The Pillow Book of the Flower Samurai (27 page)

‘Last Chance’ was a miserable first chance at adapting my tales. Misuki knew better than to give me a I-do-not-think-this-will-work look. I had to find stories the customers would accept Also, I wanted to prove Misuki wrong.

Next I used ‘Flying Water Jars’.

A temple near Heian-kyō was by a river where the younger priests competed in skill and magic. An especially gifted young priest made a water jar gather water by itself. One day, while he was watching his jar do the work for him, he saw another fly through the air, gather water and fly away. Startled, the young priest followed the flying jar to an old priest’s house close by.

The young priest peered inside. Angered by the sight of an old priest sleeping while making jars fly the arrogant young priest chanted ‘Spell of Fire Evil’. He sprinkled water on the sleeping priest, but drops splashed on to the young priest’s kimono, setting him on fire. His screams awakened the old priest who put out the fire and tended the young priest’s burns.

Impressed by the old priest’s kindness, the young priest begged for forgiveness for his conceit, and pleaded to be allowed to study as an apprentice. The old priest forgave him and allowed him to stay and learn.

Some of the men adored the water splashes, especially in the warmer weather. Other treasured my screams. None learned not to arrogant.

Mother used to say I was the most determined of all her children. I always considered this a compliment. I asked my tutor, with whom I studied every third day, and read whatever he gave me. I found ‘Grave of the Chopstick’.

Once there was a beautiful princess. For three successive nights a strange young man entered her sleeping chamber. Each night he brought a flawless gift: the first night, a red peony, the second, incense, and the third, a kimono. From these superior gifts and the young man’s evasion of the palace guards, the high priest determined he was a deity. The young man and the princess were married on the fourth night.

The two were inseparable and happy in the evenings but she never saw him during the day. She wanted to know why. Before the young man answered, he asked her to promise to react calmly. When she looked into her oil vial the next day, she saw a small white snake. The princess shrieked and screamed.

That night, a young man again, he accused her of breaking her word and left the palace. She called out, reminding him he had pledged his love and promised to be with her always. They had been so blissfully happy! He did not turn back. In her hopelessness she grasped a silver chopstick, plunged it into her heart and died. She was buried near Nara. A ring of white flowers grows there every spring, and each flower has one red petal in memory of the broken promise.

To add realism, Emi made white paper flowers and painted one red petal on each with leftover rouge.

My clients and I played new bride and immortal with great relish. In this way the man aligned himself with someone of superior skills and power. I gave him a white flower with one red petal.

Customers learned to keep their word – the start of respect. The first night I used ‘Grave of the Chopstick’ successfully, I dreamed of Tashiko in her forest and flames.

‘Well,’ Misuki said, when I told her of the day’s favourable outcomes, ‘fall down seven times, stand up eight. Perhaps you could find a story we could use to teach the men to be better husbands. Ants go to sweet things.’

I found the Empress Kōken who had lived and loved when Nara was the capital, hundreds of years ago.

The Empress Kōken became enamoured of Fujiwara no Nakamaro. Alas, his rank was too low, the match impossible. After only nine years she abdicated and retired to a convent, yet continued to administer the government from the temple.

Dōkyō, a handsome and ambitious monk, seduced Kōken in the cloister. The empress followed his political schemes, due to his sexual powers, and returned to the throne. She appointed him to high positions and sought to raise his rank enough to become her heir, but she died before this could happen.

The first session began like this: I impersonated Empress Kōken and wore a dozen rich ‘silk’ layered kimonos, which swished like those of a court woman. I sat up on pillows and allowed the ‘subject’ in for a ‘viewing’. I dressed in an outer purple kimono with ‘gold’ peacocks, my painted violet house shoes (Emi’s work again), and my hair arranged. My
ohaguro
complete, I smiled to show blackened teeth, face powdered white, eyebrows glued with fresh charcoal, lips and cheeks bright red. Dazzling.

My first customer with this story pretended to be Dōkyō, the power-hungry Buddhist monk who claimed vast healing and magic powers. He needed to seduce the empress for influence. As he approached, I spoke: ‘Why use your powers, when your other abilities will make this woman a dutiful and devoted slave? Why not seduce the empress?’

‘Thank you, Empress, for your advice. I could call on the Gods to entice you, but I am struck by your beauty.’

I leaned away from my mock-throne in mock-rapture. ‘As I look on your handsome face, your virile and strong body, I imagine all the powers and pleasures therein. There is but one path to win my heart, and only you can walk it.’

Then I murmured, ‘I shall tell you what to say and do to win my heart. Follow my directions.’ He nodded. ‘Touch my feet, admire them, take off my shoes, and kiss my entire foot – all over.’

‘Ah, Empress! Such great power in such small, dainty, graceful feet.’ He lifted one foot to admire it, rubbed it and removed my shoes. I beamed at his surprise.

‘What a wonder the empire is ruled on such tiny and beautiful feet!’ He moved his lips over my bathed and perfumed feet. ‘What a marvel your toes are!’

He licked the top of each and started to suck the largest. I whispered, with my eyes almost closed, ‘Start with the smallest and finish with the largest one for best results.’

He looked up. He had not expected correction, but I had decided to risk it with him, a familiar long-standing client who was eager to please. With success, perhaps a few of his wives and concubines would appreciate me. He took my smallest toe in and out of his mouth with little sucking noises. I responded with sighs of delight and deeper breaths, which he enjoyed.

This elderly customer withered easily, unfortunately. No matter. I became his empress slave – which he loved to repeat for many months – to Rin and Hitomi’s profit.

Gradually this client visited less often. Hopefully, he found devoted slaves in his own household. The older customers loved to play the desirable young monk.

Every tender and respectful man was another victory for Tashiko and her memory.

VI. Information

The majority of my customers maintained contact despite or because of the gradual though radical modifications I made to my stories. The Gods approved my plans, or perhaps I found my Right Actions and Livelihood.

I created a system to keep track of the adjustments to each story, to eliminate violence towards women. I maintained a log by customer and by story, so no one, no servant, no man, and especially neither Hitomi nor Rin, could discover my plan. My rage at Tashiko’s brutal murder was the dry wood for this, my revenge fire. Payment for her death was grass bending before the wind, meekly, quietly, in small ways, but always growing.

The log had a twofold purpose: for me to become
ch
ō
ja
; to locate and kill Goro. Such a lengthy process. Some customers came so infrequently that the changes for them in my stories were not completed for some time. For others, who visited many times a month, it happened faster. I maintained my log with caution and painstaking diligence.

Every moment I worked to avoid detection. I hid my log of my customers and stories under my
futon
, a large floor covering and the floor. Those who cleaned my hut could suspect nothing.

Except for Misuki, whom I decided to trust, I told no one of my plans or records. No one else knew of them. The disastrous Tsuneyo contest burned in my nightmares.

Beside my stories and customers, my extensive records included the cost of my clothing and makeup. These increased progressively with planned irregularity: a little glitter, a new kimono, a story requiring a particular colour or cloth or style. Witch sand demons altered their forms to camouflage their intentions. They required elaborate costume changes within a single story. Significant props of lacquered toilet boxes or inlaid quivers that appeared in the stories
had
to be included. That happened infrequently, for special occasions and feast days or for customers who paid well. Critical strategies require the finest scheduling. Calculations, cunning details and circumspect timing. Since I had lost my love, I wanted to take from Hitomi what she loved most, her wealth, and from Rin, what
she
loved most, her power.

Time disappeared, and with the addition of more sisters, young and younger cast-offs from Chiba or girls from poor families, more sadness filled my spirit. Almost two years had gone by since Tashiko’s death, but I continued to burn incense and candles in her memory each day. I maintained my log, and my costs expanded slowly despite the perils.

Several times a month my tutors continued to teach me and Misuki, who remained an apt pupil. I sought always to locate Daigoro no Goro. To do this, I read more of everything: history, commerce, accounting, shipbuilding, war strategies, poets, philosophers, teachers, scholars and healers. Everything I learned I tried to include in my stories, depending on clients’ interests, business and desires. The primary purpose was always to track down the priest with the impenetrable eyes and the sadistic, murderous heart.

How did I come across all of this information, all of this writing? My tutors did not supply enough of what I wanted. Clients became the varied source of materials I read. Some customers asked, ‘How can I thank you for your entertaining ways?’ I asked them for anything written that was no longer needed from their business, obsolete ships’ logs or accounting sheets.

‘Any trifle you could spare for a silly girl.’ Stroking them suggestively, I would add, ‘It will warm my heart knowing it has touched your hands.’ While I called it a trifle, I knew how rare paper was and how expensive scribe services were.

I received scraps of this and that. Sometimes, after clients were satiated physically, I probed for the meaning of something I had read earlier. My log aided me in displaying a seemingly total interest and devotion to their smallest gifts. Naturally, this pleased them – and it was my duty to give joy, however bitter my spirit. This was my revenge for Tashiko.

With drooping bellies, dripping sweat, they whispered to me, ‘You know, the hero should never have bought silk in spring because . . .’ or ‘If that prince had married a daughter to this neighbour, just as Fujiwara did with . . . a terrible battle could have been avoided.’ I wrote these entries by separate classification in my log. After each, I recorded new information to use the next time.

When they puffed themselves up on ‘discovering’ their recommendations in my stories, only my memory of Tashiko kept a satisfied but grim smile from my lips. I could blush at will by holding my breath. Often their discovery, accompanied by a low bow with such a blush, yielded a coin or a gift of writing.

Presents I received included small copied parts of the Records of Ancient Matters, the venerable Chronicles of Japan and more. These I read and read again. They proved priceless to me because at this time I reasoned all knowledge could be used to entrap and tempt the men into foolish games, which I controlled. The games plucked elements of their savagery and transformed their brutality without them knowing it. The process was extraordinarily slow, but so burned the coals of my hatred and revenge.

Akio encouraged me. I shared my systems and information with him. He shared fighting strategies, which I adopted for my retribution.

The moment came when I taught as much as I learned. After a time, I gave more advice than I received. As their heads lay on my lap, I whispered, ‘Register your lands to a temple, or have your lands confiscated by a temple and then repurchase them.’ Several new landowners learned this and were indebted to me. Some gave me weapons or new armour. A rack in Akio’s armoury grew heavy with gifts to me. A quiver, arrows with the special black-banded hawk feathers, pieces of armour that a clients’ children had worn, all found their way to my cache.

Two older women came to serve me. They became servants when their faces, voices or ageing bodies no longer attracted clients, and were glad to be with me. Their only other choice was abject slavery or the
eta
.

When my first servant came to me, I was too kind and forfeited my authority. She lost her respect for me. With the second, I did better. I was strict, but not rigid. I acquired the skill to be compassionate but not empathetic. In this way, we maintained our separateness, and I my authority.

More than four years had passed since the death of my beloved Tashiko, years of reading, studying and learning. My plans were succeeding. Madam Hitomi increased my price often, like a perennial plant returning every year to flourish and grow larger. When Rin had died from the coughing illness, I orchestrated an elaborate funeral hoping to entice Goro to the Village. He did not take the bait.