A Geisha for the American Consul (a short story)

by Lesley Downer

  She huddled inside, not daring to open the port hole to let in fresh air as the bearers hoisted the box onto their shoulders and set off, rocking her from side to side as if she was in a boat, their feet crunching along the road. She could hear the attendant puffing and panting as he hobbled alongside.

  Then she heard shouts from the people crowding the streets outside. Quivering in horror she picked out the words:

  ‘Tojin Okichi! Okichi the foreigner! Foreigner’s whore! There goes a sheep for the consul!’

  Chapter 2

  THE BEARERS SET the palanquin down with a bang. The door slid open and Okichi stepped out, blinking in the late afternoon sun. The shadows were long and temple bells rang out to mark the end of the day.

  From the outside at least, the temple where the foreigners lived looked reassuringly normal. There was the main building with a steep, tiled roof, thatched side buildings, a bell tower in one corner and a storehouse for valuables. The only odd thing was a pole as tall and straight as a cedar tree, right in the middle of the courtyard. There was a banner flapping at the top, not long and narrow as they usually were, but broad – almost square. Instead of the crest of some great samurai family, there was a design of red and white stripes with a blue square in one corner dotted with white stars.

  A moment later another palanquin drew up and a second geisha stepped out, as painted and primped as Okichi herself: Fuku, a girl from another house. She was even younger than Okichi, no more than fifteen, and beneath the paint she looked every bit as terrified as Okichi. Okichi bit her lip. She would have to be the ‘older sister’, take care of this young girl, make sure she behaved properly. It would be a responsibility; but at least she would have a companion.

  More palanquins were coming through the gate in a flurry of creaks and pounding feet. Mother stepped crisply out of one, stern-faced officials in stiff formal robes clambered out of others. More people – attendants, clerks, maids – came hurrying up on foot, until the courtyard was as bustling as the city marketplace. Okichi bowed her head. It was a business transaction they were carrying out and they were the goods for sale, she and Fuku.

  Then a couple of Chinese men appeared, tall and grave, in long gowns with small round caps and pigtails nearly down to their knees. They tucked their hands into their broad sleeves, bowing, and silently ushered them all towards the main building. Okichi assumed they were servants and that the barbarians had brought them with them when they came.

  She went up the steps to the open door, then hesitated on the threshold, sniffing the odorous darkness. She felt as if she were stepping into an animal’s den. Instead of crisp tatami mats with their fragrance of rice straw the floor was covered in something that felt moist and clammy under her feet. She’d heard talk that the foreigners’ clothes were woven from the fleece of some creature from wherever they came from and guessed this must be the same stuff. The musty smell mingled strangely with the incense smoke that wafted round the temple.

  Everything was so strange and wrong it made her feel quite befuddled. Perhaps it was all a bad dream and she would wake up in a moment. She pressed her nails into her hands as hard as she could to try and shock herself awake. But no, she was already wide awake.

  The room was furnished very oddly indeed with a platform along each side and tables in front. Mother and the elders were looking round as curiously as Okichi was. Finally the magistrate stepped onto one of the platforms, tucked his legs under him and knelt and everyone followed suit, kneeling in a line. Okichi and Fuku knelt on the floor to one side, below everyone else, as befitted their lower status.

  They all sat in silence, waiting, for what seemed an interminable length of time.

  Then Okichi heard heavy footsteps and two men came in, their shoes still on their feet, covered in outdoor dirt. Okichi was not the only one who gasped at this final proof of their barbarity. She saw grey hair and a barrel chest and pressed her face to the ground, trembling.

  The two men plumped themselves down on the opposite platform, leaving their legs dangling. The Chinese servants came in with flasks of sake. There was a different, pale-gold drink for the barbarians.

  One of the officials could speak a little of the barbarians’ language and the younger of the foreign men could speak a little of the language of the land of the rising sun. Every time they spoke, the official addressed the younger man who explained to the older man, so every exchange took a very long time.

  The officials and Mother offered endless compliments, bowing profusely. The older barbarian scowled and tapped his foot and yawned, not even bothering to pretend to be polite. His face was beginning to flush. Okichi’s heart sank. She was hoping he might at least be kind but he didn’t look it. She could feel his eyes on her, though she kept hers lowered.

  Then he emptied his glass of the pale-gold drink and said something in a gruff voice. The question was repeated. ‘He wants to know what happened to the girl’s skin. She didn’t look like this when he saw her. He doesn’t want a white-skinned girl. He wants one with ivory skin.’

  ‘It’s make-up,’ said the assistant magistrate, bowing like a nodding doll. ‘Underneath, her skin is ivory.’

  The barbarian grunted and nodded. Then he walked over to her and jerked her chin up. When he took his hand away there was make-up on his fingers.

  The younger one looked at her. ‘That face,’ he said. ‘Please take. Remove.’

  There was utter silence. Okichi realized he was talking to her. ‘My … my make-up?’ she stuttered.

  ‘We didn’t ask for dolls. We want women.’

  ‘They will take it off later,’ said Mother hastily. ‘Now they will dance and sing. They are the best dancers and singers in Shimoda.’ She had brought her shamisen with her. She took it out of its case and began plucking at the strings.

  The older barbarian scowled and rolled his eyes as the music began. The magistrate gestured to the two geisha to keep their performance brief.

  Finally they left – the magistrate and chief elders and Mother in palanquins, the others on foot – lighting up the night in a long line of bobbing, coloured lanterns, leaving them there, just the two of them, Okichi and Fuku, alone.

  *

  The Chinese servants closed the shutters and lit candles and showed the geisha to their room. There was a pitcher of water there and a basin. Okichi and Fuku washed the make-up from their faces, took off their splendid scented kimonos, took the combs from their hair and let it hang in long glossy tresses. Then they unpacked their bundles and put on everyday clothes. The make-up had been like armour. Without it Okichi felt horribly exposed.

  The two eyed each other. Fuku had turned into a plump-cheeked country girl. When Okichi glanced in the mirror she saw sun-darkened cheeks on a pretty oval face with ivory skin.

  They tiptoed through the house. The rooms were crammed with furniture made for giants – tables so high a person on her knees couldn’t even see over the top, things to sit on, chests and cabinets that smelt of some strange polish. In the back were a couple of rooms containing huge tables with poles sticking up from the corners. They were piled with futons, though why anyone would sleep on a table instead of on the floor, on tatami, was beyond Okichi’s imagining. Under each was a porcelain bowl – a pillow, she guessed, like the wooden pillow she used herself.

  ‘You sleep here, on these,’ said one of the servants. ‘They bedto – “beds”.’

  From the kitchen came the sound of sizzling. Everyone knew the tojin ate animal flesh. Okichi had never tasted anything but fish, vegetables and seaweed, and the reek of cooking meat made her stomach turn. She was relieved when another servant brought out soup and vegetables and rice for her and Fuku to eat.

  It seemed there were four Chinese servants in the household. They spoke Okichi’s language very quickly and very clipped, but well enough for her to understand. Although the Chinese were tojin too, there were plenty of Chinese merchants with their Chinese servants in the port, so she was more used to them.


  When she’d finished eating she took out her long-stemmed pipe, filled the tiny bowl with tobacco and held a scrap of glowing charcoal to it. Her nerves were jangling at the thought of the night ahead. She took a few puffs, feeling herself relax as she drew the fragrant smoke into her lungs and blew it through her nostrils.

  One of the tall grave servants who had ushered them in appeared in the doorway and beckoned with a long finger. Okichi shrank inwardly.

  ‘You go to Master now,’ he said to Okichi. ‘And you’ – to Fuku – ‘to Young Master.’

  ‘But how will I talk to him?’ wailed Okichi, tapping out her pipe.

  The servant looked down his long nose. ‘No need talking. He not interested talking.’

  Okichi fetched her blue cotton sleeping robe and followed him into one of the bedrooms, her palms damp with terror. The moment had arrived when she would find out at last what was in store for her.

  *

  Okichi stood beside the bed, waiting.

  If this had been a teahouse, if she’d been about to sleep with a customer, she would have been arranging herself seductively on the pile of futons, letting her kimono fall open just enough to reveal an enticing glimpse of the soft flesh inside. She knew her trade, she’d been trained in the arts of arousal. But instead she stood trembling in her sleeping robe, desperately trying not to think about the ordeal ahead. She didn’t even know how foreign men were built. Maybe he would be so big and rough he would split her in half.

  Heavy footsteps crossed the floor and the door slid open. She reminded herself that this tojin was paying her for her services, paying her well. She bit her lip and tried to force her mouth into a smile. She’d made sure every last scrap of make-up was gone.

  The tojin’s huge presence filled the room. He was scowling and old, very old, and so tall his head brushed the ceiling. Okichi had never seen so much hair; it coated his cheeks, sprouted above his upper lip and there was a shiny mane of greying hair slicked back from his forehead. There was a thick fold of flesh under his chin. She clutched her robe around her.

  He said something, then clicked his tongue and pursed his lips as if he was exasperated they couldn’t communicate.

  The silence was oppressive. Old men loved Okichi. She teased them, laughed at them, wrapped them around her little finger – but to do that she needed words.

  She had to speak to him, say something, anything, even though he wouldn’t understand. ‘Shall I lie down?’ she babbled.

  He spoke again, but she had as much idea of what he was saying as if he was a dog. Then to her shock he reached for her robe and with one tug pulled it off her, sash and all. It fell to the ground and she gasped, hastily lowering her hands to cover herself. Her robe was part of her; without it she felt horribly exposed. When she made love with customers both she and they always left their robes on. Robes were beautiful and erotic. In the bathhouse where everyone, men and women, were undressed, she didn’t feel strange, but in this room with its guttering candles and looming furniture and walls that seemed to close in around her, she felt frighteningly vulnerable.

  She trembled. She was naked, he was fully clothed.

  He ran his eyes across her bare body and a strange look crossed his face; not lust, not desire, but disappointment, almost sadness, as if he wished he were somewhere else, with someone else. She’d been brought up to maintain a pleasant facade, to hide her feelings, no matter what, but his were written on his face.

  He grimaced, then took her arm and pulled her towards him. He cupped his hand over her breast and squeezed it, then spun her round and pinched her buttocks as if checking the quality of the goods. She winced. He sat down heavily on the wooden frame of the bed and lifted one leg, then the other and pulled off his boots. They were big and clumsy and smelt of animal hide. He fumbled with the fastenings of his clothes and struggled out of the top part, then the bottom, until he was in white leggings and a long white shirt, a bit like the work clothes Japanese peasants wore.

  His flesh sagged and his belly protruded. Among her people, even old men were skinny. His legs poked out from his underclothing, pale and freckled.

  He was still scowling, though Okichi was beginning to think it was the way he habitually held his face. He spoke again. His voice was angry, impatient.

  Suddenly, without any warning, he pushed her onto the futon. As she stumbled back he was already climbing on top of her and shoving her naked legs apart, grappling with his underclothing, pinning her to the bed with his weight. She felt his penis, hot and hard, prodding at her. Then he rammed it into her.

  She shouted in protest. It was too big and she was too dry. It tore at her delicate skin. But her yell seemed to excite him. She looked up. His face was so close she could see the veins on his nose. His stiff grey hair brushed her face, his eyebrows quivered and his cheeks grew purple with exertion as he pumped in and out, his eyes screwed shut, frowning ferociously. The bed was banging so hard she was sure the whole house could hear it. Then he gave a grunt and slumped on top of her, panting, and a moment later he was snoring.

  Crushed under him, slathered with his sweat, her nose squashed into the hair of his chest, Okichi could hardly breathe. She wriggled out from under him, quivering with horror, and lay panting. After a moment she gave a sigh of relief. At least it was over. She was still alive. He hadn’t killed her or even hurt her too much.

  She slid to the edge of the futon, as far from the snoring mound of flesh as possible, and stared at the ceiling, gulping back tears. She saw with brutal clarity exactly what life held for her now.

  Tsurumatsu was gone, and she belonged to this barbarian. She’d slept with old men before, and with unappealing, smelly men; that was not new for her. But she’d never experienced such brutal hate-filled coupling. It had been like animals rutting.

  Maybe the barbarian would have been different with a woman of his own kind, she told herself, or maybe he hadn’t had a woman for a long time. Maybe once he was satisfied he’d stop behaving like a starving beast.

  In any case, she would just have to grit her teeth and put up with it. As she’d learnt, that was what life was all about – enduring.

  At least she was not in danger of conceiving. She knew what stage she was at in her menstrual cycle; that had been one of Mother’s first lessons. There wouldn’t be any changeling growing inside her, to be buried with the others in the graveyard on the hill; not right now. But if this went on for long she’d have to be careful.

  The worst thing was she knew no Japanese man would touch her now that she’d been with the barbarian. She was unclean; to sleep with her would be ritual defilement. That meant she had no future any more, no profession. She might as well be dead.

  *

  When she awoke the next morning the barbarian was on his feet, pulling on his cumbersome clothes, and soon after that he left. Fuku was in the kitchen. She looked cheerful. She had been with the younger of the two men, the one who spoke their language. Maybe it had been less of an ordeal.

  After breakfast the servants told them to help with the washing and cleaning. Geisha didn’t do housework, that was for maids or servants, but they had stopped being geisha when they entered this house. They were wives now, of a sort. When the chores were done they practised their shamisens. Okichi broke into a plaintive song about a discarded lover bewailing her fate but the familiar notes only made her feel more miserable. She gave up and put the shamisen aside.

  She knew she should go into town and report to the magistrate. She could offer to do some shopping or say she was going to the bath house as an excuse. But she was too downcast. She felt defiled, and she was afraid of bumping into someone she knew. She would report later, when she had something to tell.

  Later they walked in the grounds, getting the measure of their new home. The cherry blossom was falling like pink snow, littering the ground in drifts, a reminder of how short and frail human life was.

  Alone together, away from the Chinese servants’ sharp ears, Fuku turned to Okichi
. It was obvious she was eager to have the morning-after chat that geisha always enjoyed.

  ‘Those foreigners,’ she burbled, giggling. ‘I thought it was an old wives’ tale but it’s not. It’s true, isn’t it, Big Sister! It was huge, absolutely huge. Nearly tore me in half.’ She sighed and flushed, her eyes wide, her pink tongue protruding from her lips.

  The sun had already crossed the sky. Evening was approaching again. Okichi couldn’t bring herself to answer. She stared at the ground, her heart sinking at the thought of the encounter that was to come. She knew now what was in store for her, it was no longer a mystery, and that made her despair all the greater. Worst of all, there was no way to escape it. She had to find some way to at least make it tolerable, but she couldn’t think of any.

  When she’d unpacked her bundle she’d found a couple of pillow books Mother must have tucked in. She laughed bitterly when she thought of them now. What use could she possibly have for such manuals, with their talk of the Jade Stalk and the many ways it could move and of how a man should tend the Jewel Terrace to draw out the yin juices that were the elixir of life? She remembered the pictures of entwined lovers and sighed.

  The barbarian came from a totally different world, where men were brutal and uncouth. She doubted if he knew anything of love. Perhaps where he came from was so uncivilised there wasn’t even a culture of desire. It was hard to imagine that such people could exist but she knew now that they did.

  That night Okichi crept reluctantly into the bedroom and sat twisting her fingers on the edge of the bed, hoping that something might have happened, that the old master wouldn’t come, or that after that grim first encounter he’d be gentler. Her heart sank as she heard his heavy tread crossing the house. She shrank back as he came in, and he stared at her as if he’d forgotten she’d be there. Her fear only seemed to annoy him. He seemed hairier, his smell even riper than before. He glowered at her then thrust her impatiently onto the bed, gripped her wrists and rammed his penis into her as if he too was eager to get the night’s business over with.