Listen, Sire, please excuse me, but this time I disobey. With pride. This time I betray you. Now I’m going to co-opt your son and heir, the Lord Sudara, and his wife, the Lady Genjiko, and together we’ll order Crimson Sky when the rains cease, and then war begins. And until the last man in the Kwanto dies, facing the enemy, I’ll hold you safe in Yedo Castle, whatever you say, whatever the cost.
Gyoko was delighted to be home again in Mishima among her girls and ledgers and bills of lading, her debts receivable, mortgage deeds, and promissory notes.
“You’ve done quite well,” she told her chief accountant.
The wizened little man bobbed a thank you and hobbled away. Balefully she turned to her chief cook. “Thirteen silver
“Oh, please excuse me, Mistress, but rumors of war have sent prices soaring to the sky,” the fat man said truculently. “Everything. Fish and rice and vegetables—even soya sauce has doubled since last month and saké’s worse. Work work work in that hot, airless kitchen that must certainly be improved. Expensive! Ha! In one week I’ve served one hundred and seventy-two guests, fed ten courtesans, eleven hungry apprentice courtesans, four cooks, sixteen maids, and fourteen men servants! Please excuse me, Mistress, so sorry, but my grandmother’s very sick so I must ask for ten days’ leave to . . .”
Gyoko rent her hair just enough to make her point but not enough to mar her appearance and sent him away saying she was ruined, ruined, that she’d have to close the most famous Tea House in Mishima without such a perfect head cook and that it would all be his fault—his fault that she’d have to cast all her devoted girls and faithful but unfortunate retainers into the snow. “Don’t forget winter’s coming,” she wailed as a parting shot.
Then contentedly alone, she added up the profits against the losses and the profits were twice what she expected. Her saké tasted better than ever and if food prices were up, so was the cost of saké. At once she wrote to her son in Odawara, the site of their saké factory, telling him to double their output. Then she sorted out the inevitable quarrels of the maids, sacked three, hired four more, sent for her courtesan broker, and bid heavily for the contracts of seven more courtesans she admired.
“And when would you like the honored ladies to arrive, Gyoko-san?” the old woman simpered, her own commission considerable.
“At once. At once. Go on, run along.”
Next she summoned her carpenter and settled plans for the extension of this tea house, for the extra rooms for the extra ladies.
“At long last the site on Sixth Street’s up for sale, Mistress. Do you want me to close on that now?”
For months she had been waiting for that particular corner location. But now she shook her head and sent him away with instructions to option four hectares of wasteland on the hill, north of the city. “But don’t do it all yourself. Use intermediaries. Don’t be greedy. And I don’t want it aired that you’re buying for me.”
“But four hectares? That’s—”
“At least four, perhaps five, over the next five months. But options only—understand? They’re all to be put in these names.”
She handed him the list of safe appointees and hurried him off, in her mind’s eye seeing the walled city within a city already thriving. She chortled with glee.
Next every courtesan was sent for and complimented or chided or howled at or wept with. Some were promoted, some degraded, pillow prices increased or decreased. Then, in the midst of everything, Omi was announced.
“So sorry, but Kiku-san’s not well,” she told him. “Nothing serious! It’s just the change of weather, poor child.”
“I insist on seeing her.”
“So sorry, Omi-san, but surely you don’t
“I know whom she belongs to,” Omi shouted. “I want to see her, that’s all.”
“Oh, so sorry, of course, you have every right to shout and curse, so sorry, please excuse me. But, so sorry, she’s not well. This evening—or perhaps later—or tomorrow—what can I do, Omi-san? If she becomes well enough perhaps I could send word if you’ll tell me where you’re staying. . . .”
He told her, knowing that there was nothing he could do, and stormed off wanting to hack all Mishima to pieces.
Gyoko thought about Omi. Then she sent for Kiku and told her the program she’d arranged for her two nights in Mishima. “Perhaps we can persuade our Lady Toda to delay four or five nights, child. I know half a dozen here who’ll pay a father’s ransom to have you entertain them at private parties. Ha! Now that the great
“And poor Omi-san, Mistress? I’ve never heard him so cross before, so sorry he shouted at you.”
