The Blonde Geisha

“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 understandwhat’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 seatedone, 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. Thenoblemen 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