100 Years of Vicissitude Page 7
‘No, no, me. Tomeko never went to Kyoto.’
So. The sister did have a name.
6 | 六
‘I’ll drink to that.’
I’d seated myself on the couch again and was thinking a toast would be in order.
‘Would you happen to have any more saké?’
Kohana returned and stood over me with the flask, her hair swinging around my face. A more pleasant way to get a refill and have my view obscured, I’d never once encountered.
I had not realized it, but she was a good two centimetres taller than myself—more due to the fact that age had shrunk my height, than any Amazonian stature the girl possessed. Plus, as I do like to insist, I was seated, whereas she was standing up.
‘Are you thinking about making an offering?’ Kohana asked, after she finished filling my cup and stood back.
‘To whom? You?’ Frankly, I was confused.
‘Not to me, Wolram. It’s an old Japanese custom to make an offering at a shrine or temple, as a token for departed souls, and often we leave saké.’
‘Oh, I see. Fair enough.’ I raised my cup. ‘Well, here’s to the gods of abundance and creature comfort.’
‘Perhaps you should check behind you?’
Taking her cue, I looked over my shoulder.
‘Oh dear. I see I will have to put on hold my old friends abundance and creature comfort, at least for the time being.’ That said, I turned back to my budding cruise director. ‘So where are we now—and is this before, after, or in-between the two other times?’
‘Later. Roughly six months.’
‘Kyoto?’
‘Tokyo.’
‘At this rate, I’ll have seen all of Japan before I die again.’
I was happy to note I had travelling partners aside from the woman: I was comfy in the ivory-coloured sofa, and had that cup of saké in my right hand. Admittedly, I was now slap-bang in the middle of a narrow, quiet street some time after nightfall, but I’d managed to haul along a couple of creature comforts.
Kohana had abandoned her plain attire of the other visits and taken this opportunity to arrive in resplendent form—making me feel more the sore thumb.
Her hair, which had so recently tickled my nose, was tied up and laminated into that geisha working girl style—the same as her younger, living self, the first time I saw her in Kyoto. You know, the golden kimono with ibises on it, fluttering about, and a snow-white face. In other words, a life-size Japanese souvenir doll, only she seemed a little older and somehow sadder.
The girl turned around slowly, in mincing steps on those hazardous clogs, gazing with thawing warmth that replaced the sorrow. I took this to be affection for the rows of dark brown, compact, double-storey wooden houses on either side.
‘This is Asakusa. I lived here with my sister from the age of six, in that okiya—a geisha house—right over there.’
Kohana pointed out an innocuous building before us that had a red lantern dangling from its balcony.
Its dark, downstairs window was made of wooden lattice and paper, but the one on the second storey, above the tiled verandah, was round, with diagonal slats, and softly lit. There was a small sign with a freestyle painted kanji symbol next to the front door, which consisted of two sliding screens.
‘The okiya was called Kiri—Paulownia Tree—and it was owned by a woman named Oume-san. She ran a house that was a cooperative, dividing the profits among the girls, after overheads were covered.’
‘Is that so? I heard somewhere that geisha houses were strict, disciplinarian places.’
‘You’ve been reading too much fiction by foreigners.’ The girl unfurled a fan in quasi-coy manner. ‘Oh, wait, did I say reading? Perhaps I should infer you’ve watched a few too many movies-of-the-week.’
‘Side-splitting.’
Kohana snapped shut the fan.
‘I know, I know—flimsy. Surprisingly, you’re not far from the truth. This was not the norm for okiya, and Oume-san was nowhere near the norm for its management. Personally speaking, we had the best mama-san in the trade—but she wasn’t so good at business. We barely stayed above water.’
‘So you worked here? It looks a little small.’
‘It’s not a brothel, Wolram. These were our living quarters—we mostly worked in tea houses and at restaurants.’
‘How many people lived in the building?’
‘There were eight of us. Oume-san, two older geisha, three hangyoku, including Tomeko and me, and our maids. Space was precious.’
The wooden structures along the street, to left and right, looked dull and interchangeable. ‘Are these all geisha houses, then?’
‘Some are.’
‘How good was business?’
‘Before the war, I hear it was booming. By 1945, we were scratching to survive, and most of the other okiya had been closed down. I hit my prime at a dreadful time. We were fortunate that Oume-san had high-up contacts in the military—as much as she privately despised them.’
I sipped at my saké. The street was quiet and peaceful enough, and we were the only people about. One could get used to lounging here, even if the temperature was a trifle crisp.
Right then, however, my leisure time was interrupted by… What the Devil was that annoying sound? Bees?
‘As a wise man once told me, danger always strikes when everything seems fine. Listen, Wolram. You hear it?’
‘How could I miss the commotion? What is that?’
‘Speculate.’
‘Oh God, I’m not in the mood for guessing games. Bees, or wasps, come immediately to mind. So, I don’t know—the Wicked Witch of the West, sending down a horde of emissaries?’
‘Not the Wicked Witch.’
‘No?’
‘The Allied Forces.’
It clicked, then. 1945.
‘Oh crap. A bombing raid?’
7 | 七
I was sitting on a three-legged stool, next to that glazed raccoon dog on the hovel’s doorstep. I couldn’t recall how I got here.
I peered in all four directions.
The ocean. Nothing. Nothing. The hovel. And that was it—a realm so darned mundane, I believed I might scream.
‘You know, given the state of the place I was ejected from when I was shot in the noggin, I never thought I would admit this—but I yearn for city life. I miss the amenities, the wining and dining, the twenty-four-hour convenience.’
‘Those things mean a lot to you?’ Kohana asked from where she sat on a large, flat rock in the yard, sketching impressionistic cats with elongated necks. They reminded me of the cats my mother used to draw for me when I was a child, and looked like bottles lined up to fall. ‘You miss Melbourne that much?’
‘I can’t say I’ve mentioned Melbourne to you before. Have I?’
‘I don’t know. You shouldn’t expect a centenarian to have the best memory.’
The girl was shading one of her drawings green. A curious colour for a cat.
‘Did you ever visit Melbourne?’
Kohana sniffed and wiped her nose. ‘Visit?’ Then she looked right at me. ‘I lived there half my life. Deshō?’
Being caught off-balance by this infuriating woman was turning out to be a commonplace experience, but this time the disclosure was perfectly reasonable, in light of recent world events—or at least the recent ones, before I expired.
‘I assumed,’ I said, ‘well, I meant to say…’
‘You assumed I lived and died in my country? I wasn’t through-and-through Japanese by the time I kicked the bucket. I’d spent several decades living abroad—most of that in Australia.’
‘Why didn’t you say so?’
‘You didn’t ask.’
‘This changes everything!’ I was suddenly delighted.
‘How?’
‘Well, if you were born in 1929 and died when you were a hundred, that would have meant you did so—’
‘In your brave new world.’
I checked myself. ‘Oh.’
She stood up and dusted down her backside.
‘I feel grimy. I think I’ll take a bath. How about you?’
‘What, together?’ I chuckled to myself, having dared so brazen a quip. Somewhere, sight unseen at the back of my mind, I etched a few notches. Wolram—3, Kohana—0.
‘That’s what I presumed. Why is it amusing?’
Those notches were straight away erased. ‘No, no, to the contrary, I assure you,’ I panicked. ‘Not funny at all.’
‘Then why are you acting so weird about the idea?’
‘Weird? What’s weird? It’s not weird.’
‘More weird. Right. Good. Come with me, then.’
‘Now?’
Kohana frowned. ‘No, tomorrow. What do you think? Come on, buster.’
I grudgingly followed Kohana on a dusty path around the hovel, skirting the herb garden and the scarecrow. At the back of the building, in the open, with no roofing or sense of discretion, was a cast-iron contraption that looked like a barrel in which you’d usually press grapes.
This was not intended for making wine. It was a bathtub, and beneath it smouldered a wood-burning stove.
‘Now you get to take off your clothes,’ Kohana announced as she turned around to look at me, with a cheeky beam. ‘Kohana—3, Wolram—0.’
The Devil she knew. ‘What, all of them? Now?’
‘Whenever you’re ready.’
‘In front of you?’
‘All right, all right. I’ll turn around. Unbelievable.’
As she did so, the girl slid off her cotton dress and an under-garment, and before I could think to avert my eyes, I saw a large tattoo on her back—a winding dragon with eight heads, stretching from her neck to her naked buttocks, cavorting right down to the left thigh.
I twisted away. I was staring at the back wall of the hovel, a side of the place I’d not seen before. No wonder. It bored me senseless.
‘Come on,’ I heard Kohana urge.
I swallowed my slaphappy pride, took off the smoking jacket and folded it neatly, swept the residual gunk off a banana lounge, and placed it there. Then, I removed my slacks, shirt and cravat. I was stark naked, aside from pirate underwear—which I attempted to disguise with my hands, when I slowly turned back to the woman.
Kohana stood there with no clothes and no shame. I stared at her face, refusing to look an inch beneath the chin. The girl had no such qualms. She ran her eyes over me, and then guffawed.
‘Oh dear. Why on earth are you wearing such silly short-pants—those are Jolly Roger flags! How old are you again?’
‘Laugh all you want, my dear. Modesty prevents removal. May I point out, I’m an elderly gent?’
‘Gent? That’s questionable. And don’t you don’t think I’ve seen an old rump, or three, in my time? I lived to be one hundred.’
‘I don’t know how you lived the remainder of your years—you may well have become a nun, so far as I’m concerned.’
‘Do I look like a nun?’
The tattoo sizzled in my mind.
‘I don’t know. What does a nun look like? The last one I saw was when I was five years old—a middle-aged lady of Greek origin that I saw on a tram, with a black habit and black moustache. Apparently, I pointed out the facial hair to my mother, in a very loud voice, causing embarrassment all round. She never allowed me to live it down.’
‘Well, you don’t have to worry about the occupation or the facial hair, in my case. Your legs are so skinny. Did you eat at all before you died?’
‘Like a goat, only better. I do appreciate my gourmet grub.’
‘Such as plastic sushi?’
‘They looked right enough.’
‘They have brothers in the fridge.’ Kohana stared at my boxer shorts. ‘You’re going to have to take them off. They hurt my eyes. No clothing is worn in Japanese baths—and relax, I’m not going to take advantage of you.’
‘Look away then.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
She did as requested, and after much ado I kicked off the underpants—but kept my hands down there, to cover up.
‘We have to rinse first,’ Kohana said, now all business-like.
The woman grabbed a wooden bucket and washed herself with water from a tap, and then passed it over to me. I filled it up, poured it over my head—and shouted. The water was bitterly cold. As she climbed into the tub, Kohana sang something.
I was trying to keep my teeth from chattering. ‘Might I inquire what the song is?’
‘It’s “Tsugaru Kaikyō Fuyugeshiki”, “Winter Scene of Tsugaru Strait”, an old enka standard by Ishikawa Sayuri—sorry, Sayuri Ishikawa. A favourite of mine that I used to sing at karaoke. When I say it’s “old”, however, I lie—she released the song in 1977, when I was already forty-seven. It was conjured up by lyricist Yu Aku, with composer Takashi Miki, aka Tadashi Watanabe, who was also responsible for the insanely catchy “Anpanman no March” theme song for the kids’ anime series Anpanman.’
‘I have no idea what you are rattling on about.’
‘Come on in. You’ll freeze to death standing out there.’
Surprisingly, I didn’t need to be asked twice.
With great difficulty, and much shame, I scaled the wall of the tub in a backwards manoeuvre, my private parts turned away from the woman. Of course I fell in. Once immersed, I felt like I’d been scalded.
‘This is too bloody hot!’ I objected.
‘It’s supposed to be. Almost the same temperature as the saké.’
‘If you dare say deshō, I’ll whack you one.’
‘Never crossed my mind.’ Kohana smiled.
So, we crouched there in the water, inches from one another—and silence ensued. I had no idea what to say. After a few minutes, I became accustomed to the heat, and in fact could feel my muscles relaxing. That was something.
‘Would you mind giving me a shoulder massage?’ Kohana asked.
Cue: muscle tension. ‘Why on earth would I do that?’
‘Go on, W. I have sore shoulders. No hidden agenda—nothing you could pin to your Harris Tweed jacket. Jeez.’
I scrutinized her face. ‘A quick question, and if you can answer it, I’ll grant you the massage. What colour was my favourite Harris Tweed?’
Kohana was gazing at the black, empty sky. No stars shone. ‘There’s a toughie. Let me see—grey-green, with subtle flecks of camel?’
‘All right. Certainly. Turn yourself around.’
When she did as told, I came face to face with that multi-headed dragon. All the eyes scowled, and I wondered where I had misplaced my white flag.
‘Any time you’re ready.’
‘Not a problem. I used to do this all the time.’
‘I bet.’
‘I did, you know. I massaged my daughter’s leg every morning of every day. It was part of her therapy. I did that for two years.’
After hesitating some more, I placed my hands on the woman’s shoulders, between the heads, and began to knead.
‘Say—not bad. I thought you’d complain of arthritic fingers or some such nonsense, just to wriggle out of it. Thank you. I feel so tense.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘And so formal too,’ she sighed.
‘I have to ask, since these brutes are staring straight at me—they’re not very friendly chaps. What’s the story with the tattoo?’
‘Yamata no Orochi? A story within a story.’
‘There’s an opaque answer if ever I’ve heard one.’
‘Well, he does relate to our earlier diatribe about saké. There’s a Japanese myth that adds depth to the drink. Would you care to hear it?’
‘If it eventually leads
to why you have him on your back.’
‘Eventually.’ I heard her snigger. ‘This is a well-known Japanese fable that starts out with some parental hand-wringing. The eight daughters of an elderly couple are being devoured, on consecutive years, by a dragon named Yamata no Orochi. This roughly translates as Eight-Branched Great Snake, or Eight-Forked Serpent.’
‘So—dragon or snake?’
‘The difference gets lost in the translation.’
‘Another tragedy.’
‘Let’s call him a beastie, to keep it simple.’
‘This works for me.’
‘Good. Ow!’
‘Sorry.’
‘Your hands are stronger than they look. Anyway, this annually ravenous beastie flaunts eight heads and eight tails, and size-wise stretches out over eight hills and eight valleys. While this may play havoc with the Japanese notion that eight is a lucky number, things straighten out just prior to the consumption of daughter Number Eight, named Kushinadahime—Rice Paddy Princess.’
‘An engaging name.’
‘Are you being facetious? Do you want to hear this story?’
‘I’m all ears.’
‘I’d prefer you to be all hands.’
‘I’m trying. This is highly embarrassing.’
‘Why? There’s nobody around to watch.’
‘Still.’
‘I don’t know. Imagine if your old mates could see you now—naked in a tub, a seventy-one-year-old massaging the shoulders of a fifteen-year-old. Just don’t let on I’m old enough to be your mother.’
‘Stop it. Get back to your ho hum story.’
‘Okay. Things do get more interesting, fear not. It transpires that our grandstanding hero here is Susanoo no Mikoto, the banished Shintō summer storm god.’
‘Very Thor-like.’
‘I suppose. I don’t know who Thor is. I remember Toshiro Mifune played Susanoo in the 1959 movie. Having met the old couple, Susanoo gets the hots for Kushinada-hime and offers his assistance—in return for the daughter’s hand. There’s always a catch in these tales. Both parents accept, since I don’t think they have much choice, and Susanoo swings a magic trick that transforms Kushinada-hime into a comb he hides in his hair.’
‘So he moonlighted as a magician?’