by India Millar
It seemed to me that the other girls were looking at me strangely. I leaned forward until I could touch Midori, tug at her sleeve just as Sute had.
“I could pay my way with my share of Akira’s money,” I pleaded. “Just the smallest parts. Anything.”
But Midori was shaking her head. I thought she looked puzzled, but still she shook her head. I choked back tears. Why were the gods doing this to me? Had a past life been so bad that I deserved this karma? What could possibly have been so terrible that joy was handed to me with one hand only to be snatched away with the other?
“She doesn’t know.” Sute was giggling behind her hand. I wanted to slap her. “I told you all, and you wouldn’t believe me. But it’s true. She doesn’t know.”
All the geisha stared at me, their eyebrows raised and their eyes wide. Midori cleared her throat, started to speak and then stopped. She finally tried again.
“Surely, Mineko-chan, if you want to come to America with me, act in the kabuki, then that would be wonderful, and both Danjuro and I will welcome you.” She spoke slowly, emphasizing every word. I gawped at her, more bewildered than ever. “But Ken-san says you will not go. He insists that you are going to marry him and return to his home with him. He says he is going to go back to his family estates and will take his father’s place. And that you will be his bride.”
I nodded slowly. Thoughtfully. As if I believed every word Midori was saying.
“Mineko, are you listening to me?” Midori pushed her face toward me.
“Yes, of course.” I nodded and smiled and wondered why my dear friend was doing this to me. And then I understood. I had been right all along. This wasn’t Midori No Me at all. A mischievous fox spirit had taken on her likeness and was taunting me. Which probably meant that I was dead as well. Just as Ken was.
I carried on nodding and smiling, ignoring the noise of the geisha as they all spoke at once.
“Mineko.” Kiku was shuffling across the floor toward me. When she was close enough to touch me, she laid her hands on my shoulders and shook me so hard my teeth clicked together. “Mineko. Listen to Midori. Even better, listen to me! Don’t you understand? Ken-san wants to marry you. As soon as possible. Take you back to his home. You will be a noblewoman, with a good husband and servants. You will have a place in society. Understand?”
I smiled nervously. “But Ken-chan is dead, Kiku,” I whispered. “I saw him die. He took the blow that was meant to kill Akira. And then Akira died anyway.”
Kiku muttered something under her breath. “Ken-san is not dead.” She spoke slowly and carefully, as if to a child. “He should be dead. The doctor we got him said if the sword had cut him a finger’s breadth further across, it would have cut into his heart and he would have died instantly. He has been very ill, just as you have. But he is alive, he is going to be well, and you can see him at any time you like. He’s at my home.” She grinned and added, “Mori-san recognizes a future customer when he sees one. He has been very happy to welcome a samurai into our humble home.”
A samurai. Ken.
It was that single word that convinced me. Nobody, except me, knew that Ken-chan was samurai by birth. I had told no one. I swear my neck creaked as I turned my head to stare at each of the girls in their turn.
“We guessed about you and Ken-san right from the start,” Sute chirped happily. “You were both going around with silly smiles on your faces, but when you didn’t say anything, we thought it was none of our business.” She giggled happily. “We never knew he was samurai though. What was he doing working for the likes of Akira?”
“None of your business, Sute,” Midori said firmly. I looked into her eyes and knew Ken had told her his story. “That is all in the past now. Whatever penance Ken-san was seeking is done.”
Of course. Ken had taken the blow meant for Akira. He had proved to himself that he was no longer afraid of pain. And even more, by risking his own life to save Akira, in his own mind he had expiated his sin in killing his father. Did it matter that Akira had died anyway? I rather thought it didn’t. At least not to Ken.
“Of course,” Midori said softly, “if you prefer to come back to the kabuki with me, I would be very happy. I mean, I daresay the life of a provincial noblewoman might not suit you.”
My mouth opened and closed. Minutes before I had cursed the gods for taking all hope away from me. Now I wondered if this was my punishment—the need to choose between two equally beloved joys. Midori’s dear face recalled the kabuki to me, and I could almost hear the actors strutting on the stage, see the glitter of their costumes, smile at the posturing of the villain. But at the same time, I remembered that nearly all the plots at the kabuki ended in sadness—young lovers committing suicide together, hearts broken and hopes dashed. And then I remembered with a physical surge of longing Kiku’s little Ichiro reaching for my breast. And Ken’s face smiling at me, telling me that he had known from the first moment he saw me that his karma had led him to me. Perhaps, after all, the gods had been remarkably good to some of us geisha in the Hidden House by giving at least three of us husbands the likes of which were unequal in the whole of Japan. Four of us, if you included Sute, and I just knew that she would rule her Ito with a rod of willow and silk.
I spoke through the tears that poured down my face. “Perhaps, like Naruko and Masaki, we could travel? Visit you and Danjuro-san in America?”
Midori No Me sighed and wiped the tears from my cheeks. “Remember the Chinese proverb Naruko used to tell us? ‘Be careful what you wish for, you may get it.’ I think perhaps that some dreams are better left as dreams, Mineko.” Her mouth was smiling, but I stared past her actor’s face and thought I saw sadness in her eyes. “You are right. Your place is here. With Ken-san. We all have much life left to live, Mineko-chan. Somehow, I think fate will not be so unkind that it will separate us for the rest of our years. Shall we take you to see your husband?”
There was a scramble for tabi and geta. Both Kiku and I had to be helped into our tabi. It was the humble tabi that convinced me I wasn’t dreaming. No geisha would wear tabi socks outside the house, just naked feet, more often than not numb with cold inside the wooden geta. And now here we were—all of us—wiggling out toes in our cozy tabi and grinning in delight at a humble sock.
We all left the Hidden House together, and Midori No Me closed the door behind us.
Forever.
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About the Author
India Millar started her career in heavy industry at British Gas and ended it in the rarefied atmosphere of the British Library. She now lives on Spain’s glorious Costa Blanca North in an entirely male dominated household comprised of her husband, a dog, and a cat. In addition to historical romances, India also writes popular guides to living in Spain under a different name.
Website: www.indiamillar.co.uk
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