The Printmaker's Daughter by Katherine Govier Read Free Book Online

guardhouse.
“Surrender your weapon,” he told her.
“Must I?”
“All those of the samurai class must surrender their swords. Even the women,” he chanted without looking at her.
“Why?” she said.
“It is because samurai and commoners are equal in the pleasure quarter.”
“Don’t believe it,” said the bearer, who had come up behind her. “Everyone knows why you can’t bring any weapon inside. It’s because the women are so unhappy that if they had a sword, they’d kill themselves.”
The guard had a narrow, tall skull, which sank down to wide cheeks, so his head looked like a gourd you might find sitting in a field. His name was Shirobei. It was always Shirobei. Every man who lived and died in that position had the name of Shirobei. A tuft of spiky silver hair stuck up from inside his uniform. His chest moved as if it was alive, and a sharp nose poked out. It was a white fox—and it was in his shirt. The young wife screamed.
“Don’t be afraid. The white fox is a god of luck.”
She wrapped herself more tightly and made a haughty face. “Let me in.”
“The gate is locked. It’s the Hour of the Rat.”
“That’s why they’ve brought me now. So no one would see.”
“What’s your business?” said Shirobei.
“I’m coming to the House of the Corner Tamaya,” she said.
“Are you coming to stay?” He peered at her. It was a novelty these days. A yakko , a noblewoman sentenced to serve as a courtesan.
“So what was it?” he said. What disaster had befallen? “Famine, fire, flood?” Those were unlikely to affect the nobles. “Disgrace, treachery, kidnapping?” No? She must have brought it on herself, then. “An indiscretion with an actor?”
She held her chin high.
“We used to get ladies like you here,” he said. “But not for quite a while.”
He unlocked the gate. He took her weapon. On his face was an unreadable look. If she had not just learned that it was absent from the world, she would have called it pity. She shrugged the shoulders of her kosode closer to her throat.
“Thank you.” She bowed a little. He bowed. She straightened. She walked past the guard and looked back, saying good-bye to everything.
She did not regret the husband who had the power to discard her. Her parents, if they did not die of shame, would be there on her return. For five years she would be a Yoshiwara courtesan.
    The audience groaned in sympathy. The storyteller turned his back and took a drink of water. He gave us time to shift position and munch our rice balls before he started again.
A man was waiting, wrapped in a cloak. He was the proprietor of the Corner Tamaya. He put his hands on the yakko ’s shoulders. He looked her up and down. He turned her slowly front to back and back to front. It seemed he might unwind her cloak right then, but he stopped. He put a hand on her cheek and turned it slowly one way and then the other.
    The storyteller had taken on the Yoshiwara dialect. His voice was now arrogant and snide .
“Not much of a bargain,” he said. “They told me you were beautiful.”
“You see the truth,” she said.
“I only took you because you were a gift.”
“Perhaps one gift more than you deserve?”
He reached for the clasp that held her hair and pulled it out roughly. He put his fingers in and drew out the tresses. They were long, so long. His fingers were like a comb; the hair kept coming until he let it drop. It reached her knees.
She raised her chin. Proud, almost defiant. She knew her hair was lovely. He looked as if he would slap her. But something—perhaps her fine clothes—stopped him, and he contented himself with glaring.
She bit back more words: if you don’t want me, let me go. She told herself, Don’t talk back, don’t talk back. How many times had her parents tried to teach her that? Hadn’t they said her tongue would be the death of her?
“Itz gonna cost me money to keep you. I hafta get you bedding too. Did you bring any kimono?”
“They took me from home