The Blonde Geisha. Jina Bacarr

You’ve accepted many things since you came to live in the Teahouse of the Look-Back Tree. If you can accept how a geisha must act in the ways of love, you can become Japanese.”

      “But you lose so much in your world of rules, Mariko-san, never experiencing a deep emotion, a profound joy, even pain.”

      “That’s not true. I have known much joy since you came to the Teahouse of the Look-Back Tree,” she said, keeping her eyes lowered, “and much pain because I know you suffer so because your father hasn’t returned.”

      I didn’t have an answer for that. I dropped my hands into my lap, lowering my head, letting my long blond hair hide my face. Hide my thoughts. Neither the sun nor the moon ever halt upon their journey, said an old Japanese proverb. In but a flicker of time, I was beyond the reach of my childhood, lost in the deep shadows behind the high walls of the geisha house. I had grown up practicing my art of dance, hoping someday to dance in the Spring Festival of the River Kamo Dances, as well as learning how to play the harp and the lute. I believed in my heart someday I would become an entertainer in the world of pleasuring men. I’d learned how to warm a bottle of sake, how to whisper erotic poems in a man’s ear and how to make him hard and rigid by slipping a ring on his penis, but not to turn my back to him like a mare in season.

      I knew about the power of beauty and the weakness of passion, and how to forge promises while pretending to be indifferent, as well as the goodness and the evil in the hearts of men.

      But I never forgot my father’s promise to return for me.

      Time had passed and my father hadn’t set foot on Japanese shores again. What was not said was more powerful than words, Mariko had taught me. Though I never said it aloud to anyone, I believed my father would never return to the Teahouse of the Look-Back Tree. What else could I think? I hadn’t received one letter from him. If the world was flat as some believed, it was as if he’d fallen off the edge of the earth.

       Why hadn’t he returned as he promised?

      Sitting on a blue silk pillow, I tapped my fingertips on the edge of my folding fan. I mustn’t give up hoping Father would return, that he would see me become a geisha and be proud of me. To do so, I must officially enter the geisha sisterhood. This was a bond not easily broken and one I embraced.

      Geisha sisters were dependent on each other for empathy and loyalty, and most important of all, friendship. That was why I wanted to go through the ceremony of sisterhood with Mariko and no one else. Mariko was the older sister because she’d lived in the teahouse longer than I, but we ate together, shared secrets and helped each other with our kimonos. Learning how to wear kimono wasn’t easy.

      “A red silk slip?” I’d remarked, my hand going to my mouth when Mariko showed me what I’d wear under my kimono the day I formally entered the world of geisha.

      “Yes, Kathlene-san, all geisha show a glimpse of red at their collar. Red is the color of passion. A geisha’s passion.”

      “No more butterfly ties,” I said, referring to the ornate tying of my sash in the back that resembled a giant butterfly. I tied my sash too tightly at first, cutting off my breath, and it came apart soon after, sending us both into laughter. I’d learned how to fasten my kimono with its many ties and drape it over my body so it fell gracefully to the floor and trailed after me when I walked, as if it were water around my feet.

      “When a geisha wears kimono she mustn’t stand out, Kathlene-san, but harmonize with her surroundings,” Mariko reminded me often.

      She meant wa, harmony, the essential of the Japanese soul. I was overcome by a sentimental feeling inside my soul. Mariko reminded me of the soft, pink evening clouds with golden edges that stole over the horizon at sunset, chasing the heavy clouds of the day away and lighting the stars of the night. She could also be strong and fierce. I remembered the night she helped me when Youki cut off my hair. Mariko and I were like two petals that had fallen from the same rose and floated downstream side by side, going wherever the current carried us.

       Why shouldn’t we become sisters?

      That was why I sneaked out of the teahouse long before the rooster rose from his bed of straw and called the inhabitants of Ponto-chô awake. Then I hurried down the dark, narrow alleys along the canal, the wooden houses seeming to face inward rather then outward.

      I hurried on my high clogs with bells to the shop where they sold the kokeshi dolls: crude, trunk-shaped dolls to look like a man with a roughly carved head with eyes, nose and mouth drawn on the doll and clothed in a brightly-painted kimono. The dolls were regarded as a symbol of protection for unattached females.

      My face tightened at the thought of Mariko without a man to love her. Marriage meant security, position, home and children. If a geisha married, she must stop being a geisha. I had a deep feeling as much as Mariko wanted these things, she would never allow herself to stop being a geisha. She was trapped in her mind and body to serve one master. Duty.

      I thought of her now as I rushed back down the narrow stairway, down the winding walkway of stone, and looked around the garden for her. Like the veranda, it was also empty. Where was she? Where were the others?

      I went through the open gate and out into the street. It was late afternoon. I saw pilgrims on their way to Kiomidzu Temple, priests begging for alms and children wandering the streets. Even a long-tailed Tosa chicken being chased by a little black-and-white dog with big, tearful eyes.

      Then I saw something that made me smile. Smile big. Hisa had returned from the market. He’d been on an errand for okâsan, I could see, eyeing the Shiba fish in his basket and a bottle of vinegar in his hand. I shouldn’t do it, but I stared at him, though I stayed in the shadows so he wouldn’t see me. Oh, he was magnificent looking. Tall, manly, his stance more like that of a warrior than a lackey.

      I saw him lift his short, dark gray robe, and, to my amusement, point his penis downward and perform the most natural of needs, his steady flow hitting the pebbled street with such force I swore I saw little bits of stone flying through the air.

      A loud giggle burst from my lips and I covered my mouth with my hand, but it wasn’t soon enough. Hisa looked around and saw me before I could escape. His chest heaved with excitement and his face flushed, but not with embarrassment. The act of urinating in public against walls, fences and poles with canine indifference was a common sight on the streets of Kioto. It adhered to the Japanese notion as long as the act was performed in a public place that belonged to everybody, it belonged to no one and therefore, need not be respected.

      I didn’t move. How could I? He didn’t lower his robe but fixed his stare on me. With defiance, he continued to stand there, legs astride, eyes glaring at me, his penis exposed to my view. I took a deep breath. I should go, knowing okâsan frowned upon a maiko talking to a male servant, but it couldn’t hurt to look at his penis. Wasn’t that part of my training, to learn by observation?

      I moved into the shadows, watching, seeing what he’d do next. My curiosity was a Western trait I had difficulty sweeping under my long kimono sleeves. They touched the ground as I walked, picking up bits of dirt on the pale yellow silk that matched the hue of my golden hair hidden underneath my black wig.

      I kept looking at him.

      As he stroked his penis, I became the artist, my eye drawing every line in my mind, while my body expressed my personal delight and involvement in what I was doing. My pulse raced and a raw heat grew in the pit of my belly. I could smell the scent of my desire, sweet-smelling like fresh moon blossoms, overtake me as I watched Hisa stroke his penis with his free hand. It grew in size until it could have been as strong and hard as any weapon he carried.

      I held my breath, sensual thoughts playing with my mind. I imagined our silvery laughter mixing as our fingertips touched, our hands brushing together as he led my trembling fingers down to his penis, then squeezed my thigh. I giggled, remembering the large penises depicted in the erotic pictures of the masters. These artists were of the school if a man’s penis were