The Pillow Book of the Flower Samurai

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will be outstanding,’ I said, to reassure myself.
    Tashiko and I took great care to protect our silk costumes, which showed the spring colours: cherry and peach blossom, wisteria blue and violet, cucumber, pine needle and deep forest green. The woman servant had combed and oiled our hair, tying it at the nape of our necks with ribbons. I gazed at Tashiko, who looked like a doll.
    She and I stepped with great care to the lake where the fancies waited. A puff of air cooled my neck, a treat, since our thick clothing was stifling and I usually wore my hair hanging loose. The music for our dances was playing. As I walked, I chanted to myself, ‘Breathe and count. Breathe and count.’
    I looked out for the gate, which shut me in with my new luxuries and shut me out from my sisters and brothers, my father, my mother. My legs tensed. I could walk out, go home. Yes – and walk to disgrace and shame, to the horror of my entire family, my grandparents and other ancestors. Not today. ‘Breathe and count. Breathe and count,’ I sang inside my head.
    Crossing to the island, I saw a crowd of men, thirty or more, dressed in brocade like Proprietor Chiba’s. Most wore the same curious round hat, made of lacquered and stiffened silk with two thin cloth strips flapping in the light wind.
    Later Tashiko named the hats kanmuri . Although most were black, a few showed stronger colours – dark and pale violet, dark and pale green, dark and pale brownish-red, like azuki beans. The coloured hats sat in the front row. Dark Violet Hat sat higher than all the others, then Pale Violet, then the Greens and finally the Azuki Beans.
    ‘The higher hats are the most important,’ Tashiko whispered. She snatched my hand when she saw Goro. His mouth was set in a simpering smile. His eyes were directed only to those not-Black Hats. I hoped he would not stare at me, as he always did when he visited.
    The musician’s eyes nodded at us, the only friendly ones. I allowed mine to smile, just a little, in return. Two more unknown men stood next to our biwa player. They had to be drummers because they waited with long mallets behind covered cauldrons that were half the size of the one in the bathhouse. I looked at Tashiko, and she pressed my hand. Breathe and count. She and I would be perfect.
    I assumed the beginning pose. Music started with the drums. My counting and breathing improved with the drum beats. I thought only of breathing, counting and the movements.
    With each stamp my tied hair bumped my back. I focused – breathe and count. My fan slipped into my belt and opened in the right direction on the correct beat. Tashiko and I moved at the same time, on the same pulses. Her fan and mine opened and shut with their familiar whish . My opposing steps reversed Tashiko’s on the same beats. After days and endless days of practice, the dance seemed over in a lightning flash. When I finished I heard a bush warbler cry overhead and remembered my father.
    With my head tilted to the side, I glanced at Tashiko to see how I had performed. Her eyes met mine. I imitated Tashiko and bowed to the applause. I had given a near-perfect performance.
    When Dark Violet Hat cheered, my chest lightened. My father and mother would have honour. All the other hats and Goro imitated Dark Violet Hat, shouting for us. I did not dare look at Tashiko.
    Dark Violet Hat pulled a paper doll out of his sleeve, opened his arms and, with loud noises, breathed in and puffed on the doll. He threw it into the stream. A gentle wind brushed the water and the doll sank. I glanced at Tashiko. The corners of her mouth twitched. She had seen this before but had not told me about it.
    Each Hat, in order of colour – dark and light violet, dark and pale green, dark and pale azuki bean, all the black hats – then Goro and last Proprietor Chiba did the same with their paper dolls. Some sank immediately, and some bobbed along in the rippling water, like ducklings after a phantom mother.
    My

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