The Blonde Geisha. Jina Bacarr
left as silently as we’d come. With a little luck, maybe in that silence I’d find the courage to embrace this strange new world. Nothing more could be done tonight. I would go straight to okâsan in the morning and tell her of Youki’s apology. I would bow my head and speak the words Mariko bade me to do, for nothing must stop me from entering the secret world of the geisha.
Crouching, I followed Mariko through the sliding door, down the hallway, over the tiny bridge and into a room where a futon had been unrolled and left for us, as if by magic. A four-paneled mosquito netting, trailing on the floor like the train of a royal robe, hung on silk cords from hooks set in the framework of the teahouse. Its misty transparent walls of green sea foam invited peaceful sleep to all who entered its folds. I was again living the fairy tale, though I guessed setting up the futon was Ai’s doing. I wondered how much the old woman knew, if she’d seen us, and if so, would she tell on us?
Mariko guessed what was on my mind. “We must be careful of Ai-san. She is a woman who embraces everything you don’t, Kathlene-san.”
“What do you mean?”
“She owes allegiance to no one except to the one who pays her.”
Mariko was right. I must be careful around the house servant.
I looked over at Mariko and she motioned for me to lie down on the futon next to her. Without a word, I did so, though my pulse beat with such excitement, such hope for the future, I couldn’t sleep. Tonight I had seen, heard and felt something so delicious it stirred my imagination with thoughts of what life would be like in the Teahouse of the Look-Back Tree: scents of orchid and rose petals, a geisha untying her obi, her silver hairpins falling as she loosened her long hair, then parting her legs, welcoming the bulging penis of her lover. I wasn’t sure what to think about it. Not yet.
As I lay on the futon, the rain pounding on the rooftop became a song, its dripping melody sounding like dancing cats scurrying back and forth on the gray tiles. Long minutes passed. Frogs croaked. I could hear Mariko’s slow, steady breathing. Neither of us spoke as we lay on our backs, our slender bodies touching, warming under the covers. I could smell the scent of tangerine and ginger water on the girl’s skin from her bath mixing with the humid heat emanating from our bodies.
When her hand slipped into mine and squeezed it, I squeezed it back before slowing my breath, letting my body relax. I could only dream what lay ahead for me, but I was beginning to realize my femininity was the secret weapon I could use to discover the deepest core of my sexuality. I wanted to reach the essence of where my pleasure came from, the feelings that came and came again without stopping.
I dreamed of experiencing the ultimate pleasure of a man’s penis inside me, throbbing, thrusting, thrusting, and filling me with his elixir. I suspected that at last the secret to becoming a woman was at hand, that I was no longer in the dark, chasing the elusive butterfly.
PART TWO
KIMIKO, 1895
She walked among us.
The girl with the golden hair.
She was not one of us.
Yet we embraced her.
—Geisha song from Kioto, 1895
4
Kioto, Japan 1895
Through the wooden gate, along the winding walkway of stones, up the narrow stairway and onto the veranda where the scent of camellia oil was as thick as the smells from the River Kamo, I fretted about what I was going to say to okâsan.
I was late.
Frustrated, I wiped the sweat from my face, smearing the thick white makeup okâsan insisted I wear whenever I went outside the teahouse, along with my black wig, perfectly centered and balanced. On hot days the wig was almost unbearable, but dyeing my hair black was not an option since most hair dyes contained lead and were known to cause death.
I ignored the heaviness of my wig. Instead, I prayed okâsan wouldn’t be upset, prayed she would act as custom decreed—there must be a time and place for each emotion—and this was neither the time nor the place for that emotion. As for me, this was my favorite hour of the day when the geisha and the maiko crouched in little groups, chattering. Small talk. Gossip, but more of a polite convention. It was part of our training and imperative that we maiko learned to talk with great animation about nothing at all.
And to play games with our customers. Games like Shallow River–Deep River, where the geisha raised up her kimono with her left hand as though crossing a river, a little bit higher each time, as she teased the onlooker by fluttering a fan with her right hand until she revealed her naked, dear little slit.
I giggled, remembering the first time I heard that phrase. The night I discovered the pleasures of the harigata. My smile faded. It was also the night my father left me in the Teahouse of the Look-Back Tree. Part of me died that night. But another part survived, and for three long years I’d studied to become a geisha. Still, I was but a maiko. Why? What had I done to displease the gods? It was customary for a maiko to spend several years of apprenticeship, then take her place as a geisha at age seventeen.
I’m eighteen. Haven’t I earned the right to turn back my collar and become a geisha?
How much longer could I stay in the teahouse, sneaking around the city with white makeup smeared on my face, my blond hair covered by a black wig? Was I destined to hide in the teahouse until my womanhood no longer blossomed? Or until someone discovered my identity?
More than once I saw curious strangers pointing to their nose when they looked at me, meaning my long, straight Irish nose. Why was it so important no one knew who I was? My father was gone and out of danger. Why couldn’t I take my place in the world of flowers and willows?
I’d done everything okâsan asked me to do, everything. Used dried nightingale droppings as a facial treatment to smooth and condition my skin. Washed the veranda twice a day on my knees, scrubbed the soiled futon sheets, trimmed the bamboo in the garden.
I’m a grown-up woman, I was proud to acknowledge, judging by the stares tossed at me earlier today. Although I knew it was naughty, I walked with my buttocks wiggling like I’d seen the older geisha do, my green, hand-painted kimono with yellow and pink morning glories pulled snugly over my hips. Pinkish silver pins sparkled in my hair.
Everywhere I went people stared at me. Oh, I’m not beautiful like Simouyé, but I’m taller than all the other maiko in my six-inch high clogs with tiny bells, since I had long ago outgrown the clogs my father gave me. And it’s unusual for an apprentice geisha to travel alone. We’re always chaperoned, except when we ride in jinrikishas in pairs. I feel so grown-up then, swaying my pretty paper parasol back and forth with Mariko doing the same as our open-air conveyance winds its way through the narrow streets.
Today I ignored the looks of the curious Japanese, keeping my head lowered, taking care not to let anyone get close enough to see my green eyes. It was important I slip away from the teahouse unnoticed so I could complete my errand.
Alone.
How long had I been gone? An hour? Not longer. I clasped my package neatly wrapped in a yellow cloth and tied with a red cord to my chest, my full breasts bound and flattened by the band I wore underneath my kimono. My insides were squeezed up just as tight. I was nervous about facing Simouyé. Whatever excuse I made, I could already see her swaying her body back and forth in that disapproving rhythm I’d come to know so well, scolding me for endless minutes when I made a mistake, while the other maiko pretended not to listen.
I shook my head in dismay. Yet it was okâsan who made one excuse after another when I asked her when I’d be ready to enter the geisha world. I was ready now, but Mariko