She repeated it in simpler language.
“Ah! Understand! All right—I there quick,” she heard him say, with his funny accent.
“So sorry, please excuse me. Kiku-san?”
“Yes, Mama-san?” In a moment the shoji slid open. Kiku smiled at her, the kimono clinging and her hair prettily disarrayed. “Good morning, Mama-san, did you have pleasant dreams?”
“Yes, yes, thank you. So sorry to disturb you. Kiku-chan, do you wish for fresh cha?”
“Oh!” Kiku’s smile disappeared. This was the code sentence that Gyoko could freely use in front of any client which told Kiku that her most special client, Omi-san, was in the Tea House. Then Kiku could always finish her story or song or dance more quickly, and go to Omi-san, if she wished. Kiku pillowed with very few, though she entertained many—if they paid the fee. Very, very few could afford all her services.
“What is it?” Gyoko asked narrowly.
“Nothing, Mama-san. Anjin-san,” Kiku called out gaily, “so sorry, would you like cha?”
“Yes, please.”
“It will be here at once,” Gyoko said. “Ako! Hurry up, child.”
“Yes, Mistress.” Ako brought in the tray of tea and two cups and poured, and Gyoko left, again apologizing for disturbing him.
Kiku gave Blackthorne the cup herself. He drank it thirstily, then she helped him to dress. Ako laid out a fresh kimono for her. Kiku was most attentive but she was consumed with the knowledge that soon she would have to accompany the Anjin-san outside the gateway to bow him homeward. It was good manners. More than that, it was her privilege and duty. Only courtesans of the First Rank were ever allowed to go beyond the threshold to bestow that rare honor; all others had to stay within the courtyard. It was unthinkable for her not to finish the night as was expected—that would be a terrible insult to her guest and yet . . .
For the first time in her life, Kiku did not wish to bow one guest homeward in front of another guest.
I can’t, not the Anjin-san in front of Omi-san.
Why? she asked herself. Is it because the Anjin-san’s barbarian and you’re ashamed that all the world will know you’ve been possessed by a barbarian? No. All Anjiro knows already and a man is like any other, most of the time. This man is samurai, hatamoto, and Admiral of Lord Toranaga’s ships! No, nothing like that.
What is it then?
It’s because I found in the night that I was shamed by what Omi-san did to him. As we should all be shamed. Omi-san should never have done that. The Anjin-san is branded and my fingers seemed to feel the brand through the silk of his kimono. I burn with shame for him, a good man to whom that should not have been done.
Am I defiled?
No, of course not, just shamed before him. And shamed before Omi-san for being ashamed.
Then in the reaches of her mind she heard Mama-san saying again, ‘Child, child, leave man things to men. Laughter is our balm against them, and the world and the gods and even old age.’
“Kiku-san?”
“Yes, Anjin-san?”
“Now I go.”
“Yes. Let us go together,” she said.
He took her face tenderly in his rough hands and kissed her. “Thank you. No words enough to thank.”
“It is I who should thank you. Please allow me to thank you, Anjin-san. Let us leave now.”
She allowed Ako to put the finishing touches to her hair, which she left hanging loosely, tied the sash of the fresh kimono, and went with him.
Kiku walked beside him as was her privilege, not a few steps behind as a wife or consort or daughter or servant was obliged to. He put his hand on her shoulder momentarily and this was distasteful to her for they were not in the privacy of a room. Then she had a sudden, horrible premonition that he would kiss her publicly—which Mariko had mentioned was barbarian custom—at the gate. Oh, Buddha let that not happen, she thought, almost faint with fright.
His swords were in the reception room. By custom, all weapons were left under guard, outside the pleasure rooms, to avoid lethal quarrels with other clients, and also to prevent any lady from ending her life. Not all Ladies of the Willow World were happy or fortunate.
Blackthorne put his swords into his sash. Kiku bowed him through to the veranda, where he stepped into his thongs, Gyoko and others assembled to bow him away, an honored guest. Beyond the gateway was the village square and the sea. Many samurai were there milling about, Buntaro among them. Kiku could not see Omi, though she was certain he would be watching somewhere.
The Anjin-san seemed immensely tall, she so small beside him. Now they were crossing the courtyard. Both saw Omi at the same time. He was standing near the gateway.
Blackthorne stopped. “Morning, Omi-san,” he said as a friend and bowed as a friend, not knowing that Omi and Kiku were more than friends. How could he know? she thought. No one has told him—why should they tell him? And what does that matter anyway?
