Mariko hesitated, her own curiosity swamping her judgment. “If it could be done with humor …”
They heard Blackthorne approaching. Kiku welcomed him back and poured wine. Mariko quaffed hers, glad that she was no longer alone, uneasily sure that Kiku could read her thoughts.
They chatted and played silly games and then, when Kiku judged that the time was correct, she asked them if they would like to see the garden and the pleasure rooms.
They walked out into the night. The garden sparkled in the torchlights where the raindrops still lingered. The path meandered beside a tiny pool and gurgling waterfall. At the end of the path was the small isolated house in the center of the bamboo grove. It was raised off manicured ground and had four steps up to the encircling veranda. Everything about the two-roomed dwelling was tasteful and expensive. The best woods, best carpentry, best tatami, best silk cushions, most elegant hangings in the takonama.
“It’s so lovely, Kiku-san,” Mariko said.
“The Tea House in Mishima is much nicer, Mariko-san. Please be comfortable, Anjin-san! Per favor, does this please you, Anjin-san?”
“Yes, very much.”
Kiku saw that he was still bemused with the night and the saké but totally conscious of Mariko. She was very tempted to get up and go into the inner room where the futons were turned back and step out onto the veranda again and leave. But if she did, she knew that she would be in violation of the law. More than that, she felt that such an action would be irresponsible, for she knew in her heart Mariko was ready and almost beyond caring.
No, she thought, I mustn’t push her into such a tragic indiscretion, much as it might be valuable to my future. I offered but Mariko-san willed herself to refuse. Wisely. Are they lovers? I do not know. That is their karma.
She leaned forward and laughed conspiratorially. “Listen, Elder Sister, please tell the Anjin-san that there are some pillow instruments here. Does he have them in his country?”
“He says, no, Kiku-san. So sorry, he’s never heard of any.”
“Oh! Would it amuse him to see them? They’re in the next room, I can fetch them—they’re really very exciting.”
“Would you like to see them, Anjin-san? She says they’re really very funny.” Mariko deliberately changed the word.
“Why not,” Blackthorne said, his throat constricted, his whole being charged with an awareness of their perfume and their femininity. “You—you use instruments to pillow with?” he asked.
“Kiku-san says sometimes, Anjin-san. She says—and this is true—it’s our custom always to try to prolong the moment of the ‘Clouds and the Rain’ because we believe for that brief instant we mortals are one with the gods.” Mariko watched him. “So it’s very important to make it last as long as possible, neh? Almost a duty, neh?”
“Yes.”
“Yes. She says to be one with the gods is very essential. It’s a good belief and very possible, don’t you think, to believe that? The Cloudburst feeling is so unearthly and godlike. Isn’t it? So any means to stay one with the gods for as long as possible is our duty, neh?”
“Very. Oh, yes.”
“Would you like saké, Anjin-san?”
“Thank you.”
She fanned herself. “This about the Cloudburst and the Clouds and the Rain or the Fire and the Torrent, as we sometimes call it, is very Japanese, Anjin-san. Very important to be Japanese in pillow things, neh?”
To her relief, he grinned and bowed to her like a courtier. “Yes. Very. I’m Japanese, Mariko-san. Honto!”
Kiku returned with the silk-lined case. She opened it and took out a substantial life-size penis made of ivory, and another made of softer material, elastic, that Blackthorne had never seen before. Carelessly she set them aside.
“These of course, are ordinary harigata, Anjin-san,” Mariko said unconcernedly, her eyes glued on the other objects.
“Is that a fact?” Blackthorne said, not knowing what else to say. “Mother of God!”
“But it’s just an ordinary harigata, Anjin-san. Surely your women have them!”
“Certainly not! No, they don’t,” he added, trying to remember about the humor.
Mariko couldn’t believe it. She explained to Kiku, who was equally surprised. Kiku spoke at length, Mariko agreeing.
“Kiku-san says that’s very strange. I must agree, Anjin-san. Here almost every girl uses one for ordinary relief without a second thought. How else can a girl stay healthy when she’s restricted where a man is not? Are you sure, Anjin-san? You’re not teasing?”
“No—I’m, er, sure our women don’t have them. That would be—Jesus, that—well, no, we—they—don’t have them.”
“Without them life must be very difficult. We have a saying that a harigata’s like a man but better because it’s exactly like his best part but without his worst parts. Neh? And it’s also better because all men aren’t—don’t have a sufficiency, as harigatas do. Also they’re devoted, Anjin-san, and they’ll never tire of you, like a man does. And too, they can be as rough or smooth—Anjin-san, you promised, remember? With humor!”
“You’re right!” Blackthorne grinned. “By God, you’re right. Please excuse me.” He picked up the harigata and studied it closely, whistling tonelessly. Then he held it up. “You were saying, Teacher-san? It can be rough?”
“Yes,” she said cheerfully. “It can be as rough or as smooth as you desire, and harigatas very particularly have far more endurance than any man and they never wear out!”
“Oh, that’s a point!”
“Yes. Don’t forget, not every woman is fortunate enough to belong to a virile man. Without one of these to help release ordinary passions and normal needs, an ordinary woman soon becomes poisoned in body, and that will certainly very soon destroy her harmony, thus hurt her and those around her. Women don’t have the freedom men have—to a greater or lesser degree, and rightly, neh? The world belongs to men, and rightly, neh?”
“Yes.” He smiled. “And no.”
“I pity your women, so sorry. They must be the same as ours. When you go home you must instruct them, Anjin-san. Ah, yes, tell your Queen, she will understand. We are very sensible in matters of the pillow.”
“I’ll mention it to Her Majesty.” Blackthorne put the harigata aside with feigned reluctance. “What’s next?”
Kiku produced a string of four large round beads of white jade that were spaced along a strong silken thread. Mariko listened intently to Kiku’s explanation, her eyes getting wider than ever before, her fan fluttering, and looked down at the beads in wonder as Kiku came to an end. “Ah so desu! Well, Anjin-san,” she began firmly, “these are called konomi-shinju, Pleasure Pearls, and the senhor or senhora may use them. Saké, Anjin-san?”
“Thank you.”
“Yes. Either the lady or the man may use them and the beads are carefully placed in the back passage and then, at the moment of the Clouds and the Rain, the beads are pulled out slowly, one by one.”
“What?”
“Yes.” Mariko laid the beads on the cushion in front of him. “The Lady Kiku says the timing’s very important, and that always a … I don’t know what you would call it, ah yes, always an oily salve should be used … for comfort, Anjin-san.” She looked up at him and added, “She says also that Pleasure Pearls can be found in many sizes and that, if used correctly, they can precipitate a very considerable result indeed.”
He laughed uproariously and spluttered in English, “I’ll bet a barrel of doubloons against a piece of pig shit you can believe that!”
“So sorry, I didn’t understand, Anjin-san.”
When he could talk, he said in Portuguese, “I’ll bet a mountain of gold to a blade of grass, Mariko-san, the result is very considerable indeed.” He picked up the beads and examined them, whistling without noticing it. “Pleasure Pearls, eh?” After a moment he put them down. “What else is there?”
Kiku was pleased that her experiment was succeeding. Next she showed them a himitsu-kawa,
the Secret Skin. “It’s a pleasure ring, Anjin-san, that the man wears to keep himself erect when he’s depleted. With this, Kiku-san says, the man can gratify the woman after he’s passed his pinnacle, or his desire has flagged.” Mariko watched him. “Neh?”
“Absolutely.” Blackthorne beamed. “The Good Lord protect me from either, and from not giving gratification. Please ask Kiku-san to buy me three—just in case!”
Next he was shown the hiro-gumbi, Weary Armaments, thin dried stalks of a plant that, when soaked and wrapped around the Peerless Part, swell up and make it appear strong. Then there were all kinds of potents—potents to excite or increase excitement—and all kinds of salves—salves to moisten, to swell, to strengthen.
“Never to weaken?” he asked, to more hilarity.
“Oh no, Anjin-san, that would be unearthly!”
Then Kiku laid out other rings for the man to wear, ivory or elastic or silken rings with nodules or bristles or ribbons or attachments and appendages of every kind, made of ivory or horsehair or seeds or even tiny bells.
“Kiku-san says almost any of these will turn the shyest lady wanton.”
Oh God, how would I like thee wanton, he thought. “But these’re only for the man to wear, neh?” he asked.
“The more excited the lady is, the more the man’s enjoyment, neh?” Mariko was saying. “Of course, giving pleasure to the woman is equally the man’s duty, isn’t it, and with one of these, if, unhappily, he’s small or weak or old or tired, he can still pleasure her with honor.”
“You’ve used them, Mariko-san?”
“No, Anjin-san, I’ve never seen them before. These are … wives are not for pleasure but for childbearing and for looking after the house and the home.”
“Wives don’t expect to be pleasured?”
“No. It would not be usual. That is for the Ladies of the Willow World.” Mariko fanned herself and explained to Kiku what had been said. “She says, surely it’s the same in your world? That the man’s duty is to pleasure the lady as it is her duty to pleasure him?”
“Please tell her, so sorry, but it’s not the same, just about the opposite.”
“She says that is very bad. Saké?”
“Please tell her we’re taught to be ashamed of our bodies and pillowing and nakedness and … and all sorts of stupidities. It’s only being here that’s made me realize it. Now that I’m a little civilized I know better.”
Mariko translated. He drained his cup. It was refilled immediately by Kiku, who leaned over and held her long sleeve with her left hand so that it would not touch the low lacquered table as she poured with her right.
“Domo.”
“Do itashimashite, Anjin-san.”
“Kiku-san says we should all be honored that you say such things. I agree, Anjin-san. You make me feel very proud. I was very proud of you today. But surely it’s not as bad as you say.”
“It’s worse. It’s difficult to understand, let alone explain, if you’ve never been there or weren’t brought up there. You see—in truth …” Blackthorne saw them watching him, waiting patiently, multihued, so lovely and clean, the room so stark and uncluttered and tranquil. All at once his mind began to contrast it with the warm, friendly stench of his English home, rushes on the earth floor, smoke from the open brick fire rising to the roof hole—only three of the new fireplaces with chimneys in his whole village, and those only for the very wealthy. Two small bedrooms and then the one large untidy room of the cottage for eating, living, cooking, and talking. You walked into the cottage in your seaboots, summer or winter, mud unnoticed, dung unnoticed, and sat on a chair or bench, the oak table cluttered like the room, three or four dogs and the two children—his son and his dead brother Arthur’s girl—climbing and falling and playing higgledy piggledy, Felicity cooking, her long dress trailing in the rushes and dirt, the skivvy maid sniffing and getting in the way and Mary, Arthur’s widow, coughing in the next room he’d built for her, near death as always, but never dying.
Felicity. Dear Felicity. A bath once a month perhaps, and then in summer, very private, in the copper tub, but washing her face and hands and feet every day, always hidden to the neck and wrists, swathed in layers of heavy woolens all year long that were unwashed for months or years, reeking like everyone, lice-infested like everyone, scratching like everyone.
And all the other stupid beliefs and superstitions, that cleanliness could kill, open windows could kill, water could kill and encourage flux or bring in the plague, that lice and fleas and flies and dirt and disease were God’s punishments for sins on earth.
Fleas, flies, and fresh rushes every spring, but every day to church and twice on Sundays to hear the Word pounded into you: Nothing matters, only God and salvation.
Born in sin, living in shame, Devil’s brood, condemned to Hell, praying for salvation and forgiveness, Felicity so devout and filled with fear of the Lord and terror of the Devil, desperate for Heaven. Then going home to food. A haunch of meat from the spit and if a piece fell on the floor you’d pick it up and brush the dirt off and eat it if the dogs didn’t get it first, but you’d throw them the bones anyway. Castings on the floor. Leavings pushed onto the floor to be swept up perhaps and thrown into the road perhaps. Sleeping most of the time in your dayclothes and scratching like a contented dog, always scratching. Old so young and ugly so young and dying so young. Felicity. Now twenty-nine, gray, few teeth left, old, lined, and dried up.
“Before her time, poor bloody woman. My God, how unnecessary!” he cried out in rage. “What a stinking bloody waste!”
“Nan desu ka, Anjin-san?” both women said in the same breath, their contentment vanishing.
“So sorry … it was just … you’re all so clean and we’re filthy and it’s all such a waste, countless millions, me too, all my life … and only because we don’t know any better! Christ Jesus, what a waste! It’s the priests—they’re the educated and the educators, priests own all the schools, do all the teaching, always in the name of God, filth in the name of God…. It’s the truth!”
“Oh yes, of course,” Mariko said soothingly, touched by his pain. “Please don’t concern yourself now, Anjin-san. That’s for tomorrow….
Kiku wore a smile but she was furious with herself. You should have been more careful, she told herself. Stupid stupid stupid! Mariko-san warned you! Now you’ve allowed the evening to be ruined, and the magic’s gone gone gone!
In truth, the heavy, almost tangible sexuality that had touched all of them had disappeared. Perhaps that’s just as well, she thought. At least Mariko and the Anjin-san are protected for one more night.
Poor man, poor lady. So sad. She watched them talking, then sensed a change in tone between them.
“Now I must leave thee,” Mariko was saying in Latin.
“Let us leave together.”
“I beg thee stay. For thy honor and hers. And mine, Anjin-san.”
“I do not want this thy gift,” he said. “I want thee.”
“I am thine, believe it, Anjin-san. Please stay, I beg thee, and know that tonight I am thine.”
He did not insist that she stay.
After she had gone he lay back and put his arms under his head and stared out of the window at the night. Rain splattered the tiles, the wind gusted caressingly from the sea.
Kiku was kneeling motionless in front of him. Her legs were stiff. She would have liked to lie down herself but she did not wish to break his mood by the slightest movement. You are not tired. Your legs do not ache, she told herself. Listen to the rain and think of lovely things. Think of Omi-san and the Tea House in Mishima, and that you’re alive and that yesterday’s earthquake was just another earthquake. Think of Toranaga-sama and the incredibly extravagant price that Gyoko-san had dared to ask initially for your contract. The soothsayer was right, it is your good fortune to make her rich beyond dreams. And if that part is true, why not all the rest? That one day you will marry a samurai you honor and have a son by him, that you will live and die i
n old age, part of his household, wealthy and honored, and that, miracle of miracles, your son will grow to equal estate—samurai—as will his sons.
Kiku began to glow at her incredible, wonderful future.
After a time Blackthorne stretched luxuriously, a pleasing weariness upon him. He saw her and smiled.
“Nan desu ka, Anjin-san?”
He shook his head kindly, got up and opened the shoji to the next room. There was no maid kneeling beside the netted futons. He and Kiku were alone in the exquisite little house.
He went into the sleeping room and began to take off his kimono. She hurried to help. He undressed completely, then put on the light silk sleeping kimono she held out for him. She opened the mosquito netting and he lay down.
Then Kiku changed also. He saw her take off the obi and the outer kimono and the scarlet-edged lesser kimono of palest green, and finally the underskirt. She put on her peach-colored sleeping kimono, then removed the elaborate formal wig and loosed her hair. It was blue-black and fine and very long.
She knelt outside the net. “Dozo, Anjin-san?”
“Domo,” he said.
“Domo arigato goziemashita,” she whispered.
She slipped under the net and lay beside him. The candles and oil lamps burned brightly. He was glad of the light because she was so beautiful.
His desperate need had vanished, though the ache remained. I don’t desire you, Kiku-chan, he thought. Even if you were Mariko it would be the same. Even though you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, more beautiful even than Midori-san, who I thought was more beautiful than any goddess. I don’t desire you. Later perhaps but not now, so sorry.
Her hand reached out and touched him. “Dozo?”
“Iyé,” he said gently, shaking his head. He held her hand, then slipped an arm under her shoulders. Obediently she nestled against him, understanding at once. Her perfume mingled with the fragrance of the sheets and futons. So clean, he thought, everything’s so incredibly clean.
What was it Rodrigues had said? ‘The Japans’re heaven on earth, Ingeles, if you know where to look,’ or ‘This is paradise, Ingeles.’ I don’t remember. I only know it’s not there, across the sea, where I thought it was. It’s not there.
Shōgun Page 81
