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Authors: Katherine Govier
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have curled-up toes, it means that yur a wanton woman.”
“I am not,” said Shino indignantly. “Izn it?”
Everyone roared. Fumi patted her leg. “Good girl,” she said.
I looked at Shino and she looked at me. Her eyes were nothing like the shape of a melon seed. They were flat on top and curved on the bottom: they looked like little boats sailing across a placid sea. And her nose—the slope was not gradual at all but rather hasty. It had a big bump in it too. I put my hand on my chin to cover it because I knew how it stuck out.
“Fingers!” said the nice one. “Fingers must have tapered ends and be long and supple.”
“Got that one.” Shino had graceful long fingers. We all looked at them. They didn’t seem enough somehow.
“The yakko will become more beautiful as she gets a little older,” said Fumi.
“Not possible. Your basic face can’t change.”
“Yeah, but the rules c’n change. F’r instance, it used to be yur eyebrows had to be far apart, and now, it’s easy to see, the most beautiful thing iz to have the eyebrows close together,” continued the older courtesan. “We can pluck some and get them to grow t’wards each other. I’ve seen it done.” She paused. “And yur face will grow into this nose.”
Shino did not look hopeful.
“Wait. Doan give up,” said Fumi. “Think of those hands.”
Shino held up her hands. They looked very nice to me.
“They are large,” said the courtesan dubiously. She bent a finger back. “But so flexible!”
“I play the samisen.”
“And she makes paintings,” I said. “She can write many Chinese characters too.”
“There, already ’z better news! It’s as Kana says—you have talents! We poor girls have no talent, nuthin’. Probly you write poetry?”
“I like to write down my thoughts . . .” Shino ventured shyly.
They all fell over laughing.
“Oh, no. No, no. No one wanz to hear a prostitute’s thoughts.”
S hino led me back to my father and let go of my hand. He was crouched as usual and chuckling to himself as he copied the antics of a trainer and his monkey with his darting brush.
“Go,” she said, pushing me. “I will see you again soon.”
“But, Shino,” I whined loudly. I wanted to see my father’s reaction when he knew she was near. And sure enough his head came up, his face coloured and softened. He put down his brush—he never did that for anyone else—and scrambled to his feet. He was barely taller than her, and while she made herself taller, like a sapling straining for sun, he made himself shorter, swaying and bending his knees.
“It is the beautiful yakko herself,” he said. “She has kindly returned my daughter.”
“She is much obliged to you for letting Ei entertain her in her quiet life,” said Shino.
They both laughed softly. I could feel the currents running between them. “I wonder if you would be walking on the boulevard some afternoon,” he said, “and I could thank you properly.”
She inclined her head just slightly. She seemed to think about this. “My time is not my own. But it is just possible I could find myself getting tea and treats for Fumi the day of the coming festival. She is very fond of the tea in that shop where we first met.”
7
The Mad Poets
IT WAS THE EIGHTH MONTH , and one of those warm days before the cold set in. The Mad Poets group sat on the bank above the Sumida. My father was there, with Tsutaya the publisher, Utamaro the artist, and a jack-of-all-trades writer called Sanba. Sanba had the best cosmetics store in Edo; he sold the white lead paint the actors put on their faces. That was handy because he wrote plays. He also wrote critiques of their performances. As well, just to keep it all going, he sold a popular elixir of immortality that he had invented. He made a lot of jokes and kept the others laughing. There was also Kyoden, author of yellow-back novels, which he sold along with smoking materials at his tobacco store. And Waki the
“I am not,” said Shino indignantly. “Izn it?”
Everyone roared. Fumi patted her leg. “Good girl,” she said.
I looked at Shino and she looked at me. Her eyes were nothing like the shape of a melon seed. They were flat on top and curved on the bottom: they looked like little boats sailing across a placid sea. And her nose—the slope was not gradual at all but rather hasty. It had a big bump in it too. I put my hand on my chin to cover it because I knew how it stuck out.
“Fingers!” said the nice one. “Fingers must have tapered ends and be long and supple.”
“Got that one.” Shino had graceful long fingers. We all looked at them. They didn’t seem enough somehow.
“The yakko will become more beautiful as she gets a little older,” said Fumi.
“Not possible. Your basic face can’t change.”
“Yeah, but the rules c’n change. F’r instance, it used to be yur eyebrows had to be far apart, and now, it’s easy to see, the most beautiful thing iz to have the eyebrows close together,” continued the older courtesan. “We can pluck some and get them to grow t’wards each other. I’ve seen it done.” She paused. “And yur face will grow into this nose.”
Shino did not look hopeful.
“Wait. Doan give up,” said Fumi. “Think of those hands.”
Shino held up her hands. They looked very nice to me.
“They are large,” said the courtesan dubiously. She bent a finger back. “But so flexible!”
“I play the samisen.”
“And she makes paintings,” I said. “She can write many Chinese characters too.”
“There, already ’z better news! It’s as Kana says—you have talents! We poor girls have no talent, nuthin’. Probly you write poetry?”
“I like to write down my thoughts . . .” Shino ventured shyly.
They all fell over laughing.
“Oh, no. No, no. No one wanz to hear a prostitute’s thoughts.”
S hino led me back to my father and let go of my hand. He was crouched as usual and chuckling to himself as he copied the antics of a trainer and his monkey with his darting brush.
“Go,” she said, pushing me. “I will see you again soon.”
“But, Shino,” I whined loudly. I wanted to see my father’s reaction when he knew she was near. And sure enough his head came up, his face coloured and softened. He put down his brush—he never did that for anyone else—and scrambled to his feet. He was barely taller than her, and while she made herself taller, like a sapling straining for sun, he made himself shorter, swaying and bending his knees.
“It is the beautiful yakko herself,” he said. “She has kindly returned my daughter.”
“She is much obliged to you for letting Ei entertain her in her quiet life,” said Shino.
They both laughed softly. I could feel the currents running between them. “I wonder if you would be walking on the boulevard some afternoon,” he said, “and I could thank you properly.”
She inclined her head just slightly. She seemed to think about this. “My time is not my own. But it is just possible I could find myself getting tea and treats for Fumi the day of the coming festival. She is very fond of the tea in that shop where we first met.”
7
The Mad Poets
IT WAS THE EIGHTH MONTH , and one of those warm days before the cold set in. The Mad Poets group sat on the bank above the Sumida. My father was there, with Tsutaya the publisher, Utamaro the artist, and a jack-of-all-trades writer called Sanba. Sanba had the best cosmetics store in Edo; he sold the white lead paint the actors put on their faces. That was handy because he wrote plays. He also wrote critiques of their performances. As well, just to keep it all going, he sold a popular elixir of immortality that he had invented. He made a lot of jokes and kept the others laughing. There was also Kyoden, author of yellow-back novels, which he sold along with smoking materials at his tobacco store. And Waki the
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