“We’re lucky,” one of the bearers said, lifting the handles. “The load is light.”
“Hey, she weighs no more than a few bags of rice,” said his partner.
They began to run.
Inside the box, the young wife jostled from side to side. She could hear the bearers’ broad, bare feet hit the wet stone. They could have been slapping cheeks or buttocks. Slap, slap, slap. They did not stop. The fifteen-year-old wife of Lord Yoshida shrank inside the folds of her silk and velvet kosode. She might be going to her doom, but no one was going to hear her howl.
They took the highway along the dike. She saw the lacquer trees through the split in the curtain. At the top of Primping Hill the bearers shouted and stopped and set down their load. The older one addressed her from the other side of the curtain.
“From here you walk. No one is allowed to ride into the Yoshiwara.”
The young wife pulled back the curtain and craned her neck to see. The road zigzagged with teahouses on either side. At the bottom, crossing the water, was the bridge. The World of Dreams didn’t look like much. It was just a few square blocks, surrounded by moats, in a marsh. She had been there once on an outing with her parents. Families with children often went to see the festivals. The place she remembered was more like an amusement park with clouds of cherry blossoms and a parade of exquisite women.
She stepped down, holding out her hand for help. The Bridge of Hesitation arched across the moat. She saw the Gazing Back Willow Tree, where lovers parted. On the other side was the guard. She walked up and over the hump of the bridge. She had her
naginata
with her, a long, thin pole with a sharp curved blade at the end. The guard stepped out of his guardhouse.
“Surrender your weapon,” he told her.
“Must I?”
“All those of the samurai class must surrender their swords. Even the women,” he chanted without looking at her.
“Why?” she said.
“It is because samurai and commoners are equal in the pleasure quarter.”
“Don’t believe it,” said the bearer, who had come up behind her. “Everyone knows why you can’t bring any weapon inside. It’s because the women are so unhappy that if they had a sword, they’d kill themselves.”
The guard had a narrow, tall skull, which sank down to wide cheeks, so his head looked like a gourd you might find sitting in a field. His name was Shirobei. It was always Shirobei. Every man who lived and died in that position had the name of Shirobei. A tuft of spiky silver hair stuck up from inside his uniform. His chest moved as if it was alive, and a sharp nose poked out. It was a white fox—and it was in his shirt. The young wife screamed.
“Don’t be afraid. The white fox is a god of luck.”
She wrapped herself more tightly and made a haughty face. “Let me in.”
“The gate is locked. It’s the Hour of the Rat.”
“That’s why they’ve brought me now. So no one would see.”
“What’s your business?” said Shirobei.
“I’m coming to the House of the Corner Tamaya,” she said.
“Are you coming to stay?” He peered at her. It was a novelty these days. A
yakko
, a noblewoman sentenced to serve as a courtesan.
“So what was it?” he said. What disaster had befallen? “Famine, fire, flood?” Those were unlikely to affect the nobles. “Disgrace, treachery, kidnapping?” No? She must have brought it on herself, then. “An indiscretion with an actor?”
She held her chin high.
“We used to get ladies like you here,” he said. “But not for quite a while.”
He unlocked the gate. He took her weapon. On his face was an unreadable look. If she had not just learned that it was absent from the world, she would have called it pity. She shrugged the shoulders of her kosode closer to her throat.
“Thank you.” She bowed a little. He bowed. She straightened. She walked past the guard and looked back, saying good-bye to everything.
She did not regret the husband who had the power to discard her. Her parents, if they did not die of shame, would be there on her return. For five years she would be a Yoshiwara courtesan.
The audience groaned in sympathy. The storyteller turned his back and took a drink of water. He gave us time to shift position and munch our rice balls before he started again.
A man was waiting, wrapped in a cloak. He was the proprietor of the Corner Tamaya. He put his hands on the
yakko
’s shoulders. He looked her up and down. He turned her slowly front to back and back to front. It seemed he might unwind her cloak right then, but he stopped. He put a hand on her cheek and turned it slowly one way and then the other.
The storyteller had taken on the Yoshiwara dialect. His voice was now arrogant and snide
.
“Not much of a bargain,” he said. “They told me you were beautiful.”
“You see the truth,” she said.
“I only took you because you were a gift.”
“Perhaps one gift more than you deserve?”
He reached for the clasp that held her hair and pulled it out roughly. He put his fingers in and drew out the tresses. They were long, so long. His fingers were like a comb; the hair kept coming until he let it drop. It reached her knees.
She raised her chin. Proud, almost defiant. She knew her hair was lovely. He looked as if he would slap her. But something—perhaps her fine clothes—stopped him, and he contented himself with glaring.
She bit back more words: if you don’t want me, let me go. She told herself, Don’t talk back, don’t talk back. How many times had her parents tried to teach her that? Hadn’t they said her tongue would be the death of her?
“Itz gonna cost me money to keep you. I hafta get you bedding too. Did you bring any kimono?”
“They took me from home with nothing.”
He sucked air and walked in front of her down the boulevard. The quarter was marked out in squares, the streets in a small grid. The broad street in the center, Nakanocho Boulevard, went straight for a short distance and ended at the moat. Branching off to right and left were smaller streets. Edocho 1 went off on the right side and Edocho 2 on the left. The next was Ageyacho on her right and Sumicho on her left. “All of these are green houses. The last street here’z Kyomachi. Itz where the poorest prostitutes live, izn it? See? You’re lucky to be with me. Wait here; I’ve business to do.”
The
yakko
stood waiting in the cold, just in front of Mitsu’s shop. The layer of white snow was thin on the ground. She saw it covered blades of green that had already, too keenly, sprung up. But it was cold here, much colder than at home because of all the water.
From inside her shop Mitsu peered at her . . .
Mitsu? I knew Mitsu. She was really in a story? I worked my way forward a row or two. Miyo and Tatsu pulled on my coat from behind and made faces. They were going home. I shook my head. I put my hand back on my chin and rubbed it, my thumb on one side and my finger on the other, like an old man, my mother said.
. . . peered again, and then walked out to stand silently in the doorway. The
yakko
brushed off the light, high dressing of downy snow that had settled on her clothing. Her thonged clogs sat half-buried in the white fluff.
“Do you have any fresh tabi?” said the
yakko
to the shopkeeper. “I need them. These are wet and my feet are very cold.”
“That’s not what I sell,” said Mitsu. “And anyway, you won’t be wearing socks here.”
The
yakko
leaned against the post of the wall, reached down, and picked up one of her feet. She rubbed it energetically with both hands. The foot was very white.
“But you are wearing some,” she said.
“That’s different,” said Mitsu. “I’m retired.” She noticed that the yakko’s hands were white too. Her face was white. “You’ve never been here before, is that it? Izn it? Never come through the Great Gate? What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to live at the Corner Tamaya.”
“Ooooh,” said Mitsu.
The storyteller’s hand went to his mouth and his eyes bulged. I burst out laughing. It was a perfect imitation.
“I’ve heard about you. You must be the disobedient wife of Lord Yoshida.”
“How did you hear?”
“Gossip,” Mitsu said. “Rumor. We hear everything.”
The
yakko
hung her head.
“You aren’t the only lady here. But you’re one of the few. It used to be that the courtesans were high-born and elegant, but now we’re all a little cheaper. Everyone tries to save money, even on their dreams.”
The young wife put her footsole down in the snow. She winced. She picked up the other one and lost her balance, nearly toppling.
“Courtesans go barefoot. That is the rule.”
“That’s a ridiculous rule,” said the
yakko
irritably.
Mitsu raised her finger to her lips. “The bare feet are beautiful and desirable, izn it? You’ll get used to it. Just remember: the Yoshiwara is all backward. That’s because it’s the pleasure world.”
The
yakko
went silent for a few minutes. Mitsu stood staring at her.
“What did you do?” said Mitsu.
The pale white girl-woman inclined her head. “What do you mean?”
“You know. To get”—Mitsu sliced her hand in a theatrical gesture—“sent up?”
“I disobeyed my husband.”
Murmurs went through the crowd. They could see why that had got her in trouble.
“How?”
“I . . . I went to the theater.”
It was a lie. She had raised her hand to him, but so great an offense she would not own.
Mitsu gasped. “The theater! Thaz all?” It was not exactly allowed, but some women did it.
“He flew into a temper and the guards pulled me away. They took me to the magistrate.”
“What magistrate did you go before?”
The
yakko
pulled her coat tighter around her chest and buried her cold hands into the opposite sleeves. “Sadanobu.”