Under the same roof…^[1]

A true son of Edo, high-spirited, candid, and fond of all things new and novel, the Lesser Tada doted on imported teas, polychrome crockery, lacquered trays inlaid with mother-of-pearl, sweet bean-paste cakes, salacious drawings, fragrant hair oils, and cunningly wrought ivory baubles attached as toggles on sash-pouches, his favorite being a rare hinged specimen depicting two baboons squat-fucking, the realistic action of which was much admired by connoisseurs, who found in the precision of its mechanism and the audacity of its design a demonstration of the superiority of the culture of the Edo townsman. The Lesser Tada’s unlined summer robe of indigo cotton was modest enough, but sewn around the insides of the neckband and sleeve openings were strips of lavender silk that he was in the habit of stroking with his fingertips. His oiled coif was stylishly arranged and held in place with a twisted paper cord the pale milky blue of the summer sky, and he wore his bright scarlet loincloth with the front flap hanging down, an urban affectation thought shocking in rural districts.

No doubt my smaller girl has read all your linked poems, the Lesser Tada declared to the haikai poet with whom he had offered to share his accommodations at the crowded inn. Or at least the most famous ones. The man himself was no reader.

The soaking tub in the back garden was an elongated trough formed from thick cedar planks and fed through a bamboo trickle-pipe furred rufous with iron. Rinsing buckets were piled nearby, and the two men perched on low stools in the hazy summer sunlight and began scrubbing themselves with their hand towels, the assignations man entertaining his guest with offers and gossip.

The Tada brothers were well-established in Edo’s New Nightless City of the Reed Plains. The elder brother’s teahouse catered to an exclusive clientele of wealthy pleasure-seekers while the Lesser Tada’s own public rooms were open to any person with sufficient funds for the food and drink and saucy banter provided there. You have to know how to read your customers, explained the Lesser Tada, wringing out his hand towel, and be open to fresh ideas. No person not totally impoverished was too poor for the House of the Lesser Tada, and even the possessor of but a single copper coin gripped in a careworn fist would be included in an evening’s merriment for the time required to strip it from him.

Shall we call for some rice wine? A plate of tidbits perhaps?

Perhaps later, said Old Master Bashō.

The Lesser Tada’s brother produced pleasure banquets attended by top-ranking courtesans who sat simpering within immense mounds of silk brocade, their heads immobilized by the need to manage massive chignons freighted with an array of tortoise-shell combs and thrust pins and silver hair ornaments. Grand courtesans epitomized the brilliance of the traditions of the floating world of desire. But their heightened sense of self-magnificence made them difficult to approach so that much cajoling and entreaty was required to accomplish even the most superficial of transmissions. And this, friend, if I may say it, said the Lesser Tada, after all financial expectations have been satisfied. He rinsed off then scuttled across to the big cedar-wood soaking trough and climbed in, damson-sack dangling. There’s a better way, said the Lesser Tada, pleased with himself and his candor, a more modern way; and sighing with contentment, he sank deeply into the pungent heat of the mineral water.

The Lesser Tada’s assignations teahouse had been among the first to promote young serving maids as peony girls, selecting those with a lively manner and sweet disposition, outfitting them in gaudy robes then encouraging them to feel emotions and share their feelings widely.

More than that, friend, if I can say it, he said, and leaned in towards Old Master Bashō confidingly. A chance for love. An opportunity for the joys and heartbreaks of romantic love.

What does Edo have in abundance? The Lesser Tada answered his own question: Samurai bumpkins with time to fill and money to spend. And what else? The sons of rich merchants with even more money available. And what do they want? Their food served and their wine poured? Someone dancing, someone singing, someone banging away on the three-string? Is that all? Smutty chitchat? Finger games? And then of course as occurs in the natural order of things — he hurried past it in deference to the famous poet’s no doubt heightened sensibility – access to the release of carnal desire. But can that be all? The Lesser Tada draped his hand towel on top of his head. More than that, friend, if I can say it, he said, and leaned in towards Old Master Bashō confidingly. A chance for love. An opportunity for the joys and heartbreaks of romantic love.

The grand courtesans cannot provide it?

Hardly. Grand courtesans are like the decorated towers of the Gion festival-floats that are dragged through the streets of the Old Imperial Capital at the start of summer, beautiful to look at but massive and ponderous and —

And what would you know about it? called Oyuki, the larger and bolder of his peony girls as she advanced across the back garden, her hand towel held draped down over her loins with casual and sluttish aplomb. Have you ever pulled on one?

Oyuki and Ohasu had bound up their elaborate coiffures with white head-cloths to preserve the shapes of them. They kicked off their garden clogs and squatted near the dipping buckets then began scrubbing themselves vigorously, rubbing their skin pink.

You can buy wine anywhere in the Nightless City, the Lesser Tada continued, tasty food, lively music, a quilt-companion, female or male. But can dreams reach no higher? Is that all there is to be wished for? I think we can agree it is not. Hearts aflame, that’s what’s wanted! Burning with love’s ardor!

Stomachs burning from cheap wine, muttered bold Oyuki; and little Ohasu laughed then glanced shyly at the famous haikai poet sunk up to his neck in the murky water.

A sense of shared style, declared the Lesser Tada, undaunted, a sense of urban polish appreciated — that is what the modern pleasure-seeker requires.

Oyuki and Ohasu had been acquired by the House of the Lesser Tada around the same time and were thought of as a set. Neither had as yet acquired a sponsoring patron, and their reluctance to commit to dependency bonds was in itself considered a sign of modern times. You see the shape of it yet? said the Lesser Tada. Novelty is what attracts customers in Edo today, new words to old melodies…

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?

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.

The peony girl reloaded her pipe and lit it with a coal like a glowing tooth, sucking the smoke up in two quick gasps then tapping the bowl empty.

But shouldn’t I wish for something for myself? Isn’t there somewhere that I should place my hopes? It’s a question for which I have no answer. So I pour wine and sing and dance and chat and play finger games. And when special requests have been negotiated and extra fees paid, magpies build bridges and I wait where I am told and do whatever is required.

The wind came up in an abrupt rush that flung a wet spray deeper onto the veranda, and they scrambled to get farther back under the eaves, laughing at their own agitation.

“A sudden evening shower,” Ohasu recited, “and the ducks run around the house quacking.”^[2]

The old poet smiled. Did you write that?

I tried it another way too. “A sudden evening shower, and a solitary woman sits gazing pensively.”^[2] But that seems too sentimental to me.

Old Master Bashō picked up his cup and sipped at it. Your “gazing pensively” stanza would be easy to link to. You could use it to connect a poem on love to one on the summer rain.

Perhaps, said Ohasu. Yet, still, it seems too obvious.

And the “ducks” stanza is lighter, I suppose. He sat watching the rain lashing the trees then said, But it’s within the link itself that beauty lies, the interval between two stanzas.

Not in the words?

No. In what jumps across from one stanza to the next and spans the gap. Our method is found in the art of collaboration. Poets sitting in a room composing a sequence together. Each voice pushing off from the one before.

I like the stanzas, Ohasu said.

So do I. It’s what blocks me.

Do your followers appreciate the distinction?

Some do. Most don’t. He turned towards her and said, Most are like those of you who live in the floating world, drifting along, accepting every occurrence as it arrives.

And is that how you see us?

The old poet said nothing.

But I suppose it’s true. I am indeed a fashion. Ohasu loosened her bodice and pulled it open for the cooling she might find. A father is unable to pay his debts, and a small girl is sold to a pleasure provider in Edo. A city man is sent as his agent. He ties a rice-straw rope around the girl’s waist and leads her out through a village emptied of its people, for no one there wishes to see the shame of the girl who is the one selected to be sold. The girl wept the night before but now her eyes are dry. She doesn’t gaze about to remember the world of childhood she will never again see. Her mother calls and she looks back. But there is nothing for her to say and nothing to do, and the small girl walks away doubting that she will ever see her again.

The morning sun warms them and steam from tilled fields rises in silver clouds of moist air. Her mother has not prepared a travel bundle for the girl because there was nothing she could be given. Her hands are empty. They hang at her sides. She doesn’t even grasp the rope which connects her to the city man plodding along before her; and when he turns off the road and finds a secluded dell with a boulder the size and shape of a kneeling cow, she lies on her belly. Her robes are bundled up around her middle, and her legs pried apart so that her little jade gate is exposed. Does she still remember the feel of the city man’s breath on her bare skin? The sound of the slap of his hand rubbing up the red wad of his man-parts?

The trees were there, the rocks and grasses and insects were there, as were the bird calls and flecks of sunlight and shifting breeze. But the small girl was absent.

No. Because she wasn’t there. The trees were there, the rocks and grasses and insects were there, as were the bird calls and flecks of sunlight and shifting breeze. But the small girl was absent. She didn’t hear the city man snuffling in his lust. Nor did she smell the crushed ferns at her feet, nor feel the gritty surface of the rock she was lying on. Look at me, the city man croaked finally, look at me now. But the girl wasn’t there so she made no response to the stinking mucus splattering on the backs of her thighs.

It had happened. But it had not happened to her.

Do you understand why I’m telling you this? Ohasu picked up her long pipe again. Such absences are for me my intervals.

The old poet sat in silence beside her.

And yet it is in the telling of such things that I connect together my intervals. So perhaps that is why I find comfort in stories, in the shapes and sounds of the words as well as their meanings.

There’s no real comfort there.

No? Ohasu poured for Old Master Bashō then poured for herself. When Oyuki and I were brought into the Nightless City, we were children who were permitted only to obey. When we cried, we were told to stop crying, and when we asked to go home, we were told we had no homes to return to.

All must bear their lives.

I would have preferred mine otherwise. Ohasu took up her wine cup and drank then set it back on the tray table with a sharp click. Tell me, she said, why should there be no solace for women like me? Can you in your black sleeves explain that?

Old Master Bashō regarded her for a moment then said, There’s no answer for such a question.

No? “My love-passions flame up but in my breast my heart chars.” ^[3]

Ohasu poured for her guest and poured for herself then said, A useless indulgence, I suppose. Yet those words were written by a woman who felt what I feel, and they do seem to offer me comfort. The words, she repeated, are what comfort me.

Old Master Bashō looked at her again, studying the small woman sitting stubbornly beside him, then he returned his attention to the thunderstorm raking the trees, the rain thrusting downward in broad swinging sheets, the world closing down within the turbulence of the gathering of its darkness.

She asked him why he was so dissatisfied.

Perhaps on another occasion I can explain it.

She said she wasn’t sleepy. And he heard a soft rustling as she crept around the folding screen that divided the shared room, her small body pale in the humid darkness. Tell me now.

I tried before…

Try again.

He lay waiting in the sweltering darkness then said, The desire to describe an instant of beauty is a habit difficult to overcome. As is the wish to have what you make seem true. And important. Because then you’re doing it for others. And therefore it’s theirs, not yours. And only if it’s yours can you release it.

For others to link to?

Yes. To complete.

She leaned forward to be nearer. And that’s the goal? To free yourself of solitude?

Old Master Bashō did not answer at first, unsure how to respond and trusting that she would listen to what he said and understand what he meant so that he had to be certain he believed it himself. There are mosquitoes still. Come in under the net.

She slipped in quickly and lay beside him at the edge of his quilt.

He told her that penetrating into the beauty of the true nature of things had been the goal of the poets of the past, and that he himself had struggled to achieve it. But no longer. It is the ordinary that seems satisfying to me now. And not the ordinary seen in new ways, but the ordinary as it is, the ordinary linked to the ordinary.

So it does become the leap across? Not the idea, but the connection? I wonder if your followers can understand that. Ohasu lay on her belly with her bare shoulders raised, supported by her forearms. So a summer night becomes the scent of its orange blossoms, and that in itself is enough…

He followed her down the corridor and out to the thermal bath in the garden, the summer moon’s radiance silvering her small body. She removed the boards fitted over the trough then slipped into the heated water like an otter down its slide.

Say you saw something, said Ohasu, a flower in the mist, a bright winter bird, an insect singing in cut brushwood, and you made a stanza about it in such a way that the connection was between the thing itself and your version of it.

Old Master Bashō smiled. I see you wish to defend those who write stand-alone haiku.

Just that you could do that.

And would you wish to spend your life making things out of words then sticking them up on walls?

Ohasu adjusted the cloth protecting her coiffure then stood dripping and perched on the outside edge of the tub, gazing out at the silver and black shapes of the mountains and trees in the moonlight. It would be odd for a girl, I know. But I’ve always loved words, the shapes of them.

Old Master Bashō eased himself up out of the hot water too.

… words had been like a magic world for her as a child, a peach blossoms spring she could climb down into and take possession of. The shapes of words were paths she could trace out, following them this way and that; they were mazes to study and admire, maps and diagrams and arcane charts, each new one a delight.

The character for horse, you can see his four little legs running. And the word for flying looks like birds on the wing.

Most aren’t pictures.

No, I know. But words had been like a magic world for her as a child, a peach blossoms spring she could climb down into and take possession of. The shapes of words were paths she could trace out, following them this way and that; they were mazes to study and admire, maps and diagrams and arcane charts, each new one a delight. It’s still that way for me, Ohasu said. And the old fellows who come out to visit me know it. Obscure words for rare flowers, odd names for lost cities, weird-beings that are no longer thought to exist, they write them out and show me how to write them, and each becomes something we share. Is that not a form of linking?

No doubt. But your house master will still want to be paid in cash.

Yes. That’s so. For all his foolish chatter about romantic love. Ohasu stood abruptly and climbed out of the soaking trough then stepped into her clogs. She went out into the garden then turned to face him, her wet body sleek in the moonlight. Is his way of linking so very different from yours? When something occurs to you, an image, a phrase, an idea, and you jot it down and think about it and try it different ways, what are you linking to if not another, earlier attempt at the same thing? Your links are to yourself. Ohasu unwound the white cloth from around her hair and began wiping herself dry with it. So why shouldn’t mine be? Why shouldn’t I try to make things out of words even as others are trying make something out of me?

Perhaps you should. But doing it on your own seems too lonely.

I am seldom on my own, said Ohasu. But I’m always alone. She finished wiping down her legs then wrung out her little white cloth and held it draped over her belly in a belated gesture of improvised modesty. Did you like my story about the weepy little girl? My listeners usually find it moving. Because they are willing to believe that I have no choice in what I do. And in what is done to me.

Old Master Bashō said nothing. And when they returned finally to their shared room, each wondered which side of the folding screen the peony girl would choose and which the other’s preference would be.