The Blonde Samurai

by Jina Bacarr

  I was surprised to find a gleaming white marble washstand clearly installed for western comfort and concealed by a half-open screen painted with birds and flowers, but I shall leave it to your imagination as to the particulars of the necessary place (a hole in the ground). Poking around behind the screen this morning after my ablutions, I discovered an excellent guidebook by a Mr. G. W. Rathbone left there by the previous occupant. It was filled with information about the Bluff as well as a map of Yokohama, which would serve me well today. The rain had stopped and the road was clear. I was determined to go down to the settlement and check on my husband’s financial activities as I’d promised my father. To do so, I needed the use of the pony and carriage Mr. Fawkes had left at my disposal. I wish you could have seen me trotting around the room and slapping my buttocks in front of the house keeper and the maid. It was Yuko who understood what I needed and rushed down the road to bring the carriage with the native groom to my bungalow.

  And since it is in my nature to find amusement in an uncomfortable situation, I shall remind you that as much as I hated wearing the damn corset, I had no choice but to put it on if I was going to go into town to pay a visit to the bank manager.

  I laced up.

  I shall not bore you with more than the necessary details of my meeting with the German bank manager except to say he puffed on his big cigar incessantly and looked at me as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing: a tall American woman dressed in Paris fashion, replete with bustle and train, claiming to a member of the British peerage and insisting on examining her husband’s business accounts. Such an act was unheard of in this part of the world where the financial freedom of a lady traveling with her husband was confined to carrying a chit-book, a written record of her trivial purchases made on credit, items usually found in the fine curio and silk shops.

  He demanded I fill out and sign a request form and present my letter of credit along with my signature book, the first page engraved and bearing my signature, for his perusal. I did so with a smile, knowing he wished to check the authenticity of my signature as proclaimed by the signed names of the London bankers appearing on the next line (I must note that an addendum affirmed my father as the securer of the monies drawn on a noted U.S. bank). Grumbling, he handed it back to me, then motioned for me to follow him.

  Under his watchful eye, he escorted me to a private room in the rear of the building away from curious customers who, I suspected, would question why he permitted a woman to look over the accounts. With a confident smile I shut the door, thereby clipping off the burning tip of his cigar. I stomped out the flickering ashes with the toe of my boot then waited until his footsteps faded away before I sat down at the well-used mahogany desk and opened the plain brown leather tome embossed with a round gold seal. I checked each entry, the precise handwriting of the bank clerk noting every debt with James’s large but erratic signature next to each item, his very long loop in the letter J unmistakable. I looked for expenses such as lumber for building wooden bridges, horses and oxen for transportation. And bigger items such as small tank engines and corridor carriages. I found none. Instead I noted large amounts paid to his hotel far beyond the cost of his accommodations, clubs and other establishments, as well as substantial monies paid to Lord Penmore and other European gentlemen whom I surmised had nothing to do with the railway business.

  Snapping the large bound book shut, I marched back into the bank manager’s office, demanding an explanation.

  “Who is this Sir——and this Mr.——?” I wanted to know, asserting myself. I was angry and had no wish to be swept aside with a gentle pat on the hand like a titled lady who had signed more chits than she could afford for the month.

  “Why do you ask, Lady Carlton?” said the bank manager, narrowing his eyes.

  “I see no connotation next to their names proclaiming this is a business expense for the building of the railway from Ōzaka to Kobé.” My father’s investment included completing the twenty-two mile stretch of railway joining these two cities. I pointed out various entries in the account book to the bank manager, among them one with the dubious distinction of having the same name as the local racecourse. “I have no doubt these are gambling debts, Mr.——,” I continued, addressing the bank manager by name, “not legitimate business expenses.”

  “I assure you, Lady Carlton, you are mistaken. His lordship has provided the bank with invoices that leave no question as to the legitimacy of these expenditures.” He bristled and bellowed but wouldn’t look at me. The liar. I wouldn’t underestimate James’s bribing him to fake his accounts.

  “I don’t believe you. You see, I know my husband,” I said without hesitation, glaring at him resolutely, my stance not budging. “I shall have to insist you do not pay any more monies to these men from this account.”

  “Under whose authority, your ladyship?” asked the bank manager, blowing smoke in my face, the unpleasant scent of a pungent spice making me cough.

  “I represent the interests of Thomas O’Roarke of New York,” I said, waving away the wisps of smoke with my gloved hand. “The gentleman whose name appears next to the bankers.” I indicated my father’s signature with my gloved forefinger smudged with ink. “I’m his daughter and I have the authorization to stop any more payments from his lordship’s account.” I laid down the letter from De Pinna Notaries in London giving me such authority.

  “Mein Gott…” began the German, his eyes widening in disbelief as he read it, followed by a guffaw of laughter and a distinct sneer in my direction. He refused to honor my request.

  It was unheard of, unfashionable and quite alarming to have a woman making such a ridiculous request in his establishment, he said, cutting off the tip of a second cigar before he finished the first one. Would I please leave immediately?

  Embarrassment doesn’t begin to express the emotions racing through me. Anger, frustration, disappointment. Why is it that men refuse to see us as intelligent creatures with the ability to think and reason? We are more than delicate rosebuds, I wanted to tell him, pink and moist quivering little clitorises trying to survive in a male-dominated society. Yet we are relegated to either acting like perfect ladies or match girls (prostitutes, to you ladies unaware of the deceptive practice of street girls selling matches to gentlemen in hopes of procuring an extra guinea for the service of lighting their cigars). All because we crave respect for our talents and our minds, that doesn’t diminish our ability to exude delicacy and refinement in the drawing room or the bedroom.

  I must admit I allowed my gift of talk to get the better of me, acting more like an Irish rebel aching for a political fight than an aristocratic lady out for an afternoon promenade. I told the bank manager women would someday have the same rights as men, including the right to vote (women in the U.S. territory of Wyoming already enjoy this right, dear lady reader. Can Britain be far behind?). He sputtered and fumed, yelling at me in German and spewing live ashes from his cigar onto the floor as I made my exit. By the holy saints, I had no need of a translation to know I wasn’t welcome for a return visit.

  Popping up my parasol, I started walking up Main Street, my head spinning, my plan unraveling, map in hand, not knowing where I was going, but determined not to give up. Since the bank manager wouldn’t explain the questionable entries, I had no recourse left.

  I would demand an explanation from his lordship.

  But where to find him?

  I was tempted to go back and ask the bank manager where I could find the nearest brothel, no doubt where James spent his days and nights when he wasn’t gambling. I imagined the German would have choked on his cigar. I would have to wait until Mr. Fawkes returned from Tokio to ask his assistance in dealing with my husband’s reckless spending.

  I kept walking, feeling strangely liberated after my confrontation with the bank manager and restless to become part of this strange new world around me. I reveled in having no social boundaries here (I didn’t count the rebuff by the bank manager since I intended to re
medy that in due time), no rules as dictated by the upper class, no fears. I believed nothing could stand in my way of enjoying this new adventure, not even James. I felt confident, flirty.

  With my bustle swaying behind me, I livened my step, sweeping by large buildings, residences, stores, offices, the telegraph office and a clock tower. I strolled along the Bund, the street facing the sea, and noted heavy construction of a luxurious new hotel. I joined the already bustling traffic of British, American, French, Dutch, a few Danes and Norwegians, and numerous Chinese going about their business. I reveled in their curious stares (a western woman alone was an unusual sight in Yokohama), but I spoke to no one, though I was tempted. I wouldn’t be scrutinized here as I would be in London for speaking to a man I didn’t know. A fierce wind blew between my legs, rustling my skirts, teasing me. I continued walking, the soft cotton of my drawers rubbing between my legs and setting off a feverish rhythm tapping in my soul, a desire to break free of my solitude. I yearned to move my body to a forbidden beat, gyrating my hips against the nude flanks of a man I’d yet to meet. A vibrant breeze from the harbor hit my nostrils, the salty smell of the sea arousing my need. I dared to seed my mind with a provocative question: James had his women, why couldn’t I take a lover?

  This decidedly pleasant thought hung on the edge of my mind as I wandered up and down the main street in Native Town, detaching myself from the London world of heated indiscretions and whetted whispers. I delighted in the idea, my pulse racing at the thought of taking a man to my bed, but knowing if anyone found out and the gossip found its way back to London…Yes, dear lady reader, I suspected then I would face your wrath, your scurrilous remarks and perhaps your envy.

  I put that thought aside, for the intensity to annihilate my loneliness was too great to be ignored. This delirious thought hummed within me, growing louder as I crossed the street and skirted out of the way of a wayward jinrikisha with its noisy passenger yelling at the driver, before entering a curio shop. I wandered around the shop, my eye dazzled by numerous items, including swords, daggers, spears inlaid with mother-of-pearl, bows and arrows, picture books of flowers and birds and shiny Mandarin coats.

  I picked up a square silk embroidery studded with intertwining threads in indigo blue, burnt gold, crushed rubies, then removed my glove so I could run my fingers over the rippling surface of this perfect piece of silk. I wanted to feel its sensuousness stimulating the ends of my fingertips and radiating down to my pussy, my longing for a man inside me reaching such a passion I didn’t hold back a flirty tilt of my head nor deny my Irish tongue a naughty turn of phrase when I encountered a certain tall, charming gentleman.

  The delightful young clerk from the steamer.

  Mr. Edward Mallory.

  8

  “I would like to buy silk embroideries,” I said to the shop owner, a slight man, shoulders hunched, unkempt black hair hiding his eyes, his neck outstretched as if he spent hours peeking around corners watching his customers while he rubbed his crotch. Something he did without shame when I entered his shop. I pretended not to notice his unseemly actions since Mr. Rathbone’s guidebook recommended this open-fronted shop as having first-class curios (the author noted to the traveler that fabric purchases were rolled on a stick and covered with the ubiquitous coarse yellow cotton cloth found in every shop).

  I wanted to buy old brocades, I told the shop owner again, indicating the lovely square I held in my hand, cut from a ceremonial coat from days long ago. He bowed numerous times, shaking his head as if he understood me, but he made no move to show me his wares.

  “Silk,” I repeated.

  “Allow me to help you, Lady Carlton.”

  I turned, then smiled when I saw the young ship’s clerk tip his hat toward me. Mr. Edward Mallory. Tall, broad chest, good solid features, his face clean shaven without the abundant whiskers favored by so many westerners. He looked so gallant, like a gentleman strolling in Regent’s Park, not a ship’s clerk. Why hadn’t I noticed that about him before?

  I tapped the tip of my parasol on the floor, my impatience driving a steady beat that rivaled the beating of my heart. Or was it because I hadn’t decided to take a lover before?

  “Mr. Mallory, what are you doing here?” I extended my hand and he bowed over it, but he didn’t follow the European practice of kissing my hand. The late-afternoon shadow cut deep angles into his face, giving him a strong, intelligent look.

  “I was looking for you, your ladyship.” His eyes danced over me in a lovely waltz, noting my cinched-in waist and making me grateful I had struggled with the four-poster to lace up my corset.

  “You flatter me, sir,” I said, rearranging my black felt hat at a saucy angle. “How did you find me?”

  “I saw you come out of the bank,” he said, picking up an ivory carving and pretending to study it. I saw him watching me out of the corner of his eye. My nipples tightened. “When I tried to approach you, a wayward jinrikisha cut me off.”

  I smiled, remembering the kuruma holding a gentleman passenger bellowing for the driver to go faster. The jinrikisha had raced down the street at a good clip, the nearly nude coolie panting, his chest heaving, his copper-skinned back wet with sweat. The nakedness of these natives no longer shocked me. Was that also a factor in my deliverance, my determination to release myself from my staid promise to remain alone?

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Mallory?” My voice was teasing, light, pouting. I was behaving as if I’d stepped through a mirror into a different world, but at the same time aware, detached, in control. To evoke the response I wanted from him, I swished my skirts around in a provocative manner, tilting my head just so, lowering my eyes. I saw myself as a temptress creating a mood of mellow sunshine, creamy and smooth, and sinfully rich. Yes, I flirted with him, posing as I did like a play actress, but what of it? No one was privy to my sensual pantomime but Mr. Mallory—and now you. No scheming dowager whispering about me behind my back or snooty baroness squinting to see if I was wearing too much rice powder. Just the handsome ship’s clerk and me. ’Tis a fine memory I have of a fine gentleman.

  Mr. Mallory put down the ivory carving with all the nervousness of a man with something on his mind, but not knowing how to say it. “I heard you mention you wanted to buy silk embroideries.”

  I cocked my head. “Yes, but the shop owner doesn’t speak English.”

  He smiled. “You needn’t worry, Lady Carlton, you shall have your wish.” Sensing he had no idea what I really wanted, I remained silent, my newfound liberty to seek my own pleasure teetering on the edge of a precipice. All I needed was a smattering of courage to jump off. I listened intently as he said a few words in Japanese to the shop owner, who nodded and disappeared to the back of the store.

  “I’m impressed, Mr. Mallory, how well you speak the native language.” I paused, staring at him, then before I could stop myself I said, “I imagine you’re quite proficient in many things.” There, I’d done it, opened my mouth and out popped a sensual innuendo I had no right to utter. Poor Mr. Mallory.

  His handsome face flushed, startled as he was by my audacious remark. He cleared his throat several times, but I didn’t hold that against him. On the contrary, his candid reaction made him more attractive to me.

  “I’ve made this voyage several times, your ladyship, and spent many days ashore.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets, no doubt to hide his sweaty palms. “I’ve learned enough of the native language to get what I need—”

  “And what do you need, Mr. Mallory?” I said in a husky voice, biting down hard on my lower lip like a girl from the ramparts in search of a dandy to rub her clit with a gold coin. Yes, clit. An abbreviated word of what Hippocrates called the “little pillar” and one which brings an interesting thought to mind as I write this memoir. I was acting a certain way with Mr. Mallory and I am writing a certain way, all according to rules men set down. It seems to me when we women pen erotic novels using words men created, that often leaves us unhappily searching for words,
descriptions and phrases that evoke the sexual experience the way we women feel it, not how men expect us to act. Vulgar, sassy. So I’ve made up my own word. Clit. Short and to the point. Don’t be offended by my remark, dear lady reader. If I stray from expressions familiar to you, it’s because I delight in finding new ways to titillate you with the language of pleasure. And myself.

  “Lady Carlton,” Mr. Mallory began, “I—I’d like to ask you if you could, I mean…”

  I closed my eyes, pulse racing, trying to catch my breath, at the same time lamenting the presence of a particularly hard stay in my corset poking me in the ribs. I ignored it. I was certain Mr. Mallory was going to ask me to join him for tea at a small restaurant along the Bund. Charming, quiet, intimate. I imagined a passionate, sensual scene, time suspended in the native setting, the rhythm of two lonely people finding each other in play. It was temptation as I had dreamed it. We’d sit close, very close, sipping sweet, pale yellow tea, our knees touching, fingers entwining under the table, hearts pounding, then he’d ask me to go back to his hotel room with him. I’d sneak upstairs, wait until the corridor was clear, then he’d open the door and I’d rush into his arms, his hands roaming down the small of my back and resting on the rise of my buttocks (yes, I skipped him undressing me—petticoats, corset, stockings, chemise—so eager am I to get to the amorous part of my imagined encounter). He’d whisper in my ear how much he wanted to make love to me, his hands teasing my backside with gentle stroking, his fingers inching closer and closer to—

  A cool breeze blowing in my face startled me, daring to invade my daydream, settling over me like the wings of birds flapping in my face with an insistent hum buzzing in my ears. I opened my eyes to see the shop owner unrolling bolts and bolts of silk, the gloriously light material swirling in the air around me like columns of red, blue and green smoke. Beautiful, rich silk with a tropical scent of aromatic oils wafting in the air. Next, the shop owner brought out layer after layer of old silk brocades emitting a gentle odor, incense mixed with dried flowers, I would guess, as if the silk embroideries lay buried in an old trunk for years, the moist atmosphere capturing its spiritual aroma in the fibers and not allowing it to fade.