The Blonde Geisha. Jina Bacarr
with hues of blue and red and yellow. How I wished I could be a geisha. To me, a geisha was like a fairy princess, pure and untouched, until the handsome prince sought her for a bride. Then he’d whisk her off to a castle surrounded by a moat, like the palace I’d read about in the days when Tokio was called Yeddo, a palace with so many rooms no one ever lived long enough to see them all. And I’d have kimonos woven with golden threads and dazzling rice ornaments for my hair made out of the purest white diamonds and the deepest black pearls.
And the man I loved would lie next to me under the silkiness of the futon, our bodies naked, our hands exploring each other. I’d know the ultimate joy of pleasure of feeling the thrust of a man’s penis inside me, that elusive feeling I’d begun to understand and craved deep in my soul, an ache that wouldn’t go away.
The jinrikisha boy turned down a tiny canal street into an alley and down a narrow lane, then crossed a small bridge before stopping before a teahouse hidden behind high walls. A great willow swayed in the night breeze. Rose and yellow lights burned behind the panes of paper.
I held my breath, lest the dream faded. I had the strangest feeling I’d stumbled into a fairy tale.
“The child can’t stay here, Edward-san,” the woman said in an abrupt manner in rapid Japanese, her hands f luttering around her.
“I have no choice, Simouyé-san,” my father insisted in a harsh voice. Then softer, he said, “I must ask you to do this for me.”
“I can’t. If the Prince’s men are searching for you everywhere in the city, they will find her here.”
“Not if you disguise her with a black wig and put a fancy kimono on her.”
A black wig? I tried to keep in the shadows, but the woman named Simouyé wouldn’t stop looking at me. That surprised me, since that wasn’t the Japanese way. Yet I couldn’t stop staring at her across the room almost as intensely.
I dared to inch closer to inspect the beautiful woman with the tight knot of black hair fixed high on the top of her head who spoke with such vehemence against my staying in the teahouse. She wore no makeup except for a light dusting of rice powder on her cheeks, but I swore her lips were dark red, though I couldn’t see her mouth. Simouyé pressed her lips together when she spoke and waved her arms around her. Her dark mauve kimono with sleeves reaching down to her hips fit her snugly, showing her still-girlish figure. Though she wore only white socks on her small feet, she seemed taller to me than most Japanese women.
Or was it because of the way she stood? Proud and straight. As if she knew her place, and that place was close to the gods.
She moved closer to me, startling me. Or was it an optical illusion produced by the embroidered birds on her sash, fitting tightly around her midriff, that made her seem like she was floating on air?
The intent of her words was no illusion.
“If your daughter stays here, Edward-san, you’re not thinking I would engage her as a maiko?” Simouyé asked, her hand flying to her breasts. My eyes widened with surprise. A maiko, I knew, was the localism for an apprentice geisha. I choked with joy at the thought, but the idea didn’t please the woman.
You don’t have to worry. My father would never permit me to become a geisha.
“That’s exactly what I mean, Simouyé-san,” my father answered.
My mouth dropped open, not believing my father had said the words I yearned to hear.
He continued, “As a maiko she wouldn’t be subjected to any—” he hesitated, then chose his next words with care “—unpleasant or awkward situations with your customers.”
My mind was so focused on this new turn of events, so startled by what my father had said, I hadn’t realized his hand was caressing the woman’s neck, as if this was a prelude to an intimate moment they’d previously shared. Then he moved his hand down to the V-shaped opening of her kimono, lingering there, then brushing her breasts with the tips of his fingers. The woman drew in her breath. I wanted to look away. My father was doing this?
I kept staring at the woman. Her sash was tied low, signifying her maturity, the curve of her breasts not flattened, allowing for her nipples to become taut and pointy through the kimono. She wore the thinnest silk undergarment underneath. I saw her shudder with pleasure.
“Even if I wish it, Edward-san,” Simouyé whispered, “I can’t allow the child to stay here. She doesn’t understand our ways.”
“She will learn. These high walls hide many secrets.”
“Yes, Edward-san, many secrets. Inside this world one sees only the mask of femininity. A geisha never shows her true self to her customer but bends as the willow, pleasing those who are often undeserving of such pleasure. Is that the kind of life you wish for your daughter?”
My father paused, his body stiffening, his hands clenched at his sides. I thought he was going to look at me, but he didn’t.
Say yes, Papa, please say yes.
“I’m desperate, Simouyé-san,” he said. “There’s no place else where she’ll be safe. I’ll return for her as soon as I can. Until then, you must help me.”
“What about the jinrikisha boy?”
“Hisa-don won’t speak about tonight. He knows his place.”
“That’s true, but—”
“Please, Simouyé-san, I’m begging you to help me save my daughter.”
The woman wasn’t convinced. “Our lives within these walls are very strict, Edward-san. If I say yes to your request, your daughter will have to follow all the rules of a maiko so as not to arouse suspicion. She must learn by observation by first becoming a maid and working long hours, but she’ll become a stronger woman. She must study the lute, the harp and dancing. She must learn the most polite language of geisha, where everything is hinted at and nothing is said directly, as well as respect and responsibility for her elders. She must also learn the art of wearing kimono, and be as pure as one who has not granted the pillow.”
This time I drew far back into the shadows, hiding from the woman’s scrutiny. My father’s intimate actions toward the woman had disturbed me, but this conversation disturbed me more. I could guess what granting the pillow meant. Something silky and warm and wonderful between a man and a woman snuggling up in a futon, hands groping, flesh touching. My heart pumped wildly and a warm flush pricked my skin pink. Would my education in the teahouse teach me about making love to a man?
Fueled with excitement, I pondered this new and interesting situation: If Simouyé agreed, I could stay in the teahouse and learn the ways of the geisha. It was both wonderful and frightening at the same time.
A slight noise drew my attention and my eyes darted to the other side of the room. I heard a knock, then the sound of a rice-paper door sliding open. The heavy rains must have prevented the geisha from changing their screens and doors to summer bamboo screens, a custom routinely followed to ward off the summer heat and humidity. I stifled a giggle. I had also upset their routine. No wonder Simouyé wasn’t pleased.
A young woman entered on her knees through the paper door and bowed three times, her forehead touching the floor. She wore a dark blue silk kimono with a striped white-and-pink sash tied around her waist. She was plain-looking, but a sweetness about her drew my attention. Innocent, childlike.
The girl began serving tiny cups of tea, placing them on the low black-lacquered table, alongside a tray of sweetmeats shaped like fantailed goldfish. The sugar glistened on top like golden specks and made my mouth water.
The girl handed me a cup of tea, then a napkin, then a sweetmeat.
“Thank you,” I whispered in Japanese, then I bowed to the girl.
The girl blinked her eyes in surprise, then bowed again and