The Blonde Samurai (13 page)

It was in that moment war was declared between us.

“Who
was
that man?” I begged Mr. Fawkes to tell me as we hurried through the royal gardens to the tiny summerhouse, past towering bamboo groves, my eye catching glimpses of pine, rhododendrons and azaleas alongside rippling brooks and grassy mounds.

“Most likely an unhappy samurai from the old provinces, your ladyship,” he said, perspiring and wiping his brow, “since
many of them who defeated the shogun’s forces came to Tokio to take part in the new government.”

“He doesn’t act like a government official.” I’d kept my curiosity at bay as we waited for over an hour in the audience chamber to see the empress, sipping tea, then we were instructed she awaited us in the gardens.

Mr. Fawkes smiled, then said, “These fellows are warriors, Lady Carlton, and used to getting their own way.”

“Someone should teach him how to act in front of a lady,” was all I said, making an attempt to reel in my temper in front of Mr. Fawkes.

“A noble samurai leader is not to be trifled with,” he answered brusquely. “I fear trouble is brewing within the mikado’s government and the warrior clans will suffer.”

Again I detected a note of sadness as well as respect in his voice, intriguing me. I asked, “Aren’t they the aristocratic class?”

“Not anymore. Their yearly stipends have been cut and they’ve lost their privileged status. Many are leaving Tokio and returning home, what with the Frenchies setting up an army of conscripts comprising peasants and reducing the samurai to foot soldiers.”

I frowned. A sudden moodiness entered my heart, knowing I may never see the samurai again. He’d struck a nerve in me as well as a physical response, what some may crudely refer to as a poke in the cunt hole (admit it, dear lady reader, you’d like to acknowledge you felt the same, wouldn’t you?), but I attempted to put him out of my mind for the rest of the afternoon. After all, I was about to be presented to the empress of Japan and ’tis quite a story I have to tell you, flattered I was to be among the first of the wives from the British Legation to meet Her Majesty. I imagine that no matter how
much your clit throbs with excitement now that you’ve met Shintaro, you are breathless, waiting to hear about my encounter with this fascinating female ruler, not more than two years older than I. A woman seen by a scant few of her people and so cloistered was her life, she traveled behind gauze-screened windows in a lacquered palanquin.

I, on the other hand, seemed to have walked onto the stage of a new era when all that was about to change. Behind the tall, towering bamboo groves I entered another world as if the players in the scene about to unfold awakened from a slumber of hundreds of years. I shall not disappoint you, dear lady reader, so I suggest you brew a cup of tea spiced with orange peel and ginger to put you in an Oriental mood and join me as I introduce you to Haruko, the empress of Japan.

The entire conversation between us was conducted in both English and Japanese with the formidable Mr. Fawkes translating our comments (the empress had requested this informality as opposed to having a court minister officiate) as quickly as we could utter the words in our native tongues. Instead of receiving me in the audience hall as her husband preferred, the empress and I walked through the gardens, the smell of pine giving off a fresh scent and the buzzing of insects a delightful background to our ears. We discussed the coming spring and the prescient opening of the cherry blossoms, descriptions of which you have no doubt heard in London drawing rooms and are well-known to you, so I shall not ply you with more.

We spoke about the recent earthquake, the building of the railway, how much she enjoyed the taste of beef for the first time (the mikado himself had deemed it introduced at court), then she remarked on my costume. I explained to the empress
how quickly fashion changed in London, indicating my bustle with a gesture of my hand since Mr. Fawkes had warned me not to turn my back and to bow lower if she bowed. A slight breeze nuzzled my behind as I swayed back and forth and showed the empress how I learned to walk at Miss Brown’s School for Young Ladies, making her laugh and clap her hands. I deigned to keep the conversation light and not lapse into the Irish trait of turning every comment into a story, especially since Mr. Fawkes bade me not to ask about family life since the empress had no children of her own, a subject I was happy not to pursue, considering my own longing to have a child. Fortunately, Her Majesty’s fascination with western fashion encompassed much of our discussion. She was openly intrigued by my numerous petticoats and long train. Swishing my train around, I must confess, dear lady reader, I fought to keep a burning in my pussy from sparking at the thought of the handsome samurai who had dared to grab my dress. I sensed a bond between us, as if we both embraced the power of the moment and wondered where it would have led had destiny placed us in different surroundings.

Then the talk took a different turn. A most interesting one. To facilitate your enjoyment, I shall recall the scene entirely in English.

With a few keen Irish observations to liven the discussion.

“Does Your Majesty enjoy reading books?” I dared to ask, wondering what kind of literature was available to this charming young woman wearing ceremonial dress, diminutive and as delicate as an antique piece of lace spun with silk, her charm and intelligence woven together in a pleasing pattern.

“I have read the translation of several Dutch books from long
ago,” she answered easily, “as well as books by Englishmen on self-reliance and the rights of citizens.” She explained that since the change of government everyone was free to read what they pleased, including the entertaining exploits of Ihara Saikaku.

“What stories has he written?” I asked, interested. I was in for a surprise, one with a briny taste that primed my sensual needs.

“Saikaku writes about merchants and their exploits with women,” said the empress. I noted her proud, royal head never moved as she spoke. Such discipline impressed me. “Whether they be concubines in cages, courtesans or geisha.”

“I have read about the geisha and find their lifestyle most alluring,” I stated with surety, thinking about Lord Penmore’s letters. Mr. Fawkes never lost his place as he translated my comment, but he looked at me as if I were a ball of yarn unwinding. I smiled at him and continued, “I await the time native scholars translate Saikaku’s works into my language so I can learn more about geisha.”

And the sexual mores of this land,
I finished silently, my need to know influenced by the dark sin of my indiscretion with the handsome, brooding samurai, speaking to him as I did as an equal and not acting as a woman of my station would, swooning and having a case of the vapors.

“I shall have the famed novelist’s works translated for you, Lady Carlton, as well as the stories about double-petaled blossoms,” she said without fluttering an eyelash in her lucent white face, never giving away her emotions.

“I would enjoy that, Your Majesty,” I answered, then without a hint of embarrassment I asked Mr. Fawkes to explain “double-petaled.” My dear friend paused, then entreated me to use my imagination and regard the phrase not as an English
mannerism, but strictly Oriental, since it involved the domestic situation of one’s wife and one’s mistress living under the same roof.

I looked at the young women standing patiently around the gardens, their pale faces placid and serene. Something in their purported elegance suggested these were not ordinary ladies-in-waiting. A gesture, a tilt of the head, a sneer. Instinct told me these were not virgins blessed with the purity of holy water, their presence subtle yet intriguing me. In this beautiful floating world, the mikado kept numerous concubines within the palace walls with the dubious title of ladies-in-waiting for his pleasure, not unlike my dear husband in his London domicile with his saucy maids with the red-streaked bottoms.

The empress bowed slightly, I bowed lower. When I glanced up, a knowing look passed between us. I understood the meaning of her words so evident in her upturned eyes, a letting down of her royal veil that surprised me.
We share a common bond,
my smile said, one I discovered that would prove itself valuable in the days to come…

All in all, I had quite an amazing day. A lovely afternoon with the empress of Japan discussing bustles and risqué literature, and a thrilling encounter with the most exciting man I’d ever seen.

And where was my husband, James, while all this was happening to me? As my dear da would say, dear lady reader, I didn’t give a damn.

N
early halfway through my story and I’ve been thinking about how I can achieve the mastery of writing a memoir. What to include, what to leave out as I attempt to create in your mind a vivid impression of what I experienced living in Tokio. Not merely as a globe-trotter, but as a western woman adapting to the native lifestyle, thinking as they do, acting as they do. I want to move events along in a fashion neither too fast nor too slow so you can understand and accept the passage of time without lulling you into boredom. (Similar to playing a game of whist at Lady——’s on Tuesday afternoons or, dare I say, in your own bedroom.) Or pulling you along from one erotic scene to another at such an alarming speed you feel like you’re unraveling, your tight lacing coming undone. Fear not, dear lady reader, ’tis
I
who am exposing myself in this memoir, creating an inner crisis within me, wondering how my work is going to be accepted. Will it be ridiculed, rejected, loved, or worst of all, ignored? ’Tis the risk I take for wishing
to share my adventure with you, or if I may be honest, it is my underlying hope you will put aside your Occidental prejudices and see my life with Shintaro not as an inherently amoral, decadent affair, but for the beauteous thing it was. My intent in this tome is to allow you to travel across the seas with me to Japan and take you away from the foul smells of London, the saffron-colored fog that masks discretions and mayhem, the hurtful whispers behind fluttering fans. I believe ’tis my function as a memoirist to draw you into my grand world of samurai and rebellion and allow you to feel the riveting pulse of hard-core emotions as I have lived them.

If only you could bathe nude as I did in cold streams, scatter flowers in rich green fields, then lie on a silk futon covered with autumnal crimson leaves at the peak of their glory with my samurai, his hard cock inside you, thrusting,
thrusting
until you could stand no more. All the while pursuing these pleasures without the clouds of doubt following you, naught but a heady incense to guide you, and you would see him and his world as I do.

But I believe you’re not ready yet for such pleasures. You, who look upon sex with your aristocratic nose up in the air, have become an instrument of prudery (I’ve no doubt you take to your bed during your “poorly time,” using the queen’s favorite term for menses to give it the sound of a royal decree), further adding to the illusion that we women are invalids and not sexual creatures. No, we shall continue our journey as I have, taking steps to slowly dissolve your resistance against accepting me
and
my samurai.

I imagine you have asked yourself what I expect to gain from writing this memoir. Be assured, I am not writing my story to fill my coffers (I do hope it will provide a sizable sum for my solicitor, Mr. Brown, who has well earned his fee),
for I have made my decision to return to Japan and finish my life in the samurai village. Money is not important there. Family, pride, loyalty, discipline are. Living such a life demands much of me, but there I feel inspired, moved to see the beauty of nature, bend with the strength of the north wind, renew my soul with the rain.

Fear not, I have promised you an erotic tome and I shall not fail to deliver. Before we enter the scandalous floating world with its impermanence and promise of “spring for sale” whatever the season, I shall continue my recollections of daily life in Tokio, blending events together to keep you interested and omitting certain things you may find mundane. I assure you, I shall not omit anything sexual in nature. On the contrary, I find the more I write about my samurai and our amorous adventure, the easier ’tis for me to express my sensual self, let go of my shyness, prejudices, inhibitions and fears. I pray I engage your senses with my storytelling, dear lady reader, but I don’t look to you for compliments, for I have learned from my samurai that the greatest compliment is given by the eyes. They tell so much more than words. Subtle, poetic, suggestive. If only Shintaro were here as I write to lay his hand upon my bare breast, twist my nipple between his thumb and forefinger, then gently suck on it.

If only…

I disliked Tokio. After spending pleasant days on the Bluff in Yokohama taking long walks among the pretty English gardens, the peace and solitude creating a special place in my soul and, when the wind was stilled, I missed the smell of roasting tea in the air. The urban smells and sights of Tokio were so varied, the old with the new, and fused together so tightly they hung over the city like a bland landscape without
shape or color. It would take me many months to unravel it and allow the nuances of what I was seeing to take on the shape and form of that which was so uniquely Japanese. The arranging of flowers, house and garden design, the taking of tea (later in my story, I shall invite you to a most sensual and erotic tea ceremony in the samurai village with my samurai—
don’t peek
or you’ll spoil the surprise).

I would like to show you
why
my perception of Tokio changed, what delights I found, so I invite you to take a walk with me. We’ll start at Asakusa Temple to see the gardens filled with goldfish and silverfish. And the old woman selling beans and toys and paper flowers. Hungry? Try a corncob cooked in steam from a sweet-corn merchant, then we’ll finish with a glass of shaved ice sprinkled with sugar as we make our way through the narrow streets to the neighborhood where I live. Through the tall wooden gate, we enter my house with a heavily tiled roof and built around a small courtyard and filled with odd passages and doors that might and do lead anywhere. (Did you notice the man following us? A westerner, short, ill-fitting dark clothes, face covered by a low-brim hat. I’m certain my husband has me followed everywhere since the incident with Mr. Mallory at the silk shop, though James is rarely at home, spending his time with Lord Penmore,
where
I never ask.)

Dusk falls around us as I slide the paper door closed, my fingertips delighting in its silky texture, shutting out the coolness that is like a warning of the colder night to come. Softly, tenderly, the approaching dusk sweeps away the exquisite orange and yellow and red the departing sun has left behind like the swath of color on a kimono. When the sun goes down, the pink and gray sky gives way to twilight shadows and the incessant music of grasshoppers and other insects
buzzing around my garden. ’Tis a place for solitude. I often sit there, thinking. More often I find myself thinking about the samurai I met at the Imperial Palace, sinners both of us, possessed of the desire to know each other in an intimate way should we meet by chance. I imagine we’d behave as impassioned lovers do in Kabuki theatre, thrashing about in love play. In my version we shed our layers of kimono and lay naked under the moonlight, touching each other everywhere, breasts, chest, belly, hips, until he slides his cock into me with no one but the gods shaking their heads as we indulge in the sweetest taboo.

I found Mr. Fawkes to be an excellent guide, showing me the sights in Tokio scattered across the city from our central starting point at Nihonbashi, including the tombs of the forty-seven
ronin
—eighteenth-century samurai who avenged their master’s death then committed ritual suicide—an evening watching the innovative actor Danjuro, at the theatre, as well as visiting the various pavilions of the Citadel where the shoguns lived.

I remember quite vividly the day we saw a woman with her red underslip showing under her kimono, her gigantic sash tied in front, her black-lacquered, foot-high clogs zigzagging down the street in a bizarre pattern, a young girl holding a parasol over the woman’s head with a male servant following them.

A geisha?

No, she was not, dear lady reader. Even I was fooled.

“Who was that woman wearing the vibrant, succulent colors?” I asked Mr. Fawkes later that afternoon while we strolled through the palace gardens with two ladies-in-waiting pointing out the blooms in season to us. Plum, pear, delicate and budlike. “The natives I’ve seen on the street all dress in dreary mauve or muted browns or grays.”

“If I may be so bold as to speak, Lady Carlton…” he began, his eyes searching mine for approval.

“Yes?”

“The women of the pleasure quarters adorn themselves in these silks.”

“She was a geisha,” I said with a knowing smile.

“No, she’s a…what you would call a courtesan.” He cleared his throat and continued with: “The geisha entertains the customer with song and dance and repartee before the courtesan makes an appearance.”

“Where
are
these pleasure quarters?” I wanted to know, my breath coming faster, wondering if it was the place I’d read about in Lord Penmore’s letters. I ignored his serious expression, delighted with the idea of seeing firsthand this charming decadence of silk and eroticism.

“Yoshiwara,” he said.

“I must go there.”

“You
are
joking with me, Lady Carlton.”

“No. I want to see these women.” I wouldn’t back down, so intrigued was I by these
femmes du monde
who extolled their womanly appeal in a floating world, flitting from one man to another in their embroidered silk kimonos.
Were they more myth than reality?
I wondered, these courtesans who commanded their own destiny, taking full responsibility for their place in society without losing their femininity. I was also curious about the geisha, who inhabited that world on a different plane. I wondered if a westerner like myself could become a geisha.

Imagine the story she could tell,
I thought, pulling stray blond hairs off my forehead, laughing at such a notion. Who would believe a story about a
blonde
geisha? Not an easy task, the telling of such a tale left to a far better writer than I.

“The British Legation doesn’t look kindly at English ladies visiting the pleasure quarters,” Mr. Fawkes said, hoping that would end the conversation. “It can be dangerous, considering that samurai—”

“Samurai?” I asked, but I dared not pursue the subject and let Mr. Fawkes know what was on my mind. A provocative, naughty thought simmered in my head.

I changed the subject and enjoyed viewing the blossoms, though with my limited knowledge of the native language, I couldn’t follow the lively banter of the ladies-in-waiting, frustrating me.
If there’s one thing that upsets the natural order of an Irishwoman’s brain,
my da always said,
it’s not to be minding somebody else’s business.

Which meant over the coming months I worked hard learning phrases, nouns and verbs and how to count. Having grown up in a household where the spoken word fell from an Irish tongue, I spoke with an accent that oft got the better of me when I tried to pronounce the native words. I found my language skills improving when, at the empress’s request, I began instructing the ladies in the mikado’s court in the intricacies of western dress, including close-fitting bodices, full skirts and white gloves. Although I found their slender, tubular look to be elegant (I imagined what it would be like to wear a silken kimono and be unwrapped by my samurai, layer by layer), the empress was openly curious about the rows and rows of lace trimming my flounces and petticoats. I was delighted when she suggested sponsoring a school to make the beautiful fabric. I knew she longed to have a red satin petticoat and white velvet gown set with off-the-shoulder cap sleeves and dotted with pearls like the one I’d brought with me from Paris. Since no dressmaker could touch a royal personage, I suggested the wife of the premier, who was similar
in size, be fitted in her place. This idea charmed the empress, who secretly had such a gown made, but to my knowledge she has yet to wear it in public.

My work schedule with the empress changed when in May 1873, a fire erupted in the women’s quarters in the Imperial Palace, completely destroying the old castle and forcing the royal family to relocate to the castle of the empress dowager on the high ground in Akasaka. The trek by
kuruma
was not only inconvenient for my visits, but also for the officials who had to travel a greater distance to conduct affairs of state. (Fortunately for me, James had left Tokio on a surveying trip with Lord Penmore, compiling detailed renderings of the rivers, mountains and roads on the outskirts of the city. No doubt to further their railroad scheme to import raw materials into the country.)

In my favor, I discovered the empress showed more interest in having me visit her in her temporary quarters, though I wasn’t sure whether it was to display to the British Legation that the mikado’s government was committed to keeping open communication during a difficult time or a genuine show of friendship. I later learned the approachable behavior of the empress extended beyond politics and included the warm heart of one woman reaching out to another.

As she promised, the empress took it upon herself to have several passages of Ihara Saikaku’s demimonde fiction translated for me. I found his renderings of life in the pleasure quarters written nearly two hundred years ago more elegant and sophisticated than the lewd tales I’d read in Lord Penmore’s library. Saikaku’s physical descriptions of the women in the licensed quarters made them seem fascinating and worldly, their charms expressed in great detail, from the shape of their necks, mouths and brows, down to whether or not
a single mole could be found on their bodies. I was completely intrigued.

I enjoyed a great rapport with the empress and although some members of the British Legation did not approve of my female intrusion into the workings of the mikado’s government, I believed there was little they could do about it. Unlike the Englishwomen sent to Japan to teach sewing and ordinary household duties to native women (their passage and board paid for by the British government), I believed they had no authority over my comings and goings. I feared that although they stated publicly they wished to elevate the position of women in Japan, their intent was to limit their rights as they had done to the female population of Queen Victoria’s realm.