by Lilian Lee
While most of the men in the room were watching her with admiration, there was one pair of eyes that watched her with a more intense longing. In a room full of competitors, all vying for her, could it be that the strongest contender was the one who said the least? Was his silence real ... or contrived?
"Yoshiko," Kawashima said, "do you recognize this man?"
Her gaze rested on the silent young man's face. He returned her gaze, looking at her directly, without blinking. His eyes shone with vitality. He had said nothing, but she couldn't help liking him. She felt she had known him all her life.
"He is Ganjurjab, the second son of the Mongolian general Babujab."
Of course! It all came rushing back to her now. This was Prince Ganjurjab, her childhood playmate. And he hadn't changed a bit—he was just the way he had been as a little boy.
Yoshiko and Ganjurjab had been very close as children. Their two princely fathers had shared great plans, while the children had shared an innocent affection for each other. Later, they had gone their own separate ways. She had been sent away to be raised by Kawashima, while he had entered the Japanese Army's Officer Training School.
In spite of the fact that he had grown into a tall and handsome man, Yoshiko was unable to suppress a giggle. She was remembering how, one day, one of the grown-ups had taken a picture of them together. Just as the photographer was about to take the picture of the carefully posed children, Yoshiko had whispered mischievously in Ganjurjab's ear.
"Let's pretend we're playing Paper, Scissors, Stone—you make a fist and be 'stone,' and I'll be the 'scissors,' okay?"
Ganjurjab had always been a shy and timid child, and he didn't like to make mischief. So he pretended not to hear her. When the picture was developed, it showed a polite little Ganjurjab with his hands folded properly in his lap, next to Yoshiko with her "scissors."
No, he hadn't changed at all, from the look of him. She thought she detected a faint blush spreading across his face.
"Do you remember him?" Kawashima said again. "It's been a long time since you two have seen one another. Now, two old friends are meeting again. He has graduated from the military academy."
"Oh?"
Kawashima was trying to gauge Yoshiko's reaction. For her part, Yoshiko had a funny feeling that something was up, although she couldn't put her finger on it. What could it be? She felt a gnawing suspicion. There was something about this reunion that seemed too carefully orchestrated, too artificial. But Yoshiko quickly dismissed these uneasy feelings—she had something else on her mind, Yamaga.
The white-haired gentleman, Kashirayama, nonchalantly raised his cup and took a sip of sake.
5
The day of Yoshiko's reunion with Ganjurjab, October 6, 1924, was to be the turning point in Yoshiko's life. If history had passed over this day and missed it entirely, perhaps none of this would have happened, and Yoshiko's life never would have become the dazzling and terrible dream now recorded in history. But, then again, perhaps everything that followed was fate.
It all started simply enough. Yoshiko had just finished taking her evening bath when Kawashima called her into his study.
It was his custom to summon her when he had a new idea to discuss. She was always the first to hear. Tonight, maybe he wanted to fill her in on what he and his comrades had talked about during their meeting. This would doubtless be followed by solemn lectures about political action and reminders that the dedicated activist had to know his enemy as well as himself if he were to achieve victory.
Drying herself off, Yoshiko put on her yukata robe and knotted the sash.
When she got to the study, Kawashima had lit the small stove, and on it a kettle of water was boiling gently. He liked to toss grapefruit peels into the fire—they gave off a pungent and fruity aroma that filled the room as they burned.
Yoshiko was surprised when Kawashima didn't bring up the usual subject of national affairs.
"Yoshiko," he asked simply, "have you ever given any thought to the question of marriage?"
He had caught her off balance.
"No, I—"
"By the standards of your country, you're already a bit overdue."
"My country? You mean . . . ?"
"Why, China, of course."
Yoshiko felt a touch of apprehension.
"But—but I'm Japanese."
"You just want to marry a Japanese man!" Kawashima countered quickly.
For a moment, Yoshiko was speechless. She lacked his years, his long experience of crafty manipulation. She was no match for him. With a nervous flutter, she waved the suggestion aside.
"No. Of course I don't. Love and marriage are two completely separate matters."
Kawashima pressed her.
"Is it Yamaga?" he asked. "He's nothing but a second lieutenant, you know."
"A second lieutenant can rise to be a first lieutenant in no time at all!" she said, refusing to give in so easily. "And he can rise through the ranks—right on up to lieutenant general, and even commander in chief. Everybody has to start out as a second lieutenant!"
"Of course he can rise through the ranks." Kawashima smiled. "If it all goes smoothly and there aren't any hitches, he can do it in about forty years."
He was right, and Yoshiko knew it. She said nothing.
"You are the fourteenth princess of a great Ching imperial clan. You must do great things—and not indulge in childish fantasies. You must never forget your father's legacy! Never mind that you are a princess—your mission, and your destiny, is that of a prince!"
"What is my mission?"
He had been waiting for her to ask this very question, so that he could explain to her just how important she was to their plans. She was the very key to their success.
When he spoke again, his voice had taken on a commanding edge.
"Your mission is to marry the Mongolian prince Ganjurjab. This will unite the military forces of Manchuria and Mongolia. These forces will cross northern China and capture Peking. There you will found an independent kingdom and restore the Ching emperor. These are important tasks!"
Yoshiko was stunned. So that's how it was. Ganjurjab! That explained everything.
"You're talking about a 'political marriage,' aren't you?" she said, and bowed her head, deep in thought. Marry Ganjurjab?
She certainly didn't despise him. But then, she couldn't say she especially liked him, either. If Yamaga was an eight on a scale of ten, then Ganjurjab was a five. Passable. But marry him?
For a long time, she didn't speak. She had been completely unprepared for this. What could she say? She was at a loss.
Kawashima gave Yoshiko a searching look, trying in vain to see into this young woman's heart. What was she thinking?
She weighed the matter carefully, calculating its merits and demerits; but she couldn't come to a decision. On one side was her duty to her country. On the other side was her heart's desire. If she chose to marry Ganjurjab and go away with him to Mongolia, her life would never be the same. There would be no turning back. She was so young, and in love for the first time. What was she to do?
Kawashima's gaze didn't waver.
"Compared to politics," he said levelly, "marriage is a trivial thing."
But Yoshiko didn't hear him. She was still turning the matter over in her mind. She wasn't aware that the collar of her robe had slipped back, revealing a slender band of snow-white neck covered with almost invisible down. Where the yukata's lapels overlapped, it barely covered the hollow at her collarbone. The hollow of her neck was like a shallow vessel, waiting to be filled. Her graceful and delicate body had only just begun to blossom. She was still rather slight, but the charms of her body could easily be imagined.
Watching this tender and inexperienced young girl, Kawashima suddenly felt a shock run through his body. His heart seemed to stop. He was already fifty-nine years old. Yoshiko was only seventeen. He had raised her as a daughter and done his best to foster in her his own staunch political convictions. While he
felt that he had made her what she was, he realized that she did not necessarily enjoy being controlled like a puppet. Before long, this young phoenix might spread her brilliant, fiery wings and fly far away from him.
She still hesitated. She didn't want to rush into anything. Perhaps there was something she could give to her sweetheart as a keepsake. . . .
Kawashima eyed her like a hungry wolf. He could have eaten her whole then and there. In one bite!
"A woman's virginity," Kawashima said hoarsely, "is also a trivial thing."
At first, Yoshiko didn't understand what he was saying. It was unthinkable. Unimaginable!
Slowly, it dawned on her. Her own foster father! The man who had been her guardian, who had overseen every aspect of her education and upbringing. He had been above suspicion. But now, in an instant, he had stepped over the line. How could he be so coarse? She had never once imagined that she would have to protect herself from him!
Kawashima roughly tore open the bottom half of her robe. As she struggled to break away, he saw for a moment the most secret and hidden part of her. She spun around and tried to run away, but he was right behind her. He grabbed the skirt of her robe and lifted it up over her waist, twisting it into a knot.
There were pale lilac flowers on her underpants.
Her half-exposed body was soft and mysterious.
Yoshiko felt a mixture of shock and embarrassment, and her face betrayed her confusion.
"Don't—" she started to say. But there was no escape.
He held her wrists tightly, and within moments he had taken possession of her.
Her face tensed in a grimace, but this only made him press her down harder. The whole room seemed to be on fire. Bright flames danced around them, and she smelled the clean and pungent scent of burning citrus peels. But there was another odor as well—the intermingled scent of fish and cut grass. It was the scent of her virginity being stolen on the tatami floor. A trickle of blood stained the pale matting.
Kawashima's breathing came harshly and heavily. He thrust into her over and over, all the while continuing to lecture her solemnly on their sacred task. Righteousness was on his side!
"You are of noble blood ... I am a man of action—" he gasped. "Nobility alone ... is not enough to conquer the world . . . but a man of courage will also fail ... on his own. ... If our two bloodlines were united . . . then eugenics confirms ... that our descendants .. . would be, without a doubt... heroes . . . among men. . .
Yoshiko was overcome by a wave of nausea.
It was early the next morning. A lilac-colored light was beginning to pale in the east. It was the same color as the panties that had been so violently torn from Yoshiko the night before. The chill of night still lingered in the air, but a new day had dawned at last.
When hope has been utterly destroyed, sometimes it is impossible to feel even sadness. Yoshiko's eyes flashed with a strange determination as she faced her mirror. She purposefully combed her hair up into a high topknot, securing it with hairpins decorated like the flowers of spring—plum blossom, cherry blossom, wisteria. She put on her favorite silk kimono. It had a design of mountains and sun on a pale pink background. She tied a peony-embroidered obi sash around her waist.
Yoshiko dressed herself carefully and elegantly. She had but one errand that morning, and that was to pay a solitary visit to a little, out-of-the-way hairdresser's far from the center of town.
When the pretty stranger arrived at the small shop, the hairdresser solicitously came out to welcome her. Handing him a camera, she instructed him to take a picture of her. There was a lush bed of chrysanthemums in front of the shop. They were in full bloom, and they made a flattering background. She gazed solemnly into the lens with an expression that was at once ceremonious and firm. There was not even the hint of a smile on her lips. She waited.
"Miss! How about a little smile?" the hairdresser coaxed.
She pretended not to hear, and the bulb flashed as he pressed the shutter button.
Inside the shop, Yoshiko faced the big mirror and loosened her topknot. Her long dark hair came tumbling down.
The hairdresser began to cut, one lock at a time. He snipped and snipped until wisps of her fallen hair covered the white cloth draped across her shoulders, until her black hair lay in thick clumps on the floor around her seat. What had once seemed to have a life of its own was now nothing more than litter, and it had all happened in the blink of an eye. This nameless hairdresser kept cutting, slowly and deliberately.
"Such a shame!" he sighed.
Yoshiko's face was like marble, cold and still.
"I would be grateful," she said with cold formality, "if you were to cut it all off. I am through with 'femininity.' "
"But, miss," he said, his face filled with regret and pity, "from now on you're going to have to wear a hairpiece."
She paid him no more heed and instead turned her attention to the woman in the mirror. She watched her hair grow shorter, and shorter, and shorter still. The hairdresser finished his task by parting her hair like a man's. The transformation was now complete. The girl she had been yesterday was dead. She had become someone else.
She got up and left, leaving the puzzled hairdresser alone. Did she really mean to adopt men's clothing, too? he wondered. What a strange girl! Whatever for? And what did she mean by that remark—"through with 'femininity'?"
6
Yamaga was full of his accustomed youthful enthusiasm and ardor as he approached their rendezvous that afternoon. But as soon as he saw her, he stopped dead in his tracks. He stared at her incredulously, without blinking. Was this Yoshiko? He was stupefied.
She wasn't wearing her usual colorful clothing this autumn evening. Instead, she was wearing a man's straight-sleeved kimono, made of blue-and-white cotton printed in a geometric design. On her feet, she wore a plain and heavy pair of wooden clogs. Her hair was incredibly short, and parted like a man's.
She had changed their meeting spot to this bamboo grove. It was her intention to break with him, cleanly and firmly. She calmly handed him a picture to remember her by. It was the one she had posed for that morning before her haircut.
Uncomprehendingly, Yamaga accepted the photo.
"But, your hair . . ." he faltered.
"The man's hand slipped, and he cut off too much."
He couldn't possibly believe that.
"What has happened?" he asked.
"There's nothing to say."
"Yoshiko," he implored, seizing her hands. "Please, tell me the truth! Tell me what's wrong!"
"I asked you to meet me here for one reason only. We can't see each other anymore!"
"Not see each other?"
He was stunned. Two days ago, everything had been just fine. And everything had been fine yesterday, as well. But she had changed overnight—into a man! And now she wanted to break with him?
"Yoshiko, no matter how much you change, my feelings for you will never change. I will always be devoted to you." He went on: "But you gave me no warning at all. Not even a hint. Even in war, one has more information than this! At least you have spies—"
"Precisely," she said flatly. "There is a war, and I am fighting in it. There is nothing I wouldn't do to further its cause, to attain the goal of an independent Manchuria."
"But you're only a woman," he said pityingly.
"Women can accomplish great things, too!" Her words were defiant, but face was expressionless. "This is what I want to do. Nobody can stop me!"
Yamaga felt his temper rising.
"All that any normal woman in the world has ever wanted is a peaceful and happy family life. What makes you think you're so different? What kinds of adventures do you think you're going to have?"
A hundred conflicting emotions crowded her mind. Was she doing the right thing? Was she fooling herself? Could she really bear to break up with Yamaga? Did she really want to? Was her uncertainty a sign of weakness?
At last she collected herself. There was no turning back. She
would simply have to get it over with.
"This is how I am," she said evenly. "It is my fate. There's nothing that can be done about it. Now, go!"
"I will wait for you, no matter how long it takes. I will make you mine."
She laughed coldly.
"I have no parents, no loved ones. I am alone; and I have no intention of ever belonging to anybody! Even if I must die, it shall be by my own hand!"
Was she so unbending? he wondered. Was there no room for compromise at all? His passion turned to fury and rose up suddenly to engulf him. His face went red with anger, and the sinews of his neck bulged tautly. Without even thinking, he drew his pistol.
