Women of the Pleasure Quarters (7 page)

They probably accepted the hardships with stoicism. That was the way it was in the floating world and, in any case, any other life would have had its hardships too. Within the narrow confines of their gilded cage they were queens. The one chance of escape—if they wanted it—was to find someone prepared to buy out their contract and make them his wife or mistress. As the old saying went, the courtesan’s favorite lie was “I love you,” the customer’s “I will marry you.”

The names and rankings changed over the centuries but everyone agreed that the greatest courtesans of all time were the
tayu
of seventeenth-century Shimabara.

The Courtesan and the Swordsman

In the early days of the Shimabara quarter, there were seven celebrated
tayu
courtesans in Kyoto. Of these, Yoshino was the most adored. Many legends have gathered around her, not least that she was the lover of Miyamoto Musashi, the greatest swordsman of all time and author of
The Book of Five Rings
(a bible for practitioners of the martial arts and more recently for businessmen). He learned his secrets, so the story goes, from the gentle but insightful Yoshino.

Yoshino was entertaining him and his friends in the pleasure quarter one snowy night when he slipped quietly out of the room. She was the only one to notice him leave. He returned a few minutes later. But there was a splash of red on the hem of his kimono.

“What is that?” asked one of his friends.

“Just a peony petal,” said Yoshino and quickly wiped it away with a napkin.

When the party came to an end, she suggested lightly that he had better stay there with her. With her unerring instinct she had guessed that he had been engaged in a duel to the death in the few minutes he had been away. The retainers of the two men whom he had killed, several dozen of them, were waiting right outside to ambush him and exact revenge.

Sitting in her chamber he was silent, tense in anticipation of the hopeless battle that lay ahead. Suddenly Yoshino picked up her
biwa,
a priceless lute, took a knife, and smashed the curved sound box to pieces. From the ruined instrument she picked out the crosspiece, a single piece of wood, and showed it to him.

This, she explained, was the heart of the instrument; all the sound came from this. If the crosspiece were as taut and unyielding as he was at that moment, a single stroke of the plectrum would break it. But if he could be as flexible and responsive as it was, no one could defeat him. Inspired by her words, he bounded out into the snow and, with a few nonchalant slashes of his sword, decimated the dozens of men gathered outside. For the rest of his sword-wielding career, he never forgot her or her advice.

The historical Yoshino was born on the third day of the third month 1606. She was sold to the pleasure quarters at the age of six and at fourteen was so beautiful and accomplished that she was promoted to the rank of
tayu,
a rare and extraordinary honor. So famous and so hugely desired was she that she had no need ever to bestow her favors on anyone. Her wealthy and adoring patrons made sure that her income was high enough for her to be able to pay all her annual expenses in advance. But no matter how much they paid her, she kept them at a distance, hopelessly yearning for her.

One day she was called to entertain at a gathering of Kyoto’s most influential literary coterie, presided over by the emperor’s fourth son. There she met Joeki Haiya, a merchant’s son. Not only was he handsome, refined, and accomplished enough to satisfy the most demanding courtesan, he was an adept of the tea ceremony, which he hosted with wonderful finesse, and also extremely rich. At the time he was twenty-two, she twenty-six. He fell hopelessly in love, so much so that he laid out the enormous fortune necessary to buy out her contract, for—beautiful, accomplished, and celebrated though she was—she was still the property of the bordello keeper. Having bought her freedom, he married her.

Thus far is history. The rest may or may not be legend. Joeki’s adoptive father, goes the story, was furious that the boy had brought the family into disrepute and disowned him. After all, Yoshino might be a superstar but until she married she had been a glorified prostitute who made her living by selling her body (or so he thought). Reduced to poverty, the lovebirds retired to a humble house on the outskirts of Kyoto. Joeki began to sell off his much-loved collection of tea ceremony utensils to support them.

Then one day Joeki’s father, far from home, was caught in a rainstorm and sought shelter under the eaves of an unprepossessing house. Through the window he heard a gentle, refined voice inviting him to rest inside. He walked across the stepping stones of a humble but perfectly arranged garden and into a house where everything, though poor, was of the most exquisite taste. On a wall was a single piece of calligraphy by the most accomplished master of the day.

The lady of the house appeared, dressed in a plain, humble kimono which could only enhance her radiant beauty. Dignified and gracious, she knelt and performed a tea ceremony for him, whipping up a bowl of foaming green tea. On returning home he recounted the tale of his adventure to friends and discovered that this vision was none other than Yoshino. He summoned his son immediately, was reconciled with him, and took the couple back into his family.

Yoshino died in 1643 at the age of thirty-eight (very young in modern terms but not so extraordinary in those days). Joeki grieved for her for the rest of his life. Without her, he declared, the magnificent city of Kyoto, with all its luxury and culture, was nothing but a desert.

Music of a Bygone Age

Once the most glittering of pleasure quarters, today Shimabara has become a shabby backwater. But there are a couple of splendid old buildings with blackened beams and tatami-matted rooms, where five or six women still preserve the
tayu
traditions. There in a huge, ancient house called Wachigaiya, I came face to face with one.

She was a tiny fairy-like creature, barely visible beneath her voluminous layered kimonos. Her face was chalky, her eyebrows and eyes etched in black and her underlip an intense peony red. Her hair was swept into loops and coils, as bulky as a Restoration wig. On it she supported an enormously ornate headdress studded with tortoiseshell and silver hairpins and decorated with silk flowers and foliage, with dangling mother-of-pearl ornaments and strings of coral weighted with gold-leaf blossoms.

She was wrapped in layer upon layer of priceless antique kimonos. At her throat was a thick collar of beige brocade embroidered with a swirling pattern of irises. On top of that came a red kimono with a quilted hem which swept the floor and swung heavily as she walked, and above that an exquisite robe of thick black silk glistened with lustrous gold flowers, swirling around her feet like a train. The obi, a swathe of orange silk brocade with a gold-thread design of chrysanthemums and maple leaves, was tied in the front in an enormous knot which hung in great folds from her waist to her knees. This was a symbol of her availability. In theory it might be untied—if you happened to be rich and fortunate enough to be permitted to do so.

Underneath it all, she had a cheeky, elfin face with a tiny nose and pointed chin. How long had she been a
tayu,
I asked, then gasped when she opened her small mouth to answer. In the chalky-white face with the blood-red lips, her teeth were painted black. It was macabre, like looking into a black hole.

Four years was the answer. She was twenty-four and she was interested in the particular styles of dance and music which the
tayu
performed, quite different from the dance and music of the geisha tradition. She was fascinated, she said, by the history and traditions of the
tayu
and the stories of the great
tayu
of old. She loved the world of darkness and shadow in which the
tayu
moved. It was, she said, more
shibui
than the geisha tradition. The word
shibui,
which literally translates as “astringent” or “sober,” evokes a mood of old gold, glimmering shadows, and rust.

Dusk had fallen. In the banqueting hall guests were waiting, cross-legged on the floor. The women among them knelt demurely. Huge smoking candles flickered, set in tall golden candlesticks. Dimly visible in the gloom of an alcove was an ancient scroll bearing a poem brushed with exquisite skill.

Then the
tayu
appeared, framed in the doorway like a visitation from another age. She was transformed, she was a shamaness. Aloof, withdrawn, self-contained, she did not speak, smile, or glance at the guests. She was to be looked at, not to look. As she swept gracefully into the room, deftly swinging the heavy quilted train of the kimono, more layers became visible, rippling at the sleeve and hem.

Solemnly she knelt, lifted a shallow red-lacquered bowl brimming with saké and put it to her lips. Then she picked up a
kokyu,
an instrument shaped like a small shamisen with a square base and long narrow neck, and rested it on her knees. Taking a bow strung so loosely that it looked as if it could not possibly produce any sound, she scraped it across the strings to coax out a thin scratchy melody, turning the instrument so that the bow touched each of the three strings.

It was an extraordinary, archaic sound. It lifted the hairs on the back of your neck and took you back across the centuries to a time when, one could imagine, rakes and dandies dissipated fortunes in places such as this. Lastly, rising to her feet, she danced, mesmerizingly slow and stately, while the guests and I, sitting in the shadows, watched, entranced.

But the most unforgettable thing was that under the layers and layers of brocade and silk, her tiny feet were bare. It was the most erotic sight, it sent a shiver up the spine. They peeked from beneath the heavy finery, the only reminder that underneath the painted face, the priceless headdress, the three layers of under-kimono and four layers of over-kimono, there was a real woman.

It must have been even more poignant in the old days, if anyone then ever stopped to think about it. For in those days, for all their sumptuous finery, their robes embroidered with gorgeous landscapes and their velvet and damask bedding, the courtesans did not own their own bodies. They were chattels, to be bought and sold.

The Harlot Queens
of the Nightless City

Closing time is midnight—

So why do I now hear

The wooden clappers

Strike out four times?

In Yoshiwara, even the

Wooden rhythm sticks are liars.

Geisha song
¹⁰

When Saburoemon Hara was petitioning to start a brothel in the great city of Kyoto, Edo was nothing but a few fishermen’s shacks in a marshy area where three rivers met. But once Shogun Ieyasu established it as his capital it became a boomtown such as the world had never seen before. It was here, in the rough northeast of the country, in the shadow of the shogun’s castle, that a pleasure quarter was to develop which would put all the others in the shade. This was where the culture of love was to be taken to its zenith and the geisha were to flower.

It was a gold rush. People flocked from all over the country to help in the building of the new city and make their fortunes. Mansions, palaces, temples, shrines, shops, stalls, and houses sprang up, while alleys, roads, and a maze of canals that made the city an eastern Venice spiraled out from the walls of the shogun’s castle to the newly reclaimed land beside the river. In 1500 Edo had a population of 1,000; in the early 1600s it was an urban center of 150,000. By the end of the seventeenth century it was the largest city in the world with a population of well over one million. London, the largest European city, had yet to reach a million.

Edo was a man’s city, a frontier town akin to those of America’s Wild West, with just as many bars, brothels, and brawls. More than half the population were samurai, retainers of the daimyo (the ex-warlords who governed the provinces). This was a direct result of the shogun’s policy of
sankin kotai
(alternate attendance), which required all the daimyo to maintain a mansion in Edo as well as their provincial seat. While they had to shuttle back and forth, their families lived permanently in Edo, effectively hostages, supported by a huge staff of vassal samurai. Most of the samurai were unmarried; they could not afford to support a family on their stipends. To add to this multitude of men there were thousands of merchants and tradesmen from Kyoto, Osaka, and points west, who arrived to set up businesses and sent money to their wives and children back home. As the great comic novelist Saikaku Ihara wrote toward the end of the century, it was “a City of Bachelors.”

All these frustrated men provided fertile soil for prostitution. Among the flood of people hoping to make fortunes or at least stay afloat in the new city were a goodly number of harlots, not to mention procurers and brothel-keepers who came from all over the country. Even before anyone had been given a license to open a pleasure quarter, professional brothel-keepers from Kyoto who had spotted an irresistible opportunity were erecting a red-light district with streets and beautiful wooden houses in a broad grassland dense with rushes near the coast. Just as in later years, when the geisha areas became cultural centers, the district offered far more than sex. There was also plentiful entertainment: kabuki, shrine dancing, temple dancing, the spider dance, the lion dance, wrestling, singing, and twanging
joruri
music. “How these conspiring courtesans allure men without resorting to force is beyond our comprehension,” wrote a commentator of the time disapprovingly.
¹¹

Following the initiative of Hara, who had founded Shimabara, a wealthy brothel-owner named Jinemon Shoji petitioned the shogun for a license to establish an official pleasure quarter. Like Shimabara, the Yoshiwara was built, rebuilt, moved, and burned down in a fire before it was finally established in 1656 in a reed plain
(yoshi wara)
a decent hour’s journey from the city.