The Geisha with the Green Eyes

by India Millar

  He didn’t bother waiting for my answer, but walked me across to the mirror. He stood behind me again, and held up another, smaller mirror behind me so that I could see both my front and back at the same time. At first I was puzzled. The mirror he was holding showed me the small of my back, which appeared as normal. I shrugged my shoulders, relieved that it no longer hurt, and he grunted, adjusting the mirror he was holding carefully.

  When I saw my neck, I screamed out loud.

  You must understand that to a Japanese man the nape of a woman’s neck is the most erotic part of her body, more so even than her breasts or her black moss. My neck was long and slender, very white and very beautiful, and had always been complimented by my patrons.

  Now, the nape of my neck was no longer white. From my hairline to between my shoulders, a dragon rioted in reds and yellows and oranges. Its nostrils flared fire, its talons curled ready to rip and plunder. To my eyes, the tattoo was hideous and I burst into tears.

  Akira capered around me, crowing like a cockerel at dawn. “So, there is something that can make you cry!” He laughed. “But why the tears? I have made you a living work of art, my Kazuha-chan. Now, every time I look at you I will be further enthralled by your beauty. And it is mine, and mine alone. When you are outside this house, you will cover my dragon. No other man’s eyes will ever see it.”

  I was thankful for that. I put my hand to my neck and was surprised when my flesh was cool. The colors of the tattoo were so vivid, I had expected it to be hot.

  “You should be honored, Kazuha-chan. The dragon is the mark of my clan. You are the first woman ever to be given it. It is a great mark of respect.”

  I stared at him and realized in amazement that he meant it.

  He approached me slowly and leaned over, tracing the outline of the tattoo with his lips. “You are truly mine now. Does that please you?”

  “No. You’ve made me hideous. No other man would look at me twice now.”

  It was a brave reply, but stupid. It was a miracle that he did not knock me to the floor for insolence. But instead, he laughed out loud.

  “You were not like any other woman in Edo before I honored you, Kazuha. Now you are truly unique.” He walked away, still laughing.

  I hated the tattoo, both because it marked me as being Akira’s possession and because I thought it disfigured me. It was a bitter potion to swallow. Having spent the whole of my life thinking of myself as a freak, I had just begun to believe that I had some worth. That I was not, perhaps, as ugly as I had always thought myself to be. Now that faint tremor of self-confidence had been knocked away. Now, I knew that I was truly different. Forever. And that I could do nothing at all about it.

  I hated the tattoo, and I hated Akira even more for forcing it onto me.

  Akira’s attitude changed toward me subtly once the disfigurement was on my body. He seemed to want me to be with him more, not just in private, but in public. Even in Edo itself, rather than just the Floating World. If he had a meeting with foreigners, then I had to go with him, of course. But he also began to take me out more. We strolled down the avenues, the cherry-blossom petals falling on our faces. Occasionally, he would take me to the river and we would stop at an inn for food and drink. He told me with a cheerful grin that once the kabuki was rebuilt, he would take me to a performance. Anybody watching us would think us a perfectly normal couple. A man promenading with his mistress. I was always to walk a few steps behind him, of course, with my maid following behind me. In public, I was expected to keep my eyes on the ground and only speak when he spoke to me.

  But I knew none of it was normal. Not at all. Before we left the house – the gilded prison I had come to hate almost as much as I hated Akira – he would inspect me. I was always to wear my newest kimono, my best obi. He bought me several sets of the hated kingfisher-beak combs, and they were always to be in place. They made my head itch as though I had fleas, but I never told him how much I disliked them. If I had, he would have made me sleep in them. Opulent rings adorned my fingers. A wide necklace encircled my throat.

  And always, before we left the house, he made me tip my head forward so that my chin bit against my breast so he could check that under no circumstances did my tattoo show. Because that was his private joke. No matter how much the clothes on my back cost, no matter how richly I was decked out, the hated tattoo was his mark. The thing that made me his. The one thing that nobody else could ever see. Just him.

  If I could have scratched it off with my nails, I would have tried. At first, I tried to soak it in the bath, and then scrubbed at it with a hard brush until my skin was sore. It did no good, it was still there. And anyway, Akira took to sharing the bath with me, so I had to stop. He became particularly fond of turning me to face the wall of the bath and pushing himself into me from behind. Whenever he did this – and it was often – he would bite, hard, at the tattoo, rolling my flesh between his teeth and scraping his teeth on the ink. It was, apart from anything else, his way of showing me that no matter what I did, it would never come off.

  I hated the tattoo. And I hated Akira.

  As much as I hated Akira and the life he made me lead, I equally longed for the company of my old friends in the Hidden House. I even enjoyed the meetings with the foreign Barbarians simply because it was somebody else to talk to. And sometimes – not every time, but sometimes – if Akira wanted to talk to Auntie after his business with the foreign Barbarians was done, he would allow me to wander into the Hidden House for a snatched few minutes to chat with the girls. Oh, how I lived for those days! The maids in Akira’s house were too timid to dare to talk to me. It was all, “Yes, Midori No Me-san” and, “If it pleases you, Midori No Me-san” until I wanted to scream. So lonely was I that sometimes even Akira would have been welcome as a companion, but other than when he took his bath with me and slept with me, he was rarely in the house during the day. I wandered through it like a wistful ghost, Nekko at my heels as my shadow.

  Nekko was, in truth, my constant companion these days. Even when we went to the Hidden House, Nekko came with me, following alongside me like a faithful dog. He amused the Barbarians immensely, and so Akira encouraged his presence.

  I would have committed suicide if it was not for the certain knowledge that somewhere Danjuro was still alive. That one day, perhaps a long way in the future, he would come back and claim me. If, that was, he wasn’t so repulsed by my hideous tattoo that he could no longer bear to look at me. I prayed daily before the household shrine that that would not be the case.

  Every now and then, Akira would taunt me. “Still think he’s alive, do you?” he would jeer. I refused to answer and just stared into space until he became bored.

  Akira regarded me as lucky. Since I had come to him, his business interests had multiplied three-fold. Nothing, it seemed, could now go wrong for the yakuza. He even deigned to tell me that one day, and I decided to seize my chance. After all, what could he do to me? He already pinched and nipped and bit me regularly. If he was in a bad mood, he added in a good slap and even a punch for good measure, tugging my hair until my scalp screamed. He could set a couple of his thugs on me while he watched, but he had already done that, and I had survived. He could beat me until I was black and blue, break a few bones perhaps, but I would heal. I was beginning to wonder how far he would really go without worrying about damaging his all-important luck.

  So I decided to ask him. “Akira-san.” I kept my head down, but watched him from beneath my lowered lids. He had drunk a lot of sake, and – although he could hold his drink – it seemed to me that he was in as jolly a mood as he ever was. “May I ask something from you?”

  He paused, his sake cup not quite at his lips. He seemed positively startled, and I realized that this was the first time I had actually asked him for anything. His lips peeled back in a feral grin, and I could see his mind working. Did he really think he had tamed me at last? Apparently he did, and the idea obviously gave him great pleasure.

  “Ask away
, Kazuha. Is there some trinket you want? Would you like to visit Mori-san again? Do you want another kitten for Nekko to play with?”

  I tittered politely. “Nothing, Akira-san. I have everything that any woman could want.” Was I piling it on too thickly? A glance at his face assured me I was not. He was practically purring. “It’s just that I miss my friends, master. Until you took me out of the Hidden House, I was with the other girls day and night. You are often absent on business. I cannot talk to Nekko. Please, master, may I visit the Hidden House now and then, just to gossip and chat for an hour?”

  It was the first time I had ever called him master. He drained his sake cup, and I hastened to refill it for him, right to the brim. With a sweeping gesture, he indicated that I should get some for myself. I sighed hard, staring at the tatami, my expression woeful.

  “I do not like you associating with those freaks. Those harlots.”

  I kept my eyes down, but inside I burned. I was just the same as the other girls. We were what we were. I tightened my mouth to stop myself saying so and suddenly felt a wave of despondency. What was the use? If Akira’s mind was made up, then I was wasting my time. Tears blurred my vision. I blinked to hide them. I would not cry. He would not make me cry. And if I could not stop myself, he was not, under any circumstances, going to see he had made me cry.

  “I am pleased you do not try and defend them, Kazuha. Are you learning some sense, at long last? Are you actually beginning to realize how well off you are with me?”

  “Yes, master,” I said dully. What was the use? If I persisted, Akira was quite likely to refuse to let me see them at all, even for the precious five or ten minutes I had at present.

  Akira sucked at his sake. I poured him another cup.

  “Is it true, Kazuha, that somehow the girls in the Hidden House find out all the gossip of the Floating World without ever setting foot in it?”

  I nodded. Patrons talked as if we were not there or were deaf. The maids gathered tittle-tattle on their many errands. We heard, even if we could not see.

  “Perhaps, then, we could come to an arrangement.” I stiffened, hope making my heart thud. “You are always discreet, Kazuha. I appreciate that. But I would like to know if there is anything happening in Edo that I don’t know about. Would it be possible for a woman to listen, and remember, but not chatter back?”

  “I would never, ever tell anybody anything about your business, master.” And that was true enough. My life depended on my discretion. By now I knew too much about the many grains of rice in Akira’s dish. If he even suspected that he could trace an indiscretion back to me, then rightly or wrongly, I would be dead.

  “It could be useful, then. But tell me, what would you do for, say, an hour a week to chat and gossip to your old friends?”

  “Anything,” I said simply. After all, what was there left to inflict on me? What remained that he hadn’t already done? I almost smiled at the thought. Nothing. Nothing at all.

  “Ah, be careful what you say, little one.”

  Even though my gaze was fixed on the tatami, I heard the amusement in his voice and the hairs at the back of my head rose in response. But I had gone too far to back out now, so I repeated, “Anything.”

  “Let me see then.” He was gloating. He already had something in mind, I knew. I waited silently. “Ah, I have it! You know I am greatly attached to you, Kazuha. You are the only woman on earth who has ever seen the full glory of my body. Now, just so that I am sure that you are equally fond of me, I suggest that you give me a little wash. With your tongue.”

  Not so bad, I thought. Not so bad at all. There was surely not an inch of his body that had not already received my attentions. I almost smiled in relief. “Of course, master.”

  Then I realized what he wanted me to clean. Not his body at all. His feet.

  He had leaned back, lolling at his ease on his elbows. His feet were stuck out, not dirty, exactly, but dusty from the street. He wiggled his toes at me. At any other time, the gesture would have been funny. But not now.

  I swallowed hard and licked my lips, trying to find some saliva. He clapped his hands and pointed at his feet.

  “Clean, Kazuha. As clean as if I had just climbed out of the bath. If I am pleased enough with you, then you shall have your trips to the Hidden House. You have my word on it.”

  I shuffled across the tatami on my knees and when I thought my head was dipped sufficiently so that he could not see, I closed my eyes tightly.

  In spite of the bile that rose in my throat, leaving a sour taste in my mouth, I did it. I gripped his right foot in my hand, and, starting with the toes, licked and nibbled every last bit of skin. Akira said nothing, but I could feel him watching me. I thought I really was going to vomit when he spread his toes in invitation to my tongue to go between them, but I forced it back. The left foot got the same attention. Finally, when I was absolutely sure that there was not a single bit of either foot that was not spotlessly clean, I sat back on my heels, my head bowed, and waited.

  “Very good, Kazuha.” He grinned and stretched and got to his feet. “I think I shall have a bath now. You don’t want to join me? Suit yourself.”

  I could hear him laughing as he walked down the corridor.

  As soon as he had gone, I asked one of the maids for tea. I drank three cups, scalding hot, but still my mouth tasted vile. I drank sake, but still I could taste him. I went to the lavatory and poked my fingers down my throat until I vomited and then drank so much water my stomach swished. Although I could never have imagined it at the time, it was worth it. For in the Hidden House, I found my mother. And my father.

  Chapter Nineteen

  There is a storm, overhead.

  But no matter.

  It will pass.

  Akira was so confident in his power over me that he let me go to the Hidden House on my own, with just a maid for company. Even without the tattoo on show, it was as if the world knew that he had put his mark on me and that it was not safe to try and interfere with the property of the most notorious yakuza in Edo. I had learned, all too quickly, that Akira-san was feared throughout Edo. And why. By now, I knew where the bodies were buried. And there were many. On that particular afternoon, I set out with a light heart. I was going home! Nekko walked beside me, with his tail held high, and the maid trotted behind me.

  I trembled as I slid open the door of the Hidden House. It was a warm, pleasant afternoon and bees buzzed drowsily about the honeysuckle growing in the courtyard. I could hear an equally lazy murmur of voices from the main room, but I never got that far.

  Mineko’s door was half open, and I was about to call out a cheerful greeting when she saw me and jumped to her feet. In a second, she had pulled me through the door and shut it, though she had to open it again when Nekko yowled to be let in. She dismissed my maid with a nod, telling her kindly to go to the kitchen for some food. This particular maid was notoriously greedy and she nodded with a gleam in her eye.

  “Midori No Me, what an unexpected pleasure!” Mineko spoke so formally, I stared at her in surprise. She opened her eyes wide and jerked her head at the screen. In the hazy sunlight, I was sure that I could see the shadow of somebody on the other side. My maid? I raised my eyebrows and Mineko nodded. For a few moments, we exchanged nothing but trivialities until we were sure that she had gone. Mineko blew out her cheeks in a sigh of relief and we hugged each other with delight.

  “I have waited and waited for weeks in the hope of catching you,” Mineko said very softly. “Akira-san is not with you?”

  I explained he had kindly allowed me to visit alone. The sarcasm must have shown in my voice, as Mineko nodded her understanding, her expression tight.

  “How long do we have?”

  “One hour. But I hope that will be every week. Probably not always on my own, though.”

  I watched in astonishment as she got to her feet and poked her head into the corridor. Even Nekko, who was washing his back leg in the contorted gesture only a cat can mana
ge, paused and stared at her.

  She slid the door quietly and then darted to her little cupboard, coming back to lay a bulging silk furoshiki – the traditional square of cloth used to carry items in Japan – at my feet.

  “Listen, for I have a lot to tell you, and it’s important that you visit with the rest of the girls. If you don’t, that maid will tell your yakuza, and it will be bad for you.” I smiled tightly. If only Mineko knew how bad. “This is for you.”

  I stared at it in surprise. The furoshiki was old, the silk faded along the creases. It looked as if it had been knotted in a hurry and then left untouched for many years. Mineko spoke quickly.

  “I have kept that for you for months. A priest brought it to the door and handed it to one of the maids along with a good tip. He told her to give to me, nobody else, and not to speak of it. She said he was a very venerable monk, with piercing eyes, and she was afraid of him, so she did as she was told. There was a note with it, asking me to give it to you as soon as I could, but to make sure you were alone when I passed it to you. I burned the note as soon as I could - anything out of the ordinary is dangerous here, these days.”

  I held out my hands in bewilderment. I didn’t know any monks. I had never seen the furoshiki before.

  “Open it!” Mineko urged.

  I did so. Inside were a small box and a folded and re-folded packet. I lifted the box. It was surprisingly heavy and jingled when I shook it. Intrigued, I pried at the tight fitting lid and gasped as it flew off suddenly. Inside were ten coins, each a gold koban. A fortune. A koban was worth three koku of rice. Just one koku of rice could feed one person for a whole year. In my hands, I had enough money to feed myself for thirty years. I stared at Mineko, my jaw sagging foolishly. She stared back. Nekko yawned, stretched, and wandered over to pat the coins. Quickly deciding he couldn’t eat them, he lost interest.

  “The letter,” Mineko whispered. “Read it, quickly. Tell me what it says.”