Love Water

by Venio Tachibana

  Each time a string reverberated, Misao imagined a single pink petal dancing through the air.

  Gesturing with his left hand, he held the fan flat and lifted it as he twisted his legs, sliding them over the floor to turn around.

  His mind was utterly silent.

  Ever since childhood, dance was the only art of all those Misao had studied that he hadn’t hated.

  It let him escape.

  Like mist, or a cloud—he twirled the fan and slipped about the floor. Suddenly the sound of the zither stopped. But they had been approaching the final verse, so Misao simply continued dancing in the silence. He held the fan flat, then he flipped it over and danced low to the ground. He stretched the fan out, then brought it to the side of his face. He touched his right knee to the floor and held the pose, shaking his head three times to end the dance.

  Silence reigned for several beats until it was broken by modest applause. Casting his eyes to Masaomi, Misao’s gaze asked him wordlessly why he had stopped playing.

  Masaomi answered earnestly. “I realized that I couldn’t properly appreciate your dance if I was playing.”

  Misao’s eyelashes fluttered twice, struck speechless by his serious answer. Then he whispered, “It was nothing, really.”

  He laid three fingers over his heart and bowed. Masaomi returned the gesture.

  “I feel better now. Thank you. You’ve been very kind to me.”

  He looked at Misao with a tender smile.

  “You’re a wonderful person.”

  Misao felt a sharp pain, as if tiny threads were tightening around his heart.

  His brow wrinkled and he shook his head. He rushed with mincing steps to Masaomi’s side and drew out the thing that he had kept tucked inside his kimono. He knelt on the tatami floor and swept up one of Masaomi’s hands in both of his own as Masaomi stared at him in shock.

  He never said a word. He only stared at Misao. And Misao stared up at him. He felt there had never been a moment this serious in all his life.

  “All I wanted was the handkerchief.”

  Misao slowly, tenderly pulled his hands away from Masaomi’s.

  “I did that because I wanted to,” he said quietly.

  Masaomi’s gaze rested on Misao’s face, then slid to the door.

  “Welcome back,” he murmured, his eyes narrowing with a smile as Ukigumo came in, Sazu in tow. Her face held none of its usual mildness; it was harsh as she looked back and forth from the money in Masaomi’s hand to Misao’s face. Sazu looked up at Ukigumo, frightened by this change in her older sister’s usual behavior.

  “Omi—”

  Ukigumo called to him, her hard voice almost scolding, and she took a step into the room.

  Masaomi seemed taken aback for a moment to hear Ukigumo speak to him, but he quickly regained his calm and smiled at her.

  Misao’s breath was arrested, as if he’d taken a blow to the chest.

  Ukigumo sat coquettishly next to Masaomi.

  There was no way she was brushing him off.

  Seeing the two of them beside each other, Misao realized what the near future held.

  Ukigumo glanced meaningfully at Misao, obviously wanting a word with him. Misao bowed his head and left the room. He heard Masaomi call out to him quietly, but Misao could never have turned to look back.

  Don’t think about it,he warned himself.Don’t brood over it.

  Over what?

  There was no way he would find an answer when his heart was so deeply entangled.

  The only thing he knew for certain was that Masaomi had contracted Ukigumo.

  That’s what a man like him would do.

  And the fact that Masaomi had been captivated by Ukigumo was as natural as snow melting in running water.

  They were beautiful together. Misao recognized how perfect it all was. But then why was his heart still so muddled?

  There was a shooting pain in the middle finger of his right hand.

  Misao had been daydreaming while he was heating some wine, and he had burned his hand. It didn’t blister, but the piercing pain would not go away.

  Misao gazed up at the bulbous moon as it floated in the night sky, wondering what he had been thinking. In the distance he heard the sound of wooden clappers.

  He let out a short sigh and left the railing. As he turned to walk down the hall, a breeze from the garden gusted through his long hair, throwing it into disarray.

  He frowned and pushed his troublesome hair behind his ears. He didn’t have anything to tie it back, so he held it with one hand.

  He went down the enclosed hallway to the stairs.

  His feet stopped in almost exactly the same spot as the night before.

  He blinked slowly.

  Masaomi was leaning against the railing, all alone, dressed in a light robe.

  He had red thread laced between his fingers; he was making shapes. Ukigumo or Sazu must have left it with him. He seemed uninterested in his moving fingers, apparently thinking about something else. But he had noticed Misao’s approach and slowly turned his head.

  He slipped one hand free of the thread, and it danced fitfully in the breeze.

  The red thread threatened to fly away, and Misao caught it against the railing. He had to lean forward to catch it.

  His bundled hair flew back in the breeze.

  He went up on his tiptoes, then fell back onto his heels and let out a breath.

  He held the thread out to Masaomi and looked up at him. He saw in his face that Masaomi had been waiting for him, and his heart trembled.

  “I thought if I waited here, I might see you again.”

  “What?”

  Misao’s face was full of confusion, and Masaomi flicked his eyes away.

  Misao felt uncomfortable. Had Masaomi ever been the one to look away from him before? It felt unnatural.

  A sense of unknown dread cast its shadow over his heart.

  “Would you come with me for a while?”

  Misao hesitated at Masaomi’s invitation, which sounded slightly tense, but he had no way to refuse. So he nodded.

  He followed Masaomi away from the railing and into his room.

  “Is something the matter?” Misao asked the man’s wide back as they passed through the door.

  Masaomi seemed in no hurry to begin talking. He didn’t even look at Misao or sit down, so Misao could do nothing but stand as well, silent.

  He felt awkward, and when he lowered his eyes his hair brushed over his ears. He immediately let out a small sound of annoyance and pulled his hand away from his hair. His hair had touched the burn on his finger.

  Masaomi turned around and looked at him. His eyebrows knitted in concern and he turned to face Misao.

  “What happened to your hand?”

  Masaomi took Misao’s hand, startling him.

  “It’s nothing serious.”

  Misao tried to pull his hand away, but Masaomi held fast. “Let me see it.”

  Masaomi laid a hand on Misao’s shoulder and drew him over to sit beside a lantern.

  He inspected Misao’s hand in the light.

  “Oh, I see it. It’s all red.”

  “It’s just a little burn.”

  Misao’s hand still rested in Masaomi’s.

  “I want you to take care of yourself,” Masaomi whispered, as he looked at the burn on Misao’s finger.

  Misao tried to laugh the comment off as overprotective, but faced with Masaomi’s serious face raised solemnly to his own, he couldn’t say anything.

  “I think I may have offended you,” Masaomi began, by way of preface. “Ukigumo told me about your situation.”

  Instantly, Misao’s cheeks drew taut and he slipped his hand free of Masaomi’s hold.

  The tip of his middle finger pulsed with pain, just like his heart.

  “Would you mind if I asked you about it?”

  Masaomi’s face was almost frighteningly earnest.

  “What sort of work do you do here?”

  “Do you
want to hear me say that I sell my body to men?” Misao asked contemptuously. Masaomi did not deny it.

  Misao was the lovechild of the most popular courtesan at the time and her lover. As soon as Misao’s father had found out the girl was pregnant, he’d headed for the hills.

  After that, she talked about retiring from the business and left little Misao at Oumi Tea House. He had no memory of her. Born and raised in the brothel, Misao had no relatives and he had no choice but to serve the tea house. The child of a beautiful courtesan and her lover, who had been widely rumored to be a playboy, Misao was a beautiful child, for better or worse. When he’d begun serving as a maid, the owner had become partial to him. He was taught everything from literature to the arts of the tea house, and all the expenses rested on Misao’s back, to be paid off by work in the brothel. Before he realized it, Misao was buried in debt, bound to Oumi Tea House, no different from the girls who had been sold into service there.

  He wanted to be free.

  And the only way he could do that was to pay off his debt to the owner.

  He flirted with the customers to earn money.

  Sometimes he was contracted more than the prostitutes. He knew that the girls resented him for being more successful even though he was a man. But the trick that Misao had used all this time was to give his full attention to the customer, so they would come again and again. And he had never once crossed the line.

  “You’ve been very kind to me,” Masaomi said without hesitation. “I want you to tell me how much you need to leave this place.”

  Misao’s mouth fell open slightly and his eyes widened.

  His head shook minutely, all on its own.

  He was shocked himself at how afraid he was of burdening this man or causing him any trouble.

  “Or is this just more of my arrogance, wanting to pay you back somehow?”

  Misao gazed at Masaomi’s pure face, at the heart that had thought so fervently of him.

  “You gave me your handkerchief,” he countered, dazed, and Masaomi’s eyes fell. He was hurt.

  Why is he upset?

  All at once, he thought of something. His head hung down, which made it difficult to speak, but the desire bubbled out of his heart and past his lips.

  “Actually, there is something…”

  He lifted his head.

  “Can you take me outside the gate?”

  It wasn’t an outlandish request and Misao need not have hesitated. Masaomi’s face showed not the slightest distress.

  That was the most he had done to help Misao all evening.

  “All I want is one afternoon.”

  His voice trembled slightly with this request, even as his lips pulled into a faint smile.

  Chapter 3

  The wind was strong that day.

  Sitting in the seat of the rickshaw that had stopped outside the tea house, Misao heard the sound of rooftiles whistling in the breeze.

  He gazed down at his toes, at the socks that covered them and the wooden sandals he wore, wondering if all this was real. It didn’t seem like it. And though Misao was convinced it was a dream, a lot of preparation had gone into dreaming it.

  Gikuyo had rousted Misao from his bed that morning, which already seemed so long ago. Apparently Masaomi had spoken with Gikuyo. He had stayed the night, then argued with her for Misao’s outing the very next morning. When Misao found out about it, Masaomi was already waiting for him in his overnight room, dressed in a formal men’s kimono.

  “Give this to the gatekeeper.”

  Misao heard Gikuyo’s voice as she spoke to Masaomi, and he glanced out at the front of the tea house from a small hole cut in the rickshaw’s hood. They stood facing each other under the eaves, which protected them from the wind. Masaomi slipped something into his pocket. It was probably some sort of document that the tea house needed to show for Misao to be allowed outside the gate. Without it, he wouldn’t be able to leave.

  The owner was still in bed. Misao could imagine how he would panic when he woke and found Misao gone, and he worried a little for Gikuyo, who had given him permission to go without consulting the owner.

  As if she had sensed Misao’s apprehensive gaze, Gikuyo looked over and marched straight up to him. She stepped definitively onto the footboard and leaned forward, raising Misao’s chin sharply with her index finger.

  “Are you trying to impress people with this flaccid, uncomplicated, lovesick face?”

  Gikuyo snorted loudly. Misao only stared at her blankly. Her imperious nature made him momentarily forget everything else.

  Gradually, Misao’s eyes sharpened. He shook his chin free of Gikuyo’s finger irritably. In the same moment, he banished his concern for her. This woman didn’t need anyone to worry about her well-being.

  Gikuyo looked at him sardonically, then drew her face close to his. She whispered against his ear, so close he thought he could feel her lips, “Everything’s going according to plan.”

  Misao’s brows knitted dubiously and Gikuyo winked at him, then she drew back from the cart. Masaomi came up beside her and they conversed briefly.

  “Thanks for waiting.”

  He climbed in beside Misao, his shoulders pressing against Misao’s own. He raised a hand to one side of his mouth, as if he were telling Misao a secret. “She’s pretty scary.”

  “She’s a witch,” Misao asserted flatly, still worked up from the earlier outburst. But he cut himself off at once. Stealing a sidelong glance, he saw that his companion was staring straight at him. They looked at each other uncomfortably for a moment. Suddenly, Masaomi began to chuckle.

  “Sorry.”

  Misao apologized quietly, but Masaomi lowered his head and wrapped his arms around his stomach, unable to contain himself anymore, shaking with quiet laughter. He was probably laughing at the fact that in one breath Misao had spoken so poisonously about someone, and then before the words had died on his tongue, had apologized so primly.

  “You don’t need to laugh that hard,” Misao grumbled softly. But he finally felt like this was real.

  The rickshaw rolled down the main street of the pleasure district at a quick clip.

  “I can’t believe it.”

  Misao looked down at Masaomi’s hand, which covered his, and laid his other hand on top of it.

  “I never imagined my wish would be granted so quickly.”

  He raised his eyes silently and half-turned toward Masaomi.

  His tender face, which made Misao think of sunshine, gazed back at him.

  “As they say, seize the day,” he answered humorously. Then Masaomi turned his head back to the front and he gazed into the distance, as if to say,Besides…

  “I won’t be here much longer.”

  “What?”

  Misao’s eyes bulged slightly as he stared at Masaomi’s face.

  “Are you going back to Tokyo?” he asked, dazed.

  Masaomi tilted his head to look at Misao, and his eyes told him “yes.”

  “When—?”

  His voice was rough.

  “Next week at the latest.”

  There was no hesitation in his voice and Misao knew that his mind was made up.

  He felt a pit of despair yawn open in his heart. He didn’t understand why he felt so desolate at the departure of this man whom he had met only two days before.

  “I see.”

  Misao looked down for a while, and fell back against the seat with a heavy heart. He knew his face was an open book. Masaomi looked over at him pensively, but Misao had no desire to speak. He didn’t even know what he would say.

  The motion of the cart rocked his body slightly from side to side, then suddenly stopped. Realizing that the driver had stopped the cart, Misao looked up.

  The western gate soared into the sky above.

  His heart went quiet and he craned his neck out to see.

  A thin film of sweat covered his palms.

  A guard ran up to the cart and peered sharply under the hood at them. Misao gasped, rec
ognizing the man’s rugged face.

  “Misao? You’re the one from Oumi going out?” he asked, narrowing one eye in suspicion.

  Misao felt like he was going to grab his arm and drag him back to the tea house.

  Staring stiffly at the man, he groped blindly to clutch at Masaomi’s jacket. Masaomi rested his own hand over Misao’s.

  “Here.”

  He took the document out of his pocket and passed it to the guard. The man took his time reading it over to verify its authenticity. The thin paper rattled in the strong wind.

  “Looks good.”

  The guard nodded and stuffed the paper into his pocket, grinning lewdly at Masaomi.

  “Watch out, sir. That one tried to run away a couple of times when he was a kid. He doesn’t walk too well anymore.”

  Masaomi looked straight ahead, not answering, and ordered the driver to continue.

  Misao could see them leaving the gate behind through the window in the hood.

  There was a limit to how much he could see through that window. He turned to look, irresistibly attracted by the image, but the joints in the hood got in the way, which only increased his impatience. Misao shouted at the driver, unable to contain himself.

  “Stop!”

  He flew out of the rickshaw as it slowed. His jacket trailing behind him, his hair swept in the same direction, Misao stared at the giant gate. Far away inside was the street he had grown up on.

  Masaomi slowly drew up behind Misao as he stood there, fixated.

  “I would never do anything to cause you problems, Mister Towa.”

  Misao turned his face into the wind to look at Masaomi.

  “Never.”

  He swore it with utter conviction.

  But Masaomi continued to stare at Misao and he shook his head with an intense look.

  “I’m not worried about that. Look, your hair is getting mussed. Let’s get back in the cart.”

  He wrapped his arm around Misao and Misao leaned against him as they walked back to the rickshaw in the powerful wind. Covered by the hood, it was like a tiny nest inside.

  “Are you all right?” Masaomi asked in a whisper, and Misao nodded, hanging his head.

  The rickshaw slowly began moving again.