Here I demonstrated. Aya and I played this out by pulling at the clothes faster to clean them. We finished in a shorter time. Concentrating on Aya, our speed and the story helped me to forget my pain from the night before.
‘A large crow flew by. He saw the eagle. “That is no way to help.” The crow told half of the birds to fly to the right branches of the fork and the other half to the left. With the weight of all the birds, the fork of the tree split and freed the eagle.’
I stood on one side and Aya on the other of each panel. Each ‘bird’ became cloth on a drying branch. She performed this task quicker than before. By the end of the day, all the washed clothing, spread on branches, looked like some odd quilt I might have sewn.
For Aya I invented tales in which women fled from make-believe terrors. We escaped or saved lives by beating our way out of pretend bushes and scrubbing clothes. When we dug ourselves out of make-believe tunnels, water buckets moved faster. Ghosts, especially the recently dead yurei, chasing the living, trees blowing in a storm created by a demon, mountains climbed step by step to escape some horrible fate, sometimes even the stately robes of princes and princesses: all became part of our daily work. Every day I remembered a new story, invented one or varied an old one.
The stories allowed me to escape over the walls of the Village of Outcasts to somewhere wonderful or, at least, somewhere else – where I might redeem my family’s honour.
The stories served me better than her. I had discovered an honourable way to escape.
III. One Story
Tashiko and I went to Aya’s hut with my good news.
Aya hummed and played with little dishes and her doll on the floor of her hut. Her freshly shortened hair shifted with the rhythm of her song.
‘Aya.’ I knew I had to have her attention before I spoke to her.
She turned her head, her sweet smile offsetting the crossed eyes.
Tashiko and I sat on the floor next to her. ‘News.’
‘Madam Hitomi promoted me to Cleaner-of-Houses in the Women-for-Play’s working huts.’
She hugged me. ‘Hooray,’ she shouted, into my shoulder.
‘But I will not be working with you any more.’
Tears dribbled down Aya’s cheeks like slow rain. Tashiko lifted the rice cake, a gift from one of the Women-for-Play. Its scent floated up to me.
‘Here,’ Tashiko said. ‘We brought this for you. Kozaishō says this is your favourite.’
Aya mewled like a cat with its tail caught.
‘Is this not your favourite?’ I said.
That was the wrong question. The mewing increased to a whine, and the tears continued to flow.
Tashiko scowled at me and began to sing a calming sutra. I joined in.
Another wrong approach. Now howling, Aya bent her head down to the floor.
Such noise caused trouble. Tashiko cradled Aya, and I rubbed her back, my roughened hands catching threads on her smock.
A torrent of tears accompanied her bawling.
I looked at Tashiko, shrugged my shoulders and kept a hand on Aya’s back. ‘Do you know the story of the mirror?’
I waited and murmured in her ear, ‘Once . . . long ago . . .’
Aya’s head rose. She was sniffing, her little chest heaving. The wailing stopped.
Once, long ago, a couple had a beautiful little girl. When the father’s business called him away to a faraway city, he promised the little girl a special present. Returning, he opened a basket. He had brought cakes and a large doll for his daughter. He presented his wife with a metal mirror.
Soon the mother became ill and told her daughter, ‘My darling, when I am gone, take care of your father. When you miss me, and you will, take this mirror and look into it. You will always see me.’
After she had died, the little girl looked into the mirror and saw her mother. For years it comforted her, even after her father remarried and she had a new stepmother who cared for her.
The tears were flowing again. ‘I have no mirror to see you,’ Aya said, wiping her nose on her sleeve.
‘You remember how we saw ourselves in water buckets? When you look into the water buckets tomorrow, you will see yourself. Picture me next to you, as always.’
When Aya smiled again, Tashiko and I went to my new hut with the Women-for-Play. I would miss the stories but was relieved I would no longer have to push Aya.
‘You amazed me,’ Tashiko said, lifting her eyebrows, soft as a baby bird’s down. ‘Where did you learn how to tell such a story?’
A fist hit my stomach as I remembered the source. ‘From Chiba . . . and Akio and the other samurai.’
‘I heard stories too, but I do not recognise this one.’
‘I make some of them up or change them.’ I explained about Aya working faster and the story duels with Akio on the way to Madam Hitomi.
‘Tell some to me.’
To make my work easier, I told stories to stop the Women-for-Play squirming while I dressed them and applied their makeup. They asked for me to arrange their hair and clothes because of my stories. This I enjoyed, and their attention pleased me, too. A well-timed story discouraged slaps for small mistakes or forgotten details or, worse, Hitomi’s discipline.
Bigger mistakes brought Hitomi’s punishments, so I learned as quickly as I could. Tashiko crept into my hut and held me and the dolls to ease her terror. While salves lessened pain, no one spoke of what occurred in Hitomi’s hut, no matter how loud the shrieks.
At the beginning of each day Tashiko and I whispered together. The Women-for-Play served as subjects for conversation – prolonged discussions about the best way to rouge mouths that were as thin as chopsticks, to select complementary colours and arrange robes for a woman with a figure as bumpy as an aubergine or as thin as a burdock root.
After work, she and I continued to play the games we had played at Chiba’s. Go was my favourite, and sometimes I won. Akio played go with me, and my skill improved. Hitomi allowed this activity, and Akio always called attention to us when we were taking the Right Action.
Tashiko persisted in the reading lessons, writing the names of objects on small papers. My writing still resembled bird scratches, but I could read more and more characters. Akio taught us new ones, those for weaponry, new poses and strokes.
From one grateful woman, I received a partial copy of the Kokinshū, a compilation of five-lined poems called waka. I copied them and later created my own. Tashiko did not appear jealous of my gifts for which I was thankful. I recalled her as a rival at the shōen.
The days ended with the evening meal and bathing. She and I murmured on into the night, until we were too tired to go on.
Months passed while I served the Women-for-Play, dressing, undressing, bathing, comforting, calming. I assisted with blackening their teeth, although the first few times I did not do it well. Those mistakes brought me to Hitomi’s special hut, but I did not cry out. My tongue and cheeks, bitten through, meant I could not chew food. Tashiko gave me cooled rice broth until I could eat again, often many days later. My fury with Hitomi lasted longer.
Tashiko explained, ‘If the work is not adequate, it is honourable to submit to whatever punishment Madam Hitomi decrees.’
I disagreed. Tashiko was trying to convince herself that our punishments were honourable. They were not, especially for honest mistakes or for someone like me who was learning. Whenever I was punished, I did whatever I had to stop myself crying out.
Only six months after my promotion to Cleaner-of-Houses, Tashiko shook my shoulder to awaken me. ‘Madam Hitomi. For me.’
‘Am I in trouble, too?’ As a punishment, Hitomi always fetched the offender herself. She appreciated seeing the fearful faces.
‘I do not know.’
I returned back to sleep, thinking of my twelfth birth anniversary and what the day might bring – gifts or abuse.
IV. Advancement
All the next day I did not see Tashiko. Before the evening meal she came into my hut with
a smile.
I had been fearful for her all day, but it appeared her punishments had not been too terrible. However, the three Women-for-Play for whom I had worked after midday were especially irksome. They ordered me to redo all my tasks. I had to tell a different story to each one to soothe her temper.
The last thing I craved before the evening meal was a grinning religious zealot. ‘What is it?’ I asked Tashiko, in a sharper manner than usual.
‘Wonderful news.’
‘Not another revelation about some sutra.’
Tashiko said nothing.
A moment later, I said, ‘Yes?’ in a more neutral tone, but did not change the fatigue on my face. My practice with Akio had been poor. In the second movement, my three-cross relationship – shoulders, hips and feet – would not align properly. Akio had been disappointed.
‘You are to become one of us.’
‘One of whom?’
Tashiko grinned like a happy monkey. ‘Women-for-Play. Like me.’
‘Women-for-Play? Truly?’ I sat upright on the futon. She had played tricks before.
‘Yes.’ She opened her arms wide, in expectation of some excitement, perhaps.
Tashiko fetched my house shoes, putting them on my feet.
‘Now what are you doing? Don’t tease me.’
Her eyes dimmed like ponds under a dark moon.
I prodded her shoulder with a finger. ‘Stop it. Not on my birth anniversary. You are treating me like one of those – those women.’
She lowered her eyes in the way she did when there was unpleasant news. ‘I am doing what Madam Hitomi wishes.’
I rose from the futon, changed my mind and sat again. Cold dread moaned through the hut.
‘I am totally unworthy.’ I said the expected words. This was no game. Perspiration seeped around my neck and down my back. The walls whirled, and my stomach tossed bile into my throat. I grabbed the futon and sought Tashiko’s eyes. Do not let this happen. My contented life was diving into a nether world.
Grabbing Tashiko’s hands, I swallowed the bitterness and said, ‘I am not ready to stop serving others, telling the stories and arranging the clothes.’ I checked her eyes. They withdrew, turning dark chestnut.
She stood up and pulled away her hands. ‘Kozaishō, there is nothing to be done.’
I had hurt her without meaning to. I wanted to be far away, although she was my friend and confidante. Apprehension raced through my limbs, like a strong stream after a sudden torrent in dry times.
I loved the stories and clothes, the songs and dances and makeup, but I despised the work. The work was the painful thing Goro had wanted to do to me. I had heard about it from the others, but Tashiko did not speak of it. I pushed at those shadows, but they would not go away. Everything was a dangerous wet snowstorm, a howling wind, no winter’s end.
Tashiko plopped beside me and touched my cheek. ‘It will hurt a little, at first, but you have never minded pain or hard work.’ She grinned. ‘Later you might enjoy it.’
‘Enjoy?’ What was she talking about?
‘And we will have more time together.’
‘Yes, well . . .’
‘And you will have more time for Akio and your training.’
‘Yes, well . . .’
‘It is what Madam Hitomi has ordered.’
‘The right action . . . and therefore honourable.’ I said, defeated.
‘Yes, Kozaishō.’
I guffawed with disdain and sighed loud and long. ‘Oh, Tashiko.’ Tears filled my eyes, and I turned away my face.
Her hand grasped my shoulder. ‘In the fullness of time, Kozaishō, you will find serenity, even joy, in taking the right action.’
‘Never. Not possible.’
She placed her arms around me, and her scent of brush clover and pinewood soothed me.
‘I want to go and light incense,’ I said to her, but kept holding her. Her eyes were hopeful – I believed she thought this to be a good thing – so I remained where I was. I would pray later to the Goddess of Mercy, I told myself, wondering if Tashiko could hear my mumblings.
Combing my hair with her fingers, she told me the story of Otsumae, how an emperor’s prayers allowed her to be reborn in Paradise.
‘We will say the Lotus Sutra,’ Tashiko added. ‘It will not be so bad. Remember honourable Hiroshi?’ She hugged me. ‘I will teach you. It will not hurt as much as you think. It did not for me.’
A cloud of sadness passed over her face. I ignored it, but remembered it.
We held each other, and I cried in the only way permitted: weeping without sounds.
‘Madam Hitomi directed me to prepare you. I will take you. She said I could attend you. Soon Women-for-Play – together.’
‘Thank you,’ I whispered, and embraced her.
‘The first one will be selected . . .’ she pulled away so we were face to face ‘. . . with care.’
I nodded, not believing her.
‘You are to tell each of them a story.’
‘A story? Not sing or dance? One of my stories?’
‘Yes. With the dances and your beautiful voice. Dressed as a character. It will not be so bad, with a musician outside and me as your serving girl – for now.’
‘Truly?’
‘Yes . . . We will learn the thirteen stringed koto. When you graduate from the six-string, we can play duets.’
Cleverness ruled Madam Hitomi’s actions.
For a short time, Tashiko would no longer serve men. That delighted her. She helped with my bath, just as if we were at Chiba’s, but with softness. She did not cry. I took this as a good sign. Like Akio, she directed me: ‘Not like Lesser House. No eye contact. Bow frequently. First to the man and second to Madam Hitomi. Smile often. Do not cry. Keep your face blank.’
‘Blank?’ I asked.
‘Go inside. Remain hidden.’
‘Yes, I know. What else?’
‘Keep to your stories or make compliments. Only pleasing words. Let your mouth be like your nose.’ She pinched it and grinned.
This was like my mother saying, ‘Show no emotion, say nothing and do even less,’ but now I had to do things that were painful, repugnant – and impure.
I lit candles to ask my ancestors for help. Except for the blood defilements in practice, once touching Tashiko during her cycle, and being in the Village of Outcasts, I had been pure for a long time. Tashiko recited the sutra for longevity, to ward off any danger. The next day she dressed me as the emperor’s daughter in the story. I wore three kimonos – a red under-kimono, a bright blue one with small designs of feathers and, last, a painted one with pink and orange peonies. Tashiko steered me to Madam Hitomi’s greeting room in Main House. Harsh makeup stung my face. The stiffened cloth of my costume swaddled me as if I were encased to my neck in thick, scratchy mud.
Tashiko motioned for me to go into Main House. I wanted to squeeze her hand for luck, but it was too late. As I entered the room, I hid my trembling hands. I could not dishonour myself.
Peering into Madam Hitomi’s room for the second time was like seeing into a large snake’s hole – the darkened room, the glint of Hitomi’s eyes among all her cats’ faces, wondering if she would scratch me with her fingernails again. The man sat on pillows, as huge as Chiba, and was dressed in brocade – a dazzling green, red and yellow design. He lifted his face from one of the picture books. ‘Spin around.’
As I did so, he spoke to Madam Hitomi: ‘Much more beautiful than you told me. I am quite pleased.’
I worked to help my eyes blank, but I bowed at the compliment, remembering to keep my mouth empty, like my nose and my eyes.
The man did not acknowledge my bow, but stated formally, ‘I understand this is a first time. I will do my best. Perhaps a serving girl should wait, as may be correct.’
‘I appreciate your generosity and your thoughtfulness,’ Hitomi replied. I had little idea of what they spoke. The words ‘generosity’ and ‘thoughtfulness’ had always related to pleasant thing
s.
As I followed this man to one of the special houses behind Main House, Tashiko walked behind me. I was younger. I should have gone last.
Tashiko went inside and lit an oil lamp on its own table in a far corner; the doorway provided the only natural light. The man continued into the room and I trailed after him. Tashiko had not mentioned the house’s luxury compared to my sleeping hut or even Lesser House.
The mats formed a floor, which looked like the blackened green of a kemari field below rainclouds. The futon and cushions matched in a slightly darker green. A jug and bowl, both trimmed in a deep sea-green, nestled near the lit brazier at the back. A bamboo stand on the other side stood with its arms held out like a starving person reaching for an embrace.
Tashiko turned to me and breathed, ‘I will be outside afterwards.’ She warned me again, ‘No speaking unless asked, except for your story.’ She bowed to the man, rubbed the back of my hand lightly, and left me alone.
I rehearsed in my mind what I had been told: remain mute; do whatever I was told; pretend enjoyment, no matter what happened; show respect, as if this man were Proprietor Chiba. My eyes could not meet his.
V. The Exceptions
The man sat on the futon and bade me stand in front of him. His lips formed a straight line. ‘What is your name?’
‘My name is Kozaishō,’ I replied formally, and stared at the floor. Even with my head down, I could feel his eyes probing me.
He smoothed my garment, running his hands over the sleeves, the back and the front. He murmured, ‘Kozaishō,’ and said, ‘Little empress,’ from the story again and again. He sounded like a hissing cat with its back arched. My stomach tightened into claws. Remembering Tashiko’s instructions, I meekly showed gladness where none lived.
The man patted the futon, saying, ‘Sit here so that I can hear your beautiful story more clearly.’ He held me around my waist as I climbed beside the brocade covering his wide lap. ‘We do not want to crush your beautiful kimono. Let me help you loosen it, my little empress.’ Since he had not requested that I speak, I said nothing. He loosened and removed my outer kimono. Grasping each sleeve between the two fingers of each hand, he pulled it off me, sauntered to the other side of the hut and laid it on top of his robe. My kimono hovered, like a ghost, over the bamboo clothing stand.
The Pillow Book of the Flower Samurai Page 11