Such chatter! Oyuki stood and poured a final bucketful of rinsing water down the shiny pink slope of her belly. But it’s all scabbard and no blade, she said, and crossed over to the soaking trough then perched on the edge of it, swinging her legs around and into the water, first one, then the other.

He seems fond of you.

Creating fondness was their occupation.

His was not sincere?

It is, said Ohasu shyly. As was that of the greedy baby for his mother’s teats.

Hunting bats flickered in the twilight sky, and paper stand lanterns positioned under the eaves of the back veranda glowed softly, creating pools of light for those who wished to linger after the evening meal.

And your friend hopes to buy back her contract?

Matsuura Byobu, c. 1650
(Pair of six-fold screens; color and gold
on paper, 153 × 363 cm)
BY Iwasa Matabei
The Museum Yamatobunkakan

Extra cups had been left on one of their low wooden tray tables, and the peony girl arranged them in a neat row, like a host anticipating the arrival of guests. We’re allowed to dream. Because the funds advanced to purchase our robes and sashes are sufficient to keep us in debt.

The wind had risen, and the peony girl and the haikai poet watched as the evening rain began arriving in the summer trees on the hill slopes beyond the veranda.

I’m the somber one, said Ohasu. The literate one. The one who is appreciated by older men, and by those who wish to display their understanding of the ways of the past. She picked up the wine flask and poured for Old Master Bashō then filled her own cup again. Many of my evenings are spent playing the poem cards game. Or matching seashells. Or folding paper cranes. This one old fellow brings out his collection of iris roots every winter, and we pair them like for like.

Old Master Bashō smiled. Irises. But he was gazing out at the roiling trees, the first scent of rain in the dust already and the sound of it rattling in the leaves.

But the roots only, said Ohasu. Never the flowers.

Ohasu opened the tobacco box. She offered her long bamboo pipe to her guest, who declined, then filled the tiny bowl with a pinch packed in tightly. Sometimes men promise to visit me but I know they won’t. Others make promises and always come. Yet I wait equally for those who appear and those who don’t. She plucked out a shard of coal and lit her pipe then sucked in the smoke and exhaled it. Oyuki strives for guests because she believes she can redeem her contract. But I don’t have her strength. Or her credulity. Ohasu tapped the pipe bowl on the rim of the ash tube, dislodging the pellet of charred tobacco. And I prefer those who fail to keep their promises.

Sometimes men promise to visit me but I know they won’t. Others make promises and always come. Yet I wait equally for those who appear and those who don’t.

The sky cracked open along a splintering seam of silver, and they pulled their tray tables and floor cushions back under the eaves, pleased with the suddenness of the downpour.

Some of the older ones are sad, Ohasu said. They wish to extend the joys of spring but cannot manage it. She shot a quick glance at the poet, as if to confirm he was not offended by her candor. I have my skills. Yet, nevertheless, disappointments occur. Some men become angry. Some become morose and drunk and fall asleep – them I cherish. Some try bear’s gall bladder and Korean ginseng and dried tiger penis. They take their doses then sit facing me with an expression of self-concentration, fingering their limp little man-twigs hopefully. Some find what pleasures they can in hurting me. I am not to be wounded or bruised, but there are those who understand how to create pain that leaves no marks. Them I try to avoid. Some wish only to suckle me, and although no milk flows I give the nipple willingly and calm them until they sleep. Some difficult types wish to create complications and demand two or three of us rolled together like dumplings, and some wish to include an easy-way boy too so as to have available all the slippery tools of desire. And some say they wish to discover a new configuration, a complexity of arousal that has never before been attempted. But for them there can be only disappointment, for all things have been done. She regarded Old Master Bashō coolly for a moment then said it again, All things.