Chapter 1: River of Flowers
This was true suffering.
I rolled my shoulders and struggled to maintain my seiza sitting posture. My thighs ached, and my feet had long gone numb to the scrape of the tatami beneath them. Oil lamps burned in every corner, making the air sharp and bright as the day. Yamaguchi Tojirou, a regular guest at the okiya, lounged beside me on a cushion. He leaned back on one arm, flushed with drink, long, spiderlike legs splayed. I stifled a groan as he scratched himself and let out a wet belch.
What did I do to deserve this?
Our okiya was one of the finest in Shimabara, our oiran one of the most beautiful and respected courtesans in all of Kyoto. Rich merchants, samurai, and even the occasional daimyo were happy to spend their money here, in no small part due to the etiquette both practiced and expected by our staff. A visit to the okiya was akin to a visit to a noble house. Yamaguchi, on the other hand, treated us like a brothel. Under normal circumstances, a man like him wouldn’t get past the front gate.
Unless, of course, his name was Yamaguchi.
The smell of natto and cheap whiskey made my eyes burn, and I pressed a discreet finger against the corner of my eye. Yamaguchi laughed a deep, hoarse laugh, head thrown back and mouth open wide, at a pair of taikomochi acting out a raucous sexual pantomime, their lower halves hidden behind a paper screen. An extravagantly dressed lord conducting an illicit affair with a palace mistress or something like that. I’d long lost track.
I wondered if the taikomochi felt as I did. Bored, lost, perhaps even a bit degraded. They once served real nobility as both attendants and advisors to the daimyo. They were skilled musicians and entertainers who had performed for generals as well as marched beside them in battles, beating their drums to awaken the soldiers’ fighting spirits. They called themselves geisha, men of arts. Now with no wars to fight, they’d been reduced to minstrels, donning elaborate costumes and entertaining guests with crude performances filled with toilet humor and dirty jokes as they awaited the services of the oiran.
I had never worked in a noble's house or fought in battle, but I, too, was geisha. I played shamisen and shakuhachi, and I had made quite a name for myself in Kyoto as a singer. Men requested me by name and were often so captivated by my songs, that they would forget their appointments or stay long after they were done just to hear my voice. I’d earned so many drunken confessions of love at the end of a song, I’d begun to wonder if the words ever really meant anything at all.
A gong sounded, signaling the fictional lord’s ill-timed climax, and I pretended to laugh, hiding my face behind my sleeve to muffle a yawn. My part in this particular spectacle was long over, my sole purpose now to keep Yamaguchi company and attend to the level of his saké glass. As if on cue, he lifted the ceramic cup and leaned in my direction.
“This is quite the performance, ne, Hiro-kun?” he said in a guttural slur as I filled his cup from a white carafe.
I gave a polite nod. “I’m happy you’re pleased, Yamaguchi-han.”
“And your voice.” He leaned closer and licked his thin lips. “Exquisite as always.”
“You flatter me, Yamaguchi-han. I’m just an ordinary singer.”
“Nonsense.” He leaned even closer, blowing his stinking breath into my ear. “If only we could have some time alone together, I could make you really sing. Why don’t we send these fools away—”
“As pleasant as that would be, Yamaguchi-han,” I said, turning my face away and blinking back reflexive tears, “it is not permitted.”
He grunted. “Don’t tell me you don’t service men.”
“I don’t service anyone.” I kept my voice even, matter of fact, while disgust writhed in my insides. “If you’d prefer the company of men, there’s a brothel—”
“I could take you away from here.” He grabbed my elbow, his voice harsh and tinged with desperation. “Give you a new life.”
“Thank you for your kindness, Yamaguchi-han,” I said from between clenched teeth as I pried my sleeve loose from his hand “but I’m quite satisfied with the life I have.” The tatami bit into my legs as I tried to scoot away.
“Please, Hiro-kun.” His grip tightened. “If I don’t have you, I will die.”
The door slid open, and I melted with relief at the sight of the oiran, decked out in all her finery. The sweet scent of plums made us lift our heads, and even Yamaguchi’s interest was momentarily swayed. She entered silently, bare feet floating across the tatami beneath the hem of her elaborate kimono. She was called Hanagawa, meaning river of flowers, and she drifted into the room like petals on a current. Layers of pink silk painted with bright-white flowers and falling leaves pooled around her. She held her hands tucked beneath the knot of her thick obi, a wide band of red that wrapped her from breast to hips held together by an intricate bow at her chest. Bright-red flowers spilled from her sculpted hair, vibrant rivers of color against a sea of black. Kanzashi tinkled lightly as she bowed, the silver hairpins catching the lamplight, and smiled with crimson lips.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Yamaguchi-han,” I said in a hushed voice so as to not break the spell. “Feel free to think of me while your lady rides you to oblivion.”
With a small bow, I extracted myself from his grip and followed the taikomochi out the door. I shot Hanagawa a sympathetic look as I passed and didn’t miss the subtle roll of her eyes. Biting back a smile, I—not for the first time—found it hard to reconcile the goddess with the fiery girl who used to drop bugs in my teacups and took bets on which of our guests would last the longest. I admired her poise but didn’t envy what she had to do, yet I knew she would handle it with grace.
“Hiro-chan, otsukaresama deshita.” The house mother shuffled down the hall toward me, a knowing gleam in her eye. She was an oiran once, and though time had done its work on her appearance, she moved with the same airy grace. Take away the deep wrinkles around her eyes and the creases in her fine lips, and one could almost see the beauty she once was. Though she was much more modestly dressed in a deep-blue kimono, her back bent and shoulders sagged as if still carrying the weight of the oiran’s finery.
“Good evening, Okaasan.” I bowed, warmth spreading through my chest and a smile tugging on my lips. All the muscles in my back unknotted, her mere presence enough to chase away the discomfort.
“Yamaguchi-han is comfortable, I assume.”
“Yes, Okaasan.” I lifted my collar to my nose and cringed. “Though I fear I may need a wash after so long in a room with him.”
Okaasan smiled sympathetically, patting me on the arm.
“Can someone else wait on him next time?” I pleaded.
“You know he favors you.” Her eyes flashed mischievously. “I heard him offer to steal you away. Should I be worried? What if you fall in love?”
The terror on my face had her nearly doubled over in hysterics.
“Please, Okan,” I drawled, leaning my head on her shoulder and putting on an exaggerated pout. It worked when I was ten. I hoped it would work now. “If I have to listen to one more story about gutting pigs, I might throw myself into the river.”
“And what should I do when all of Yamaguchi-gumi shows up at my door to avenge my insult?”
A tendril of fear slithered across my heart. I had to suffer Yamaguchi Tojirou’s presence not because of his station, but because of his associations. Yamaguchi was the head of the local tekiya, a group touting itself as a chivalrous union of street peddlers aiming to keep the streets of Kyoto safe for commerce. In reality, they were thugs, charging high rent for dirt stalls and extorting the local businesses for protection money. His wiry frame might not have cut an imposing figure, but the invisible army behind him was enough to make even the bravest man pull out his purse.
I let loose a dramatic sigh. “All right, but only because I love you so much.”
“That’s a good boy, Hiro.” She gave my cheek a pinch. “Now, get some rest. Tomorrow’s a big day.”
“Is it?” I quirked an eyebrow in her direction.
“It’s our anniversary. You didn’t forget did you?”
Of course. The anniversary of the opening of the okiya thirty years ago. How could I forget? It was the biggest day of our year and the only time we were truly open to the public. Okaasan threw a grand party, opening the house up to anyone who’d like to come and getting everyone properly drunk. It served as both a publicity opportunity and a much-needed day off for the oiran, as most left too inebriated to manage anything more than a stumble into a futon.
“I need you at your most charming, Hiro-chan. I don’t care if half the room falls in love with you as long as they return with full purses.”
I bowed, my cheeks hot, and she left me in the hands of the house attendants who would strip me of my kimono. It doubled as our anniversary too. The day Okaasan found me as a baby, abandoned in a fruit crate in the alley behind the okiya on their tenth anniversary. She said my screams woke her from a dead sleep and she had no choice but to bring me in or never sleep again.
Twenty years later, I was still searching for a way to thank her.
While my kimono was nowhere near as fancy as the oiran, it still took two people to get me in and out of it. The best part of my day was when they loosened the obi with their deft hands and the heavy silk dropped from my shoulders. Free of my bright confines, I lowered to my knees in front of a mirror and loosed my hair from its knot. It fell around my shoulders in thick waves. Some found its natural curl along with the flecks of green in my eyes exotic, others evidence of mixed heritage. I wondered if it was true. If it was what made me so disposable in the first place.
A sound separate from the usual revelries of the house caught my attention. A sad smile tugging at my lips, I slipped out of my room toward the back garden, stopping to grab a steamed bun from the kitchen. I followed the rustling to the back corner of the yard where an ornamental bush shivered from within. It could have been a rabbit or a fox, but I suspected it was something else.
“Hello, there.”
The shivering stopped, replaced by tense silence.
“Come on out. I won’t hurt you.”
More silence followed by the slow separation of leaves and branches as a small face emerged from the dark. Dirtied cheeks sat beneath deep-set eyes and tangled hair. A little boy, no more than seven years old, appeared from behind the bush, muscles bunched like a scared mouse ready to flee. I’d seen him before, picking through our kitchen garbage for scraps. My heart hurt, but I forced a smile.
“Don’t be afraid.” I squatted down an arm’s length away and held out the bun I’d snagged from the kitchen. “Hungry?”
Wary eyes bounced from me to the bun, and he licked his lips. He snatched it from my hand quick as a snake and darted away.
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