small cooking stove and a teapot and some folded bedding. There was the room of the great tayu Hana-ogi; there was the room of the second-best, Fumi; here was the small room where Shino lived, beside her.
A rumpled-looking man with greasy hair emerged. He looked at Shino frankly and she lowered her eyes. She was an apprentice, under sixteen and off limits, for now.
As he passed, a courtesan appeared behind him. When he turned at the stairwell, their eyes met. They held each other’s gaze as he descended. The courtesan gestured to her heart and sighed. The man’s head disappeared from the stairwell. His footsteps passed the desk; there was the clink of coins. The courtesan’s lip curled. “I ’ope your balls wither an’ your dick falls off an’ you never, ever show up ’ere again!” She whirled and was gone, behind her curtain.
Two other girls hung over the stairwell. “Headz up! He’z comin’!”
“He’z not!”
“Iz too.”
“Znot!”
“Whadda dra-ag! Why duzn he go?”
“He’z in love!”
“Shee’z good. Super good.”
Everyone giggled.
The courtesans crept to the centre window overlooking the street and watched as the man halted halfway down the front steps. He looked up to the second storey.
“Now he’z goin’. Look.”
“Farewell, my sweet potato. My little shrimp. My dumpling—”
“Takao! Get out there,” shouted the housekeeper up the stairs, “and see him off.”
The courtesan came out of her room again, pulling her robe around her. She leaned out the open balcony. “The minutes will drag till I see you again,” she lisped. “I’m, like, faintin’ with pain to see you go.” The last was a bit half-hearted.
The other girls groaned and elbowed each other. The housekeeper thumped up the stairs and hit one of them smartly on the side of her head.
“Takao! A little creativity, pulleez.”
“So sorry. I yam trying, but I’m zausted. I never sleep till it’z day, and then it’z so noi-zy!”
A cross-looking beauty stepped out from behind a screen. On seeing us her face became kinder.
“Oh, Shino, there yu are. C’n yu come and make me some tea and help me clean up? Come . . . But whooz that chi-yuld?”
So this was Fumi, the second-best. I had read about her in the saiken. I had seen her picture, or what passed for her picture. I had seen her parading on the boulevard enfolded in her mammoth robes. She looked thin and hunched.
“This is Ei!” pronounced Shino in her bell-like tones, pushing me forward. “She’s the daughter of that artist Hokusai who is painting along the boulevard. I said she could come with me.”
“How kind yu are, Shino,” said Fumi, looking me over absently and putting a hand on my head. “I fear it will only do yu harm. But the urchin can come too.”
I sat on the floor.
Fumi had a low black lacquer chest and two round mirrors on handles. Holding one in each hand she looked this way and that to see the back of her head. “Need that hairdresser again. Too bad I canna ’ford it.” She had a small brush, which she offered Shino, instructing her to powder her neck. Then she gave Shino a hairpin to tuck up the hairs that had escaped and fallen onto her nape.
“Your old man’z an artist? We usta have one here watchin’ our every move,” said Fumi. “We were, like, pozen all the time. He watched how we dressed and when we played our music and when we looked at the moon—evrythin’. But he duzn come here anymore. Maybe he’z, like, scared he’ll get fined or go to jail”—here her face became tragic—“or end up on the White Sands or even, like, banished. Can you ’magine? Jus’ for painting us. It’z ’cause we’re so evil.” She raised her eyebrows at me. “So here I am—all in my glory—and whooz to see? Only these yobs.”
“You’re beautiful anyway,” said Shino.
We were all gazing in the mirrors, as if we couldn’t look directly at her face. From where I sat the mirror was too bright, reflecting
A rumpled-looking man with greasy hair emerged. He looked at Shino frankly and she lowered her eyes. She was an apprentice, under sixteen and off limits, for now.
As he passed, a courtesan appeared behind him. When he turned at the stairwell, their eyes met. They held each other’s gaze as he descended. The courtesan gestured to her heart and sighed. The man’s head disappeared from the stairwell. His footsteps passed the desk; there was the clink of coins. The courtesan’s lip curled. “I ’ope your balls wither an’ your dick falls off an’ you never, ever show up ’ere again!” She whirled and was gone, behind her curtain.
Two other girls hung over the stairwell. “Headz up! He’z comin’!”
“He’z not!”
“Iz too.”
“Znot!”
“Whadda dra-ag! Why duzn he go?”
“He’z in love!”
“Shee’z good. Super good.”
Everyone giggled.
The courtesans crept to the centre window overlooking the street and watched as the man halted halfway down the front steps. He looked up to the second storey.
“Now he’z goin’. Look.”
“Farewell, my sweet potato. My little shrimp. My dumpling—”
“Takao! Get out there,” shouted the housekeeper up the stairs, “and see him off.”
The courtesan came out of her room again, pulling her robe around her. She leaned out the open balcony. “The minutes will drag till I see you again,” she lisped. “I’m, like, faintin’ with pain to see you go.” The last was a bit half-hearted.
The other girls groaned and elbowed each other. The housekeeper thumped up the stairs and hit one of them smartly on the side of her head.
“Takao! A little creativity, pulleez.”
“So sorry. I yam trying, but I’m zausted. I never sleep till it’z day, and then it’z so noi-zy!”
A cross-looking beauty stepped out from behind a screen. On seeing us her face became kinder.
“Oh, Shino, there yu are. C’n yu come and make me some tea and help me clean up? Come . . . But whooz that chi-yuld?”
So this was Fumi, the second-best. I had read about her in the saiken. I had seen her picture, or what passed for her picture. I had seen her parading on the boulevard enfolded in her mammoth robes. She looked thin and hunched.
“This is Ei!” pronounced Shino in her bell-like tones, pushing me forward. “She’s the daughter of that artist Hokusai who is painting along the boulevard. I said she could come with me.”
“How kind yu are, Shino,” said Fumi, looking me over absently and putting a hand on my head. “I fear it will only do yu harm. But the urchin can come too.”
I sat on the floor.
Fumi had a low black lacquer chest and two round mirrors on handles. Holding one in each hand she looked this way and that to see the back of her head. “Need that hairdresser again. Too bad I canna ’ford it.” She had a small brush, which she offered Shino, instructing her to powder her neck. Then she gave Shino a hairpin to tuck up the hairs that had escaped and fallen onto her nape.
“Your old man’z an artist? We usta have one here watchin’ our every move,” said Fumi. “We were, like, pozen all the time. He watched how we dressed and when we played our music and when we looked at the moon—evrythin’. But he duzn come here anymore. Maybe he’z, like, scared he’ll get fined or go to jail”—here her face became tragic—“or end up on the White Sands or even, like, banished. Can you ’magine? Jus’ for painting us. It’z ’cause we’re so evil.” She raised her eyebrows at me. “So here I am—all in my glory—and whooz to see? Only these yobs.”
“You’re beautiful anyway,” said Shino.
We were all gazing in the mirrors, as if we couldn’t look directly at her face. From where I sat the mirror was too bright, reflecting
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