The Pillow Book of the Flower Samurai (22 page)

‘You will each pay a visit to my . . . special room and see an extra customer
every
day. And, Kozaishō, you will come first. Tonight.’ Hitomi smiled. Relief. Appeased.

Standing to leave, I brushed against Tashiko and breathed out a wind-in-mulberry-leaves sigh.

That night Tashiko applied ointment to my bruised back. I was too excited to feel the soreness.

‘We are becoming Bodhisattvas. We acted with compassion.’ Tashiko’s divine soul shone in her eyes like a full moon over fresh snow.

‘We saved Emi from this life. An accomplishment, eh?’ I allowed Tashiko to believe that being a Bodhisattva was important to me. Now there would be more clients. More revenue. More power. Over Hitomi.

‘Kozaishō, Emi and I will receive beatings, too.’

‘Oh, Tashiko, no rice water tomorrow: yours and Emi’s will be mild too.’

‘Boasting is not part of the Way. Not honourable.’

‘But we saved Emi. We saved her from this misery.’

‘All life is suffering, Kozaishō. No one escapes.’

IV. A Contest

It began like this.

Summer’s end, and the nights cooled. Cicadas shrilled against the noisy chattering of shrikes: ‘
key, key, kee-kee-kee, keey-keey-keey
.’ Women-for-Play and servants collected outside my hut on the
watadono
, chatting of games, stories, dances and make-believe.

That night I told ‘The Old Farmer and the Priests’.

Not so long ago, an old farmer could no longer service his wives, and they were growing restless. In desperation, he went to a nearby shrine. One priest suggested the artificial phallus-shaped
harigata
, but the farmer sighed and said, ‘I love my wives and want to give them only of myself.’ Another priest suggested using
higo zuiki
, which he could wrap around himself, but the farmer sighed and said, ‘I love my wives and want to give them only of myself.’ Finally a wise priest suggested peniform mushrooms. ‘They will allow you to give only of yourself, but you will be stronger and more virile.’ The farmer looked doubtful.

‘We have ducks here,’ the wise priest claimed. ‘One evening we fed the drake a small peniform mushroom in some seeds. By next morning, we all observed the results.’ He nodded at the other priests, already grinning. ‘The drake mated the ducks for three days and, three long nights, from what all of us heard!’

So the sceptical farmer agreed to try peniform mushrooms. The priests reported the farmer became a father three times three, and none of his wives, or his newer younger ones, ever left him.

Tashiko threw me a sly look. ‘Only used
higo zuiki
three times in as many months.’

Several women’s giggles echoed above the
watadono
at the thought of those plant fibres wrapped around some man’s withered Stalk.

Tashiko’s head rose. ‘Never used mushrooms to stiffen a Stalk.’ She wore a mask of smugness, quite rare for her. My face warmed.

Misuki stood and placed a wide hand on each hip. ‘I have never used mushrooms or
higo zuiki
, although I am the newest Woman-for-Play.’

I countered in playfully, ‘I have used
higo zuiki
for only one customer. I have
never
used the mushroom – because I can grow my own!’

More women cackled than had giggled before.

Tashiko and I stood face to face for an argument. With an audience Tashiko escalated our favourite squabble.

‘You have!’ Tashiko’s voice lightened. ‘The silk merchant from Uji and his . . . wandering eye?’

‘Oh. Yes. That wandering eye. The old grandfather who had the long, long beard.’

The women hooted at the gesture I made with my hands. Tashiko laughed at my little joke. To see her laugh brightened me, like the noon sun over fresh snow.

She wagged her head from side to side and clicked her tongue, reminding me of my mother. ‘Let us keep a daily record of who uses the
higo zuiki
and, may the Gods never allow, the mushroom!’

‘Why not for a whole month?’ A woman called out.

‘Why not until O-Bon? We can celebrate our ancestors and learn who resurrects the most dead Stalks – without any extra help!’

I lifted my arms in anticipation of my success. I wanted to find out. I thought I was the best. Now I wanted to know for certain.

Tashiko created a tally with all of our names and two columns, marked ‘
higo zuiki
’ and ‘mushroom’. We named the tally ‘Tsuneyo’ after a huge
sum
ō
wrestler in another story.

The women gathered after work to check Tsuneyo, like sparrows after spilt grain. Tashiko made the little marks, and the women gossiped. The sleeping areas were transformed into nests of prattling. Many risked large wagers.

Rin’s large shadow appeared on the
watadono
each night. The tally included her name, too, and she risked cloth and many
sh
ō
of rice. She studied the tally and was never in a good mood when she lost.

Nights later Tashiko again tallied Tsuneyo in front of our hut. I had no marks beside my name. Tashiko had only one. I basked in my triumph and ignored what lay behind me.

A hand sped past my shoulder. Hitomi’s pudgy fingers grabbed the tally and ripped it off the wall. Her robes swished, and her finger pointed. ‘Kozaishō! Tashiko!’

Her thunderous voice brought the other Women-for-Play and their servants. Her accusations and the bad names she called us filled the air, like smoke from an unattended fire.

‘Kozaishō! Tashiko! Come to Main House!’ Hitomi gripped her robes, and I saw her hideous swollen ankles. A samurai stalked in front with her. Behind them, I plodded alongside Tashiko, who did not meet my sideways glances. Another samurai trailed with us.

The contest had improved the satisfaction of clients. Why was Hitomi so angry? Why the strange samurai? The contest was honourable. Tashiko and I had often discussed whether a specific action, in a specific situation, would be honourable or not.

Hitomi sprawled on her new silk pillows in her Big Room. I waited in the five-point obeisance. Tashiko came beside me, close, thighs touching, same position.

Silence extended, like fallen snow.

‘Sit, Kozaishō, you ungrateful liar. You disobeyed me. And you, Tashiko, you are a conspirator too.’

This statement did not deserve rebuttal. What could be the cause of her wrath? The tally improved our services.

‘You have used your time, which is
my
time, to play your games.’

‘Honourable Madam Hitomi, I hoped the contest would increase the quality of our services.’

Her body straightened, and she pushed the pillows against the wall behind her. ‘Increase the quality? How can what you do increase the quality of my Village?’ Her voice was as shrill as that of a crow defending her nest.

‘The competition encourages all the women to satisfy the men more fully.’ I kept my voice low, but annoyance heated my neck.

‘Your competition does nothing for my profit or my quality.’

‘Honourable Madam Hitomi, the tally encourages the woman
not
to use the
higo zuiki
or the mushroom. Using them sometimes humiliates the men. Women-for-Play have had contests before.’

‘You thought competition would help me? How can archery or swordplay improve my business?’

The exercises! Panic snatched at my throat, cutting off my air. How did she know? My secret! Akio? What had she done with Akio? His family?

‘You do not own this Village.’ Hitomi’s voice sank a threat into my head, like a
naginata
’s blade.

No, I thought, I do not own the village, although I do draw the largest number of clients and bring
you
the most income.

‘I am the owner. You belong to me. I do not tolerate disobedience. In any form.’ She leaned over the cats and the voluminous skirts of her kimonos. ‘Yet you have disobeyed my direct order. I forbade you to practise martial arts when you first came here.’ Her arms crossed over her broad breasts, scattered the cats and creased her green robe, the colour being totally inappropriate for early autumn.

I rotated my eyes to the side and noticed an unfamiliar samurai stood by the door. She truly feared me.

‘For how long have you deceived me?’

Should I lie? No. Lying did not belong to the Way. ‘A long time.’

‘From when you first belonged to me? When you first came?’

‘Yes, honourable Madam Hitomi.’ Hitomi’s double question sealed my fate. I was doomed and condemned.

Could I save Akio? I looked up with my blank but sincere face, easy to do because I adored Akio, like a father. ‘Honourable Madam Hitomi, Akio asked me, yet learning the exercises was
my
idea. I was the one who said yes. I insisted.’

‘You will be locked into a room and let out during the day only to work – for me.’

Locked into a room. Like a criminal. No honour. A heavy quilt smothered my lungs. Sweat trickled down my back, between my legs. The top of my head disappeared. Humiliation. Away from Tashiko . . . I gasped. ‘Honourable Madam Hitomi, may I be permitted to—’

‘You shall be permitted nothing! You and Tashiko will be separated. Completely,’ she bellowed.

How would I survive away from my Tashiko, Emi, Aya, Misuki, my family? Barred from my loved ones. Shut away from them. ‘Honourable Madam Hitomi – my tutor?’

She grinned and snatched for a cat, and missed. I wanted to be one of those escaped cats.

‘Nothing for a month.’ Her eyes shot flaming arrows into Tashiko’s face. Hitomi’s lips quivered upwards.

Ice cold seared my belly. Not to study, not to talk to Tashiko about the
sutra
s, not to . . .

‘After the month, Misuki will study with you, not Tashiko.’ The second cat broke free. ‘And, Kozaishō, your work
will not suffer
. You will continue your stories and use them as usual or there will be worse.’

Hitomi’s eyes glittered like Chiba’s had when he listened to Tashiko scream.

A shiver stroked my spine.

My spirit ripped apart – a vast blackness in between. I did my best to staunch my tears.

Truly a Godless month and a Godless time had arrived, like a sudden typhoon.

Tashiko put her nose to the floor. ‘Honourable Madam Hitomi, I implore you. No separation!’ Her tears drizzled over her hands and dripped on to the floor. A cat rubbed itself around Tashiko’s leg, mewing like an infant. ‘If separate us. Take life from me. Not be able to work – with competence – for you.’ Tashiko’s back rippled with her words and heaved with her silent sobs.

My hands hurt not to touch her. She had never uttered the word ‘love’ to me, but now I knew she loved me. To watch her plead and cry in front of Hitomi was to taste mouthfuls of sand. Outrage tightened my muscles and despair hardened inside me, like old lacquer.

Tashiko sat and placed one soft hand across my thigh. Her fingers gripped tightly and quickly relaxed. She wanted me not to be involved. I had to let her fight alone. My interference might make Hitomi’s decision more vicious. We were her property and, along with beating us, she could kill or sell us to anyone for anything, to the
eta
, to cruel men, to anyone in Heian-kyō – that huge city, bigger than Uji, where demons lurked in the corners.

Hitomi coughed, ruffling her silk pillows. Tashiko’s body shuddered next to mine. I wanted to stare Hitomi down. I did so only in my mind.

‘Humph. Sit up, Tashiko.’

She sat on her heels, close to me. My thigh pushed hers to express my regret in the only way I could. I had brought misery by disobedience. I had to obey the Goddess of Mercy. I had to disobey! Did following what the Gods directed lead to dishonour?

‘No. You are not to sleep or eat with each other or even see each other for a month. You will learn this lesson. Well.’

Tashiko murmured thanks.

‘I want to see your eyes. I want to see your gratitude, your indebtedness for my generosity. It is only for a month.’

Show her gratitude for a meagre crumb. I kept my eyes down. I wanted to crawl into the earth and die. I dived into a five-point again.

The dust and incense irritated my eyes. No more Tashiko with whom to sleep. No more Tashiko with whom to sing or dance. Tashiko only in my dreams. I blinked away the tears and spoke the only words that came: ‘Thank you, honourable Madam Hitomi.’

‘Kozaishō, I will see if you can still thank me after my . . . work in my special hut this evening.’ She compressed her lips. That evening, my back would earn more scars.

I contrived plans to wreak revenge on my betrayer. Somehow I had to discover the fiend.

I managed to thank Hitomi after her work that day in Hell Hut, although I could hardly speak. I had nearly bitten through my tongue.

My life turned into a ceaseless blizzard. On the rare occasions I glimpsed Tashiko, she bowed her head and swung her nut-brown cascade of hair around herself, like an empress. My heart twisted at the sight of such elegance and the frustration of not being able to speak to or touch her.

I missed her voice at night because she had always sung the old songs our mothers sang. Her melodies had decorated our hut as bush warblers, with their honeyed notes, muted the thunder of a spring storm.