquin, her legs tucked under her. She was still wearing white make-up and her oval face was luminous in the darkness. She stared at him as if she could hardly believe he was there, and stretched out her hand. Yozo took it, feeling its softness. He looked at her and she smiled. That moment – having Hana there, safe and close to him – made it all worthwhile.
‘You always said you would protect me,’ she said, ‘and you have.’
‘I’ll protect you for ever,’ he said. He listened hard. There was no one coming after them, no footsteps thundering towards the gate, no shouts on the other side. Impossible though it was to believe, they really had done it.
Masaharu and Otsuné had already slipped back through the gate. Now it slammed behind them and the bolts slid into place. The sounds of music and dancing grew muffled and distant.
Yozo strode ahead as the bearers carried the palanquin across the moat and up the curved slope to the road that ran along the top of the Japan Dyke. Hiko and Heizo were waiting there in the shadows and took their places, loping along behind it, Hiko a hulking figure in his grubby uniform, Heizo small and powerfully built with a bullet head. Yozo grinned when he saw them, glad to have these plain-speaking fellow soldiers with him.
For a moment he stopped at the Looking Back Willow and gazed down at the Yoshiwara, half hidden in the trees below them. With its twinkling lights, music, shouts and laughter, it was like an earthly paradise, but he knew there was violence and cruelty behind the glamour and brilliance.
In front of him the road stretched long and dark. He turned his back on the Yoshiwara and headed into the night.
38
Hana awoke with a start, aware that the jogging and swaying of the palanquin had stopped. The last thing she had heard had been the creaking of wooden panels and the wind whistling across the marshes as she was carried away into darkness.
Curled up in the cold cramped box, her legs squashed under her, she wriggled her toes, trying to get some feeling back into them. Panicking for a moment, she wondered where she was, then everything that had happened that night came flooding back. Nightmarish images filled her mind – Saburo’s bloated face as he lay dying, the press of the crowds, the masked faces leering, and the terrible fear that someone would recognize her. She had wanted to run as fast as she could but she had had to force herself to walk slowly, as if she was not in a hurry at all.
Shuddering, she remembered Saburo’s fat hands and toad-like eyes, his heavy body resting against hers as she dropped pieces of blowfish liver into his mouth, and how he had started gagging and complaining that his feet were cold. She remembered running to her rooms and tearing off her kimonos, terrified someone would burst in and see her, and suddenly finding herself outside on the street for the first time in months, feeling every eye staring at her. She could almost feel Father’s stick thwacking down on her back and his knife pricking her throat, and a shiver of horror ran down her spine.
She heard a temple bell tolling the hour, a watchman’s even tread and the dry clack as he banged his sticks together. Then the door slid back and Yozo was standing outside in the dusky light, his steady gaze and calm smile clear in the moonlight. Behind him, shadowy houses lined a street so narrow she could hardly see the stars between the eaves. She was back in the real world. It was big and cold and dark but she knew that with Yozo there everything would be all right.
‘Where are we?’ she asked, her voice startlingly loud in the silence.
‘In the East End,’ said Yozo. ‘Edo is the shogun’s city still, for a while, at least. We can’t stay at an inn tonight. You’re too well known and news might get back to the Yoshiwara. We’ll stay with the widow of one of our comrades. We can trust her to say nothing. I’m afraid the accommodation will be humble, very different from what you’re used to.’
She laughed shakily.
‘I’m not so grand as you think. Before I arrived at the Yoshiwara I was just like everyone else. I’ve lived most of my life without fine food or fancy kimonos.’
But even as Hana spoke, the enormity of what she had done was beginning to wash over her. She’d left behind everyone and everything she had come to care for – Otsuné, Tama, Kawanoto, her spacious rooms, her precious kimonos, her hangings and all the beautiful gifts clients had given her. She tried to push away the thought, but she couldn’t stop the knot of fear in her stomach. She bit her lip. She had nothing now, only what she’d managed to bundle up – a cotton kimono, her husband’s box and the scroll box with his letter. She would have to go to Kano, she reminded herself, and place them in the family tomb. She owed him that much.
And at least she had money – Otsuné and Masaharu had seen to that, and she also had money of her own.
Conscious of the outlandish young man’s clothes she was wearing, she wound her scarf round her face, pulling it up over her nose to hide her make-up. There was a movement at her feet as a rat scuttled past and she remembered the last time she had been in the city, when she had met Fuyu. The place looked even more desolate now, as if all the occupants had fled.
The bearers pointed them to a modest house with potted plants along the edge of the wall where a young woman hurried out, rubbing her eyes, bowing and smiling. She led Hana and Yozo through shabby rooms which smelt of damp to a small chamber tucked away right at the back and brought a pan of hot water and a bag of rice husks. While the woman laid out bedding and sleeping robes, Hana scrubbed off every last vestige of make-up, then took out the combs and ribbons that held her hair in place and combed and combed until it swung long and loose like a silky black curtain. She looked at herself in the mirror. Hanaogi was gone for ever and she was Hana again.
‘
It’s not much of a place, I’m afraid, but at least you’ll be safe.’ Yozo was kneeling at the side of the room, watching her. He had laid his swords on the sword rest, where he could reach them, and put his gun beside the pillow. In the Yoshiwara he had had to play the part of a servant but now he too was himself again. He seemed older, more serious; he was a soldier, and a high-ranking one. When he spoke to Hiko and Heizo, there was a ring of authority in his voice that Hana found rather thrilling. There was something else too, an edge of excitement. He was free, back where he belonged.
‘I’m in as much trouble as you are – more, in fact. You have Father and the Yoshiwara men to worry about but I have half the southern army after me.’ He sighed and rubbed his eyes. ‘But let’s not think about that – not now when I have you to myself.’
In the light of the candle Hana could see his smile, his strong face and expressive eyes. She had never seen anything so beautiful. Craving his touch, she leaned towards him as if she’d lost all will power, as if her body was no longer hers to command.
He took her hand and raised it to his lips and she closed her eyes. She was trembling, almost afraid of the feelings that were sweeping over her. In all her time at the Yoshiwara, she had never known how much she held back, how much she kept a part of herself hidden, protected. Love had been something that was bought and sold, arousing pleasure had been her work. When she had whispered sweet nothings in her lovers’ ears, they had known she said the same to every man. It had always been a game. But this was utterly different.
Yozo pulled her towards him and kissed her. The touch of his lips sent a shock leaping through her and she felt her body arch towards his as she gave herself, all of herself, up to him.
‘I’ve waited so long,’ he whispered, his voice hoarse. He ran his fingers through her hair and stroked the back of her neck and she felt the warmth of his breath as he kissed her eyes and nose. Then he opened her robe and found her breast, cupping it, rubbing his thumb across her nipple, and she felt pleasure like a slow-burning fire rising in her belly. He kissed her greedily, insistently. There were only the two of them, the darkness, the small room, the embers glowing in the brazier, the silence.
The Courtesan and the Samurai Page 28