by Lilian Lee
"Mm—so they do." He drowsily closed one eye, mocking her faintly. So that was all she was after! He skillfully dissembled, for he had been practicing the art of deception for so long that there was no trace of treachery on his face.
"As you well know," he said, gazing blandly at his kitten, "revenues from that property were earmarked for the financing of the movement. I'm afraid they've already been spent for the most part. And in any case, if you want to get money from someone, don't you think a slightly better attitude on your part would be appropriate?"
Yoshiko clenched her fists tightly, and the veins on her temples bulged with anger. Her eyes were ablaze, and she struggled to remain calm.
"It's simply a matter of wisdom, of maturity," he said, smoothly shifting his gaze toward her.
But she swept out of the room before he finished speaking, and she never looked back.
Kawashima was a dead end. It was obvious that she wasn't going to get anything out of him. But there was still another man who just might be able to help her.
That evening, Yoshiko paid a visit to the Peony Inn. She was not the type of guest this wine-and-geisha house usually entertained. She came to find someone.
A maid led Yoshiko to one of the guest rooms, pausing briefly outside the sliding shoji door before knocking lightly. The sound of voices came from within, but no one responded to the knock. Before the girl could turn to consult with her, Yoshiko roughly slid open the door, tearing its delicate rice-paper covering.
What she saw disgusted her. It was a scene of complete depravity. The first thing she noticed was Yamaga's drunken body sprawled across the floor. His handsome, classic features seemed fuzzy and distorted, and in the gentle lamplight she barely recognized him.
His head lay pillowed on the thigh of a geisha, whose flimsy kimono was tangled around her limbs and body and was coming apart at the seams. Geisha style, her entire face and neck were covered in white greasepaint, all the way down to where the collar of her kimono should have been. But her robe had slipped, exposing a patch of the naked skin of her back. There was a mottled triangle of greasepaint at the nape of her neck, where she had half sweated it off.
She was feeding him rice wine, mouth to mouth, like a mother bird feeding her chick. The wine was scalding hot, and so she took one sip at a time, cooling the liquid in her own mouth before passing it slowly and sensuously from her lips to his. He had slipped a hand inside her kimono and was fondling her breasts as he drank. They giggled foolishly, and Yoshiko was filled with revulsion.
A flicker of motion caught Yoshiko's eye. She looked toward the other side of the room and saw a pair of half-naked geisha girls dancing seductively and making arcs in the air with gold-painted fans.
The room reeked of lust and debauchery, a wild, animal scent.
Yamaga languidly turned his eyes in the direction of the intruder and realized with a start that it was Yoshiko! Yet in his stupor he was not sure that she wasn't a figment of his drunken imagination. Propping himself up on one elbow, he called out to her.
"Yoshiko?"
Angry and disgusted, she turned away and stormed out. After their breakup, Yoshiko had heard that Yamaga sank deeply into a life of drink and women, spending his nights and days in geisha houses. He had fallen heavily into debt, even embezzling public money to pay for his vices, or so it was said. Still, rumors were only rumors, after all, and Yoshiko clung to that one last shred of hope: that the gossip was not true. But when she saw him with her own eyes, saw how far he had fallen, her hopes were shattered in an instant.
She left Yamaga's room in a hurry, but troubling thoughts slowed her steps as she made her way out of the inn. She felt the weight of her disillusionment. Yamaga, once so strong, was now too drunk even to stand up. He had become weak, too weak to pursue her and find out if she was real or only a phantom.
Yoshiko lingered in front of the wineshop for a while, biting her lip in thought, until at last she reached a decision. She would leave this place, for good.
Neither of the men she had gone to for help were of any use to her. One had no power, and the other had no money. The Chinese had a saying: "Great men don't fall out of power overnight, and ordinary men don't go broke overnight." It was the lesson of thousands of years of failures, and it could not have been more true.
She took a hard look at her present situation and sifted through it. In the end, all that she had left was herself. There was no one else, nothing else, she could depend on.
She wasn't about to let herself fall apart now! Never! She had an idea: There was another way out.
One afternoon, not long after her disappointing encounter with Yamaga, Yoshiko sat in a tea shop, opposite a Japanese gentleman. She had sought him out, and now here she was. She had put on a yellow cheongsam and combed her short hair carefully for the occasion. She looked quite refined and well bred as she daintily lifted her teacup and took a sip of tea.
The man sitting across from her was a famous Japanese novelist named Shofu Muramatsu.
Yoshiko did not bother to get an appointment, but went to see him directly instead, catching up with him in the tea shop she knew he frequented. Once she was settled in her seat across from him, she skipped over the small talk and spoke straight to the point.
"I have a business proposition for you," she stated levelly. "I would like to sell you a story, a very interesting and exciting story, which you may use as a plot for one of your novels. All I ask in return is the cost of a boat ticket."
Muramatsu was taken aback by her boldness; but he was rather intrigued as well.
"The protagonist of this tale," she continued, "is the fourteenth princess of the house of the Manchu prince Su, a member of the Ching royal family, which, until recently, ruled all of China. Her name is Yoshiko Kawashima."
"I see," he said, nodding in recognition, for her name had been known to him for some time.
She went on to outline the main points of the tale.
"She's a very romantic figure, a legend in her own time. Her first love is a dashing young officer from Matsumoto, but the affair ends tragically. Soon after, she marries a Mongolian prince, but the marriage doesn't last long. Wouldn't you be willing to pay good money for the details of a story like this? Wouldn't it be worth a fair amount to you—say, about two thousand yen?"
Muramatsu's response was scarcely audible, as though he were talking the matter over with himself.
"Yes," he said in a contemplative tone, "It's promising . . . 'Venus in a Suit' . . . Not a bad subject at all . . . Still—"
"What's the catch?" she asked.
"Well, quite frankly," the novelist replied, "I'm a little bit concerned about accuracy. You're offering to tell me the intimate details of someone else's life. How can I be sure—"
"You don't have to worry about that!" Yoshiko cut in. "The story in question is the story of my life."
"You're Yoshiko?" he exclaimed. "Your reputation precedes you, young lady. Why, you're the talk of the town!"
She was in no mood for polite flattery.
"All I need is two thousand yen," she told him bluntly. She could not have made it any clearer. She knew what she wanted and did not like to waste time.
In this way, Yoshiko managed to make a fresh start. Venus in a Suit created quite a sensation. First it was serialized in a magazine, and later it was published as a book, which quickly became a best-seller. Novelists are, as a rule, experts at the art of embellishment, and Muramatsu was certainly no exception. He skillfully fleshed out Yoshiko's brief and romantic life with numerous colorful descriptions, so that her exploits became even more lurid and fascinating.
The novel was a huge success, but Yoshiko was not there to bask in the limelight, for she had already left Japan. She had her stake, and she wagered it on the passage to China.
After Yoshiko left Japan, Yamaga received a packet, special delivery. When he opened the envelope, a stack of bills came tumbling out—one thousand yen in all. Enclosed in the packet there was also a lett
er:
Mr. Yamaga:
By the time you receive this letter, I will already be in China. I am going to Shanghai to make a fresh start and seek my fortune. It's time I got serious about something, and I plan to devote myself wholeheartedly to advancing the Manchu cause.
I am giving you half of all the money I have. Consider my debt to you repaid. I hope that you will pull yourself together. Remember that you are a man—and any man worth the name has no business wasting his time with geishas while destiny passes him by. We must all strive to fulfill our destinies; in the end only heaven can decide who will succeed and who will fail!"
Yoshiko had left Japan without saying good-bye to Naniwa Kawashima. She had no intention of ever seeing him again. Still, she had other ways of letting him know where she stood.
Kawashima awakened one morning to find his little kitten lying stiff and cold on the front porch. She was such a pretty little thing. Her entire body was pure white, except for an inky smudge on her forehead. So soft, so gentle, so innocent—she was like a woman. Kawashima had always preferred female animals— they made the best pets.
The kitten had been strangled with a piece of rope. It had taken only a gentle tug to break her delicate neck.
9
The beautiful city of Shanghai was coming into Yoshiko's view, and a faintly mischievous smile played about her lips as the ship entered the harbor. It would be a long time before Kawashima recovered from the shock she gave him, and she didn't even have to draw blood. All her anger toward him had been released in one bloodless act of vengeance.
The boat approached the dock. Morning mists still hovered over the Whampoa River like a pall of smoke. The Whampoa River! The Bund! These names conjured up visions of legendary Shanghai, the playground of adventurers and tycoons.
Fleets of barges plied the waters of the Whampoa, busily shuttling back and forth as they engaged in the very serious game of making money. The winners of this game were those who bought low, sold high, and knew how to use the other players.
The steamer sounded its loud horn, and Yoshiko turned her face into the morning breeze, inhaling deeply. She was her own mistress, and the time had come for her to make her first move. Just then she spotted the Shanghai clock tower. It was a lucky omen, she thought to herself.
The docks were abustle in the gray light of early morning, as people swarmed on and off of the many freighters and steamers moored there. The port of Shanghai was a hub of international activity, and people from all over the world passed through: Chinese, Japanese, Americans, British, Russians, and French. The city drew people from all walks of life as well, everyone from merchants and financiers to drug smugglers, missionaries, and students. Shanghai was open to anyone who was willing to try his luck, for there were plenty of spoils to go around. It was 1931, and while Shanghai seemed to thrive, China was on the brink of disaster.
There were missionaries on the quay handing out leaflets with pictures of a Caucasian Jesus nailed to his cross. The bold-printed caption read love god!
Passersby took these leaflets, barely giving them a glance before one of the students standing close by thrust another leaflet into their hands. Unlike the missionaries' leaflets, those of the students had no pictures and were simple mimeographed sheets crowded with cramped handwritten characters. But even if the package was messy and jumbled, the message was clear enough: love china!
Of course, many people only loved money. After all, God always seemed to punish the common people; and nations often abandoned their own people. But money was different: Money, and money alone, was incapable of ingratitude. If you had money, you could hail a pedicab to cart you around, or hire a coolie to haul your heavy bags. In short, money produced results.
Yoshiko was from the North, and this southern port city was, in many ways, like a foreign country full of strange sights and sounds. But she was well accustomed to traveling alone, and she did not feel disconcerted in the least. The only thing she had to worry about was finding lodgings for the night. Despite several days and nights on board ship, she felt full of energy, and easily lifted her small suitcase, scanning the scene around her.
A pair of pedicabs came rolling up, manned by two young men who had been waiting nearby to meet the arriving steamer. The men began to load huge trunks, each emblazoned with a big, bright character, the name "Tuan." Yoshiko watched the pair with curiosity, and one of them flashed her a smile.
The trunks belonged to a Peking opera company, and they were packed with costumes and props. "Tuan" must have been one of the star performers, and this pair of strong young men were probably apprentice actors. It was the younger of the two who caught Yoshiko's eye. She could tell he was the younger because of the way the other man was ordering him around.
The junior actor moved agilely, with the perfect grace and economy of motion of someone who had spent years practicing the acrobatics of Chinese opera. It was a joy to watch him perform even a menial task, and what a cute face! One look at his boyishly mischievous smile, and Yoshiko just had to like him. Who could ever be angry with someone who smiled like that?
The senior apprentice was speaking to him, telling him to get back to work. He nodded his assent and hoisted another trunk.
Yoshiko kept watching him. He was handsome and funny, both at the same time. He was such a ham that he did not mind putting on a show for an audience of only one; when he saw that Yoshiko was still watching, he took to clowning around in earnest. Hefting a trunk onto his shoulders, he affected the exaggeratedly rolling, high-stomping walk of a Peking opera general. He struck a martial pose, then strutted over to the cart, an actor playing to his devoted fans.
"Hey! Watch out!" the senior apprentice yelled. "Those trunks are full of valuable props! Be careful!"
"Yes-s-sir!" the young fellow replied, still hamming it up.
How full of vitality he was, Yoshiko thought to herself. Such thick, masculine eyebrows and such a twinkle in his eyes! She hadn't seen a man like this in ages, one so pure and full of energy. He was like a young eagle emerging from his nest and stretching his wings before he learned to fly. He still had that air of vulnerability and could not have been much over twenty.
But Yoshiko was shaken out of her reverie by a tramp who appeared out of nowhere and accosted her. Planting himself directly in front of her, he glared menacingly. Before Yoshiko had time to react, he roughly tore her purse from her hands and sped away, leaving her too startled to scream.
The thief ran like the wind—smack, right into the young actor, who went flying. The trunk he was carrying came crashing down and burst open, scattering costumes everywhere. Not one to stand by while a poor, defenseless woman was taken advantage of by a vile rogue, the actor picked himself up and sprang onto his pedicab in hot pursuit of the villain.
Since a pedicab is far quicker than a man on foot, the hero caught up with the thief in no time, and a terrible fight ensued. A couple of rickshaws were knocked over in the struggle, as the thief tried in vain to escape, but he was no match for the strapping young man. After a few rounds, the actor wrested the purse from the thief.
When the young fellow came back to return Yoshiko's stolen property, he was rather concerned that this delicate and refined young lady might have taken a fright.
"There's nothing to be afraid of now, miss. It's all over," he said soothingly. "Please, take a look and make sure that everything is there."
Yoshiko opened the purse and pulled out a thick bundle of Japanese yen. It was all that she owned.
"Oh! You're Japanese?" His heart sank. He tried the only Japanese word he knew.
"Sayonara! Sayonara!"
"Thank you," Yoshiko said in Chinese, and smiled at him as she snapped shut her purse.
He was overjoyed to hear her speaking Chinese, and he fairly beamed with delight.
"Phew! What a relief. So you're Chinese after all!" he sighed.
He scratched his head, racking his brains for ways to keep the conversation going. What could he talk about?
"Um, miss," he ventured, "what brings you to Shanghai? Trying to make it in the big city? . . . Hey, me, too! Why, I—"
"Ah-fu!" the senior apprentice yelled out to him. The elder fellow thought his charge was getting more than a bit too carried away with with his role of "knight in shining armor." The lady had her belongings back, and that should have been the end of it. But there he stood, dithering around and taking his own sweet time in getting back to work.
"Ah-fu! You caught the thief, so why don't you get back to business! I think the fair maiden has conquered the knight this time!"
The young actor was visibly embarrassed. But it wasn't the teasing about knights and maidens that bothered him—no, it was that ridiculous nickname, Ah-fu. It made him cringe.
"I suppose you heard what he called me," he said awkwardly.
