A Darkly Beating Heart
Page 15
“Tomorrow’s going to be awesome,” Mariko says, in her fakest, cheeriest tone.
Aki leans over near me and starts digging through her suitcase in search of her pajamas. I shut my eyes again.
Then I hear it. The crinkle, crinkle of the wrapper as Mariko tears open the seaweed sheath and then wraps it around the triangle of rice. My skin is on fire. Yes. Yes.
Crunch.
The sound of Mariko’s chewing fills the tiny, silent room.
I feel like I’ve just run a marathon—exhausted and pumped and flush with achievement. But I also want more. This is just the first, tantalizing hit of my revenge. There’s so much more to come. Tomorrow will be perfection. Everything is falling into place.
Then I can see about taking Miyu’s place permanently.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I dream of a sharp blade poking into my back. A threat lingering over me like a shadow. But I am anger and crisp edges, I am lashing out, I am a rabid animal who’s been backed into a corner too many times. No one can stop me now. I will tear them all apart in their fall.
I wake up gasping for breath. I’m certain I’m drowning—that someone’s holding me down. I swear I can feel water burning in my lungs as I try to suck down air. But it’s just our room. There’s no one around.
Akiko and Mariko are already gone. Their pallets look slept in, and the aroma of perfume and deodorant hangs in the air. Hopefully they’re at breakfast, then, or have set off for the festival without me. I have lots to do to prepare for the festival, but first, I need to get back to Miyu. Tell Jiro I’ve made my decision to run away with him.
The stone is still wedged down underneath my sheets. With a sigh of relief, I wrap my fingers around it and sink into its heat.
* * *
I am standing at the front windows of the honjin, a cleaning rag in my hand—I must have stumbled upon Miyu in the midst of her daily wipe-down of the walls. Colored paper streamers adorn the shops across the street, and the people flowing from the shrine nearby wear their finest robes—luxurious silk with brilliant pops of turquoise, pink, and navy for the women and blues and grays for the men. Behind me, I heard Goemon’s barking tone pontificating about something or another; I don’t bother to strain to hear the words. Probably something about the festival.
I recall Father’s command—my duty is to cause a distraction during the festivities. I shrugged it off before as Miyu’s job, and not mine. But now this is my price of admission for entering Miyu’s world. If I’m to take her place, then I must do so fully, and that means keeping her promises.
Hooves thunder on the cobblestones; the crowd parts and cheers as a procession of horses plow down the street. Some part of me recognizes the crest fluttering on the banners: the daimyo’s house.
Our feudal lord has returned from Kyoto to take part in the festival.
My chest feels tighter and tighter as I wipe down the wood; I am trying to maneuver all the puzzle pieces into place. Father is loyal to the daimyo, who is loyal to the emperor. Miyu understands that much. But I also know what the historian at the honjin said—that those who backed the emperor over the shogunate did so at great risk. Goemon and Jiro serve the shogunate, so Father is at odds with them, and we are keeping Father’s plans to attack someone from them.
But who does Father mean to attack? What’s happening at the festival?
Jiro cares nothing for these stupid politics—it’s why he wants to flee. I’m not going to trust him with Father’s plans—I recognize my own ignorance enough not to do that—but surely he won’t stop them. Like me, he’s been an impartial participant. The role I play is strictly for Miyu’s benefit, which is soon to be mine.
The processional halts, and two men climb from the litters—one my father’s age, another a few years older than me, clutching his belly as they strut bow-legged up the honjin’s path. The younger one’s upper lip curls back in disgust as he studies the honjin’s exterior, and he turns to the older man: “How long must we stay here again?”
“Not long at all.” The older man grins. “Soon we’ll be riding triumphantly back to Kyoto.”
Father and Yodo rush out of the kitchen to greet the daimyo; I start a new row of polishing, but Father hisses at me and beckons me to his side. “Miyu!” Father cries. I rush toward him, and we all line up and kneel in a row as the daimyo struts inside, apprising us. With a nod, he bids us to rise.
“You recall the daimyo, the most esteemed and wise Lord Yoshida-dono,” Father says. His anxious face and glowering eyes urge me to drop into another kneel, so I do. “And his second eldest son. Tsurube-sama.”
Tsurube. At the name, a wave of cold creeps over Miyu’s body. From what little I’ve heard while occupying Miyu, I have a pretty good idea who Tsurube is meant to be.
My betrothed.
Tsurube—the pot-bellied man, his eyes like hateful little beads, looks me over with a gaze like a rake. “Huh. From the stories of her infamy, I was expecting more.” He chuckles to himself, then turns to his father, Lord Yoshida. “You said I needn’t give up my girls back in Kyoto, right?”
Father clears his throat as my mouth flaps open. Hatred boiled up inside me—I lust to see his hideous face bashed in—but Father speaks before I can. “It is my daughter’s deepest honor to bear you your heirs, Lord Tsurube-san,” Father says. “As it is your prerogative as lord to remain virile and strong however you choose.”
Translation: husbands can screw around with whomever they want, while wives are honor-bound to be faithful. Yeah, I am getting the hang of old Japanese real quick.
Tsurube nods with another phlegmy laugh. “Then yes, I think she will do.”
Both Father and Yoshida are nearly limp with relief. “Wonderful,” Yoshida says. “Come, then. Let us discuss the specifics of the … festival.”
The look that passes between them leaves no doubt in my mind which specifics they mean.
As soon as their backs are turned, I storm for my room. No. No. I can’t marry that slug. As soon as my promise to Father is completed, I can run away with Jiro.
“Hey. Hey, are you all right?” Jiro catches me by the shoulders as I turn toward my room. “Miyu.” His voice drops. “What’s the matter?”
I clench my teeth. “Nothing. It won’t matter any longer.”
His eyes search mine; his face is tense, stony, nothing like the soft lips I’d lost myself in the night before. “Miyu … who was that arrogant monster?” he asks.
I have to look away. “My husband to be.”
Jiro flinches; his whole body clenches up. “And you’re going to—”
“No. Absolutely not.” I take a deep breath. “I’ve made up my mind. I’m coming with you.”
Jiro grips my face and kisses me. I could melt into that kiss forever and stay lost in it. He must feel the same way; his lips linger, and he slowly pries himself back. “All right. I think I have a plan.”
* * *
“Reiko! Reiko, wake up! Come on, you’re going to miss it!”
I blink against the harsh overhead lights, the glaring sun. Where’s the stone? All these faces are crowded around me, blurring together; a forest of legs surrounds me. I shove blindly at them. Shit. I’m not ready—I need to go back to Jiro. We have to finish making our plans. I toss back the duvet coverlet, but I can’t find the stone in the bedding.
Oh, God. Panic pins me in place. I have to get back to Miyu. I have to fulfill her promise to her father and then run away with Jiro—
I didn’t get to hear Jiro’s plan—
Aki’s voice stabs through my frantic thoughts. “Welcome, everyone, to aki * LIFE * rhythm! Today’s the big day—the cultural festival in the village of Kuramagi. And to show you how easy it is to integrate the aki * LIFE * rhythm system into your own style, I’m going to be giving a surprise makeover to the Team Aki photographer, Reiko Azumi!”
I can’t move. Slowly, horribly, the glare of lights in my face recede enough for the scene before me to come into focus: Kazuo and
Tadashi hunch over my pallet, each with camcorders in their hands. And Akiko crouches beside me, fully made up, perfectly dressed, wearing her camera-ready smile.
Akiko’s surprise for me. Her horrible, awful surprise.
“Reiko’s style is sad. Frumpy. Lonely!” As Aki talks, I can already hear the blipping sound effects Kazuo’s going to add to the footage in post-production. “She’s lost her love for life. She’s lost her rhythm. But no matter!” Aki bounces onto her feet. “Team Aki is here to help!”
“No. No, no, no. Please leave me alone—” But my tongue rolls useless in my mouth. My arms and legs are numb; my head is fuzzy, so fuzzy, I can hardly think. This is worse than my deepest benzo-induced haze. Like I’m having an out-of-body experience—like I’m already watching this whole horrible tableau play out on YouTube, unable to intervene.
I can’t think; I can’t move. Too many thoughts are cramming into my head. I can’t get them out of me, can’t escape their constant buzz. They build and build and build, solidifying, until finally they are a single message:
We will have our revenge together. We are one.
One. Relief washes over me, cooling down my anger. Yes. Miyu has been with me all along. She knows my pain and I know hers. Together, we can end it.
I can endure this. Our revenge is coming soon. I can face one last humiliation.
Then Akiko is through.
They scrub my skin with exfoliants. Rip the blackheads from my pores. Slather some sort of Korean slug oil all over my face. Pluck and wax and tone. Mariko first straightens my hair, then curls it, then piles it atop my head while Akiko demonstrates proper eyeliner technique, and she explains, “For all those poor souls like Reiko who weren’t born with the double eyelid fold.” Yeah, right, I think. Like a surgeon didn’t create Aki’s.
“And if you have a sickly body type, like Reiko, remember—softer definition is your friend! We want you to look huggable, not prickly. Soft without looking overweight.”
They swaddle me up in historically inaccurate underclothes for a kimono—Miyu would be mortified—and stick the accoutrements in my hair. Blood red stain across my lips. Finally, the silk kimono, feeling cheap and flimsy compared to what Miyu usually wears. “And there you have it—the Aki LIFE style! Traditional and modern—perfect for YOUR life and YOUR rhythm.”
My life. My rhythm. The drumbeats goad me on, darker and darker, and my smile spreads.
Akiko leads us from the ryokan toward the trail we took on our first day here, the one that leads to the lovers’ shrine. Time for a photo shoot, now that we’re all made up and wearing traditional gear. “Today is a celebration of tradition, but also with a dash of modernity. With aki * LIFE * rhythm, we embrace our past while dancing forward into a beautiful future. And I’m going to show you how!”
The mythical shrine at last—looks like they sent Kenji ahead to find the right path for us this time. Two battered fingers of greenish stone stand side by side, nearly six feet tall, yoked together by an ancient, fraying rope. Paper cranes clutter the base of the monoliths. Apparently it’s not a formal Shinto shrine, but something more organic, taking on a life of its own. The cranes, scrawled with prayers and wishes, tell a tale of desperation, of hundreds and hundreds of pilgrims casting their lot with whomever the two stupid lovers were who felt like some ugly rocks in the ground were the best way to commemorate their love.
“And now, my dear aki * LIFE * rhythm fans, it’s time to hear the sad tale of the lovers. One to rival dear Ohatsu and Tokubei in the Love Suicides at Sonezaki. Once upon a time, during the shogun’s rule, this shrine was built in memory of two lovers in the village.” Aki strikes a kawaii pose in front of the stone. Snap, snap goes Kenji’s camera flash. “They were so very much in love, but sadly, they could not be together in this world! Their social standing would not allow it. C’mon, Reiko, pose,” she adds, hissing the last under her breath. “So they made a lovers’ suicide pact—a shinju. Their deaths in this world would reunite them in the world beyond and free them from the order that kept them apart. Now, I don’t know if that’s true or not, but it has certainly immortalized their love here, for us in this life! So romantic, right?”
Snap, snap.
Two lovers who couldn’t be together in this life.
Flashes blotting out my sight.
They were so very much in love.
I am like a cockroach, splitting open, my guts pouring out. I am a sliced-open stomach, dangling with entrails. Once upon a time, during the shogun’s rule. The memories overwhelm me, vivid and hot as blood. Are they Miyu’s memories? I don’t remember falling, but I remember how it feels—it feels like someone stoking the fading embers of my heart.
I know. I don’t know how, but I know. It has to be.
The lovers who failed in their quest to escape the status quo must be Miyu and Jiro.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I catch myself on the mossy green altar stones. Their cold seeps like acid against my skin. I push away from them, and shove through the wall of Tadashi, Kazuo, and Mariko and their stupid clicking cameras. I have to warn Jiro. Our plan won’t work. If I want to claim Miyu’s life for my own, if I’m going to make it out of Kuramagi with Jiro, then we can’t follow the same path that led them to this—this double suicide, to avoid whatever horrible life kept them apart—
“Reiko? Hey! Hey, where the hell are you going?” Aki shouts. She’s in full-on viper mode, spitting venom as she clatters after me in her wooden geta. “Don’t you dare walk away from me! How dare you ruin my photo shoot!”
“I don’t have time to explain.” My voice feels like it doesn’t come from me. It’s guttural and rancid with rage. Am I speaking Japanese? I don’t care anymore. Nothing matters but getting back to the stone. I have to warn Jiro that our plan won’t work—that we need a new one. Whatever he and Miyu tried in the past—we can’t let it come to that.
“What the hell?!”
Aki catches me by the baggy sleeve of my kimono and tries to yank me back into her. I swing around. Her eyes are narrowed daggers and her nails are vicious claws as she wraps both hands around my arm.
“This is my big day,” Aki says, in a voice as thin as garrote wire. “Your crazy ass is not going to ruin this for me. I need you at the festival. Doing your job.”
She tugs me forward, but she’s expecting me to resist. Instead, I let her pull, then swing around her, toppling her over. She lets go to catch herself, but she’s too late and crumples against the stones. Her shriek cuts off abruptly.
“I deserve this,” I say, clearly now. I sound fierce. I feel unstoppable. Darkness creeps around my vision; the buzzing builds and builds. I am vengeance. I am the earthquake, consuming everything in my path, unleashing rivers of molten blood.
Akiko raises her head. A nasty gash crosses her forehead from her fall, already bubbling with red. “I’ll kill you,” she whispers. “You’ll pay for this.”
But I no longer have time for her. She is beneath my notice. She’ll pay in due time.
For now, I have to warn Jiro.
A dull drumbeat carries me along the path, racing, racing, tumbling up steps, shoving my way through the thick crowds of tourists, though many of them dart out of my way as soon as they see me barreling along. We can do this, I hear, inside my head, and I smile. We can have our revenge and keep Jiro safe. We can set things right.
Yes. That’s what I’m doing. I’m going to prevent a tragedy. I’ll help Miyu—help me—find a way to be with Jiro. They needn’t kill themselves. We deserve to succeed.
I fly up the ryokan staircase and rush into the room. Where’s the stone? Where’d it go? I rip the sheets off of my pallet. Oh, God. Someone’s already made up the room. What if they took it away? But no, there it is, lurking under the foot of the pallet. It’s safe. Relief lurches through me, so powerful I could almost vomit. I tumble into bed as I clench the stone tight. Yes. We can succeed. It’s the last thing I hear before the past envelops me.
* * *
“I’d forgotten what an embarrassment this little village is,” Tsurube says, then clucks his tongue. “Kyoto is far better, as you’ll learn. The beautiful riverwalk, the shrines, the geisha houses in the Gion District—not that you’ll be enjoying those.” He permits himself a self-satisfied grin. “You’ll mostly be confined to the palace complex, of course, but I’m sure you’ll enjoy yourself with the other wives. They’re quite industrious with their needlework.”
I smile so sharply at him I half hope he’ll cut himself on it.
“I do hope you’re still fertile,” he adds, fingers spidering in the air. Protective. “Your father did make certain … assurances.” Tsurube turns toward me, staring at me with those beady bird eyes. “How much of the poison did you actually drink?”
Poison? I blink, fighting down the sudden urge to strike him, though I’m not sure what he means. Must wait, must wait, he’ll get what he deserves soon, my thoughts murmur. I ease my shoulders back. “Not enough, it would seem,” I say.
He laughs, honking like a goose, drawing the stares of other villagers, but they look away as soon as he cuts his eyes toward them. “Oh, good, the sake house is still here. As good a place as any to pass the time until the festivities begin.”
I spot Jiro on the other side of the square, browsing a merchant’s stall that sells a collection of charms and offerings to the kami. I have to tell him—warn him now of the danger that awaits us. Something that will foil our plans, though I don’t know what—something that made a love suicide our only way out. I look back at Tsurube, lowering my eyes like an obedient wife to be. “Oh, but my lord, I wish to purchase a charm. To wish us many children, you see.”