The Blonde Geisha. Jina Bacarr
sold by her parents to a man who buys young girls for a great sum of money. She must earn that money back from her work as a geisha.”
“That doesn’t excuse what she did to me, Mariko-san,” I interrupted her.
Mariko bowed her head. “Yes, Kathlene-san, but if she doesn’t become a geisha and get a benefactor to help advance her career, she’ll be sent to the unlicensed quarters of Shimabara as a prostitute.”
I dared to ask, “What will happen to her there?”
“She’ll be put into a bamboo cage and made to blacken her teeth and shave the hair between her legs and pleasure the penises of many men in one night.”
“Are you certain of this?” I asked, putting my bundle of cut-off hair down to my side.
Mariko nodded. “It’s true. We can’t let this happen to her, although there are those in the teahouse who report everything to okâsan.” I had no doubt she meant Ai, the handservant. “Youki-san will be in big trouble when okâsan hears about what she’s done tonight.”
“What can I do?”
“Go to okâsan and tell her you accept Youki-san’s apology.”
I made a face. “What apology?”
Mariko smiled. “The one Youki-san will give you when she finds out you helped her.”
I shook my head. “I don’t understand, Mariko-san. You want me to accept an apology that’s not been offered yet?”
“You must try to understand us, Kathlene-san. It’s the way of the geisha to bond as sisters.” Mariko lowered her eyes. “It’s the root of our geisha society for the experienced one to become the big sister to the new geisha, no matter what their ages.”
I shivered. “I wouldn’t want Youki-san for my sister.”
“If you stay in the Teahouse of the Look-Back Tree, I would pray to the gods okâsan would choose another maiko for your sister.”
“Oh? And who’s that?”
Mariko bowed low. “I’m not worthy but I will soon become a maiko, Kathlene-san. I would be most honored to be older sister to you.”
“You, Mariko-san?”
“Yes, I would be both mentor and friend, but I’d also give you loyalty.”
Mariko looked directly at me, something she’d never do in ordinary circumstances, but for some reason I couldn’t understand, the girl wouldn’t change her mind about this sister thing. And helping Youki.
“You’ll go to okâsan and follow our tradition?” she asked, though it was more of a statement than a request.
I hesitated. I had to admit, I wasn’t happy about approaching Simouyé and giving her this phony apology story, but I’d do it if it was part of being a geisha.
I slid open the rice-paper door, apprehension tugging at my insides as I ran my fingers over the hand-painted crestlike circles of flowers on the paper screen, admiring their beauty, knowing I mustn’t mar that beauty.
“You have your wish, Mariko-san. I will go to okâsan,” I said, “and tell her I accept Youki-san’s apology.”
Bowing, Mariko smiled, then followed me. “Then I will go, too.”
I said nothing. I had the feeling it wouldn’t do any good if I did.
Deep breaths. Soft and gentle. Someone sighing. As if a nightingale wept because its wings had been broken. These sounds floated to my ear as I walked with a purpose through the long corridor of the teahouse. I looked everywhere at once, wondering which room behind its dusky red walls belonged to okâsan.
“Isn’t it late for a geisha to be entertaining customers?” I asked Mariko, daring to think about what kind of entertainment emitted such elusive sounds.
Mariko covered her mouth and giggled. “This is the hour when the women pleasure themselves.”
Pleasure themselves? I could feel a warm flush tinting my cheeks plum-pink. So I wasn’t the only female to discover the magic of her fingers. I was interested in finding out what the girl could tell me.
“What is this pleasure, Mariko-san?”
The little maiko covered her mouth with her hand, then she whispered, “Harigata.”
I shook my head, not understanding. “Harigata?” The word had no meaning for me.
I strained again to hear these strange noises coming from behind closed paper doors. Silence had replaced the last whispering sighs from the woman inside the room and the dark colored wall obscured what lay beyond. I tensed. Something curious, something beyond my world of schoolgirl copy books and writing brushes and India ink was going on in the private quarters of Simouyé.
My curiosity was piqued about the woman whose beautiful dark eyes misted over like a wisp of fog hiding in a ray of sunlight when my father touched her breasts. She must be engaged in something that intrigued me more then frightened me.
“Harigata,” I repeated. “What does it mean?”
The little maiko hesitated, her geisha code of secrecy requiring her not to give up the mystery of what went on behind the high walls of the geisha house, but I could see a sparkle in her eyes as she leaned forward, her eyelashes fluttering like twin black butterflies. “I tell you this because okâsan said you’re to be treated no differently than the rest of us.”
I couldn’t help but smile. “Tell me, Mariko-san.”
“It’s most unusual for a maiko to speak openly of these secrets to anyone—” she began, again hesitating to say what was on her mind.
“Then don’t speak, Mariko-san, whisper them to me.”
If the girl was as anxious to talk as I thought she was, she would do so. And she was. She leaned in closer and cupped her hand around her mouth, then whispered into my ear.
“Have you ever seen how a man’s penis resembles a radish or a carrot or…” Mariko giggled, then hid her mouth. I could barely hear her whisper, “A mushroom?”
“A mushroom?” I repeated with a smile. “Are you saying she uses a mushroom for a penis?”
“Yes. As a lover, a large mushroom is said to be more satisfying than a man.”
Her words excited me, and the idea of experimenting with such an object made me feel a pleasurable ache in my groin. “Are you sure of this?”
Mariko smiled. “To see for yourself is the best truth, Kathlenesan. Come, I will show you shunga.”
“What’s that?”
“Shunga means spring drawings. They give a form and focus to the dreams of those who wish to find sexual pleasure.”
Before I could protest, Mariko motioned for me to follow her. We walked outside the teahouse and crossed the court, then creeping through a small door in a large gateway, we entered a retreat with a floor covered in mats so soft it felt like a velvety green moss beneath our feet.
“Where are we?” I whispered, looking around. The small room was empty, but quiet and cool.
“In a private tearoom where we won’t be seen.”
Even in the low light, Mariko had no trouble locating a large, red brocade-covered book placed with great care on a small, lowto-the-ground, black-lacquered table. She left the paper screen open to the night and the pale, yellow moon became the candle by which I could see page after page of a man making love with a woman or two women or many women.
Their exquisitely detailed and patterned kimonos were flung open, their eyes half closed in a