The Blonde Geisha. Jina Bacarr

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      “I’ve tried to follow your ways, Mariko-san,” I said, not holding back how I felt. “But I can’t push my feelings down so deep inside me I can’t feel anything anymore.”

      Mariko didn’t answer me, but said instead, “I once believed you would be my geisha sister, Kathlene-san, that we would experience the turning back of our collars together, but I was wrong.”

      I looked away, questioning the truth of what she’d said. She was referring to the time when a maiko attained full geisha status by changing her red neck band for a white collar. Then she turned back part of her collar to reveal a small triangle of the red chemise underneath. I looked forward to experiencing this moment with her.

      “You plunge the knife deep into my heart, Mariko-san,” I said, longing for the day when I would call Mariko older sister, as I did in my heart. “You’re acting unfair, judging me like that.”

      “You are the one who is unfair, Kathlene-san, dismissing all okâsan has taught you. You’re throwing it all away on cheap pleasure with the jinrikisha boy, acting like a courtesan gobbling up salted clams and drinking sake while she beckons customers from her bamboo cage. You’re wasting your life like a cherry blossom scattering in the breeze with no time to fade on the bough. You have no feeling, no concern for anyone but yourself.”

      “How dare you speak to me like that,” I said, raising my voice. I was hurt. Deeply hurt by Mariko’s words.

      Mariko said, “I speak to you this way because I—I…”

      She bowed her head low, her voice as silent as the sway of the nearby willow tree. I said nothing, then shook my head in dismay, knowing she wouldn’t say what she really felt. Mariko smiled at me instead. I couldn’t argue with that. The Japanese smile was often a sign of embarrassment, regret, discomfort or even anger.

      I turned my back and walked away. I looked out at the mountains highlighted on the opposite bank of the river in the summer sun. From below, I could hear the sloshing against the banks, full and swollen by the late-summer rains as I left the little maiko standing under the sloping roof. Alone.

      Later I realized I’d dropped the package containing the kokeshi doll. I made no effort to go back and retrieve it.

      The afternoon sun tickled the puddles of rainwater with her magic beams, making them shimmer like liquid silver brocade. Nearby, I glimmered under her spotlight, quivering and swaying on the outdoor veranda to the sharp, musical sounds of the harp and the twanging, vibrant sounds of the lute. I wanted to dance my best today at practice to show Mariko I was serious abut my art.

      But something else caught my eye. I was certain Hisa was hiding behind a six-leaf golden screen set up on the far corner of the veranda, the sun beating down on his nearly nude body. Hot. Unforgiving. He must want to see me dance badly if he was willing to wait in the steamy, red-hot sun. Shade was more important to the Japanese than warmth or food, though I believed Hisa was stronger than any ancient deity. I’d seen him peeking around the screen earlier, smiling at me, his naked chest glistening with sweat. I motioned for him to leave, but he ignored me.

      I called on the goddess Benten, patron of music and dance, to guide me through my movements and give me the grace and courage of Lady Jiôyoshi. I glided over the mat with bent knees on my white-stockinged feet like kittens’ paws. My hands moved in a supple, gentle manner, expressing the emotion of the old Japanese love song about a castle and the moon, and two lovers who spent stolen hours together.

      “My love is hiding in my heart like a white crane in a snow drift,” sang Mariko while she played the lute and Youki strummed the harp.

      I fluttered my fan but I refused to look at Mariko, though she stared at me. Stared hard. I tried to concentrate on my dance, but I was angry with Mariko. Much to my displeasure, she had continued her harsh words later in our room, arguing back and forth with me, speaking in a hushed but irritated voice. I don’t understand what’s wrong with desiring a man, I insisted. I did nothing wrong.

      She wouldn’t listen. She lunged at me, grabbing hold of my kimono collar and pulling me off my feet, my face glistening with a light veneer of sweat. Arms raised, our breasts heaving, we threw gold and blue silk cushions at each other, knocking over our brazier and spilling white ash all over the clean mats.

      I was hurt by Mariko’s denouncement of me. She insisted I’d shamed us all with my bold display of speaking with Hisa, then letting him touch my breasts. Okâsan would punish me, she yelled, by making me sleep in the emergency baskets the geisha kept in the teahouse in case of fire. The baskets were oblong and woven of bamboo and about the size of a small trunk, making them very uncomfortable for sleeping. I cringed at the thought.

      I called Mariko an indentured servant, the lowest form of apprentice, telling her she was fooling herself about becoming a geisha. Did I stop? No, I kept going like a hummingbird zipping from flower to flower, telling her she was destined to remain a seated one, rather than become a dancer, because Mariko wasn’t tall enough and would violate the sense of proportion onstage. Why did I say such a thing? Was my hurt more important than my friendship with Mariko? Fool. I knew the answer. I was angry with myself for not yet becoming geisha.

      Mariko had fought back tears as well as words, and I was glad she followed the custom of not expressing her true feelings. I had my say with her, but it didn’t make me feel better. My spirit sagged as if my sense of play had gone out of my life. Geisha are known for bringing this charm to their guests and I had lost mine.

      I was also aware Youki was strangely silent as she played on her harp, her thin-lipped smile the only indication she was secretly pleased at the rift between us. Youki still harbored a deep resentment toward me and often spoke in haughty tones to me about how she’d performed before great lords since she became a geisha. The noblemen were handsome and aroused great feelings in her, she said, making her secretions run down her thighs. She bragged how the noblemen licked the insides of her legs, their tongues finding her clitoris and bringing her to orgasm all through the night. I was jealous, but I’d rather die than let her know.

      Dreaming of the day I would become a geisha and have my name and crest printed on a flat, round fan, I danced, my hands supple and expressive as they moved down to the mat. I was careful to hold my fan with my thumb facing inward. Only men kept their thumbs facing outward. Then I followed the line of my torso upward, slowly tracing the sensuous curve of my body before placing my fan on my heart with gentle, sad movements as if I were full of secret sorrow and yearning for my lover far away.

      I heard the shuffle of feet and heavy breathing. Hisa. I must put him out of mind and forget thoughts of him embracing me in the many different positions I’d seen in the pillow book. I tossed the fan into the air and caught it without missing a subtle beat. I smiled wide, showing my pleasure though okâsan discouraged any show of emotion during practice. I took pride in my art. All the maiko

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