Free Women of the Pleasure Quarters by Lesley Downer Page B

eyes etched in black and her underlip an intense peony red. Her hair was swept into loops and coils, as bulky as a Restoration wig. On it she supported an enormously ornate headdress studded with tortoiseshell and silver hairpins and decorated with silk flowers and foliage, with dangling mother-of-pearl ornaments and strings of coral weighted with gold-leaf blossoms.
    She was wrapped in layer upon layer of priceless antique kimonos. At her throat was a thick collar of beige brocade embroidered with a swirling pattern of irises. On top of that came a red kimono with a quilted hem which swept the floor and swung heavily as she walked, and above that an exquisite robe of thick black silk glistened with lustrous gold flowers, swirling around her feet like a train. The obi, a swathe of orange silk brocade with a gold-thread design of chrysanthemums and maple leaves, was tied in the front in an enormous knot which hung in great folds from her waist to her knees. This was a symbol of her availability. In theory it might be untied—if you happened to be rich and fortunate enough to be permitted to do so.
    Underneath it all, she had a cheeky, elfin face with a tiny nose and pointed chin. How long had she been a
tayu,
I asked, then gasped when she opened her small mouth to answer. In the chalky-white face with the blood-red lips, her teeth were painted black. It was macabre, like looking into a black hole.
    Four years was the answer. She was twenty-four and she was interested in the particular styles of dance and music which the
tayu
performed, quite different from the dance and music of the geisha tradition. She was fascinated, she said, by the history and traditions of the
tayu
and the stories of the great
tayu
of old. She loved the world of darkness and shadow in which the
tayu
moved. It was, she said, more
shibui
than the geisha tradition. The word
shibui,
which literally translates as “astringent” or “sober,” evokes a mood of old gold, glimmering shadows, and rust.
    Dusk had fallen. In the banqueting hall guests were waiting, cross-legged on the floor. The women among them knelt demurely. Huge smoking candles flickered, set in tall golden candlesticks. Dimly visible in the gloom of an alcove was an ancient scroll bearing a poem brushed with exquisite skill.
    Then the
tayu
appeared, framed in the doorway like a visitation from another age. She was transformed, she was a shamaness. Aloof, withdrawn, self-contained, she did not speak, smile, or glance at the guests. She was to be looked at, not to look. As she swept gracefully into the room, deftly swinging the heavy quilted train of the kimono, more layers became visible, rippling at the sleeve and hem.
    Solemnly she knelt, lifted a shallow red-lacquered bowl brimming with saké and put it to her lips. Then she picked up a
kokyu,
an instrument shaped like a small shamisen with a square base and long narrow neck, and rested it on her knees. Taking a bow strung so loosely that it looked as if it could not possibly produce any sound, she scraped it across the strings to coax out a thin scratchy melody, turning the instrument so that the bow touched each of the three strings.
    It was an extraordinary, archaic sound. It lifted the hairs on the back of your neck and took you back across the centuries to a time when, one could imagine, rakes and dandies dissipated fortunes in places such as this. Lastly, rising to her feet, she danced, mesmerizingly slow and stately, while the guests and I, sitting in the shadows, watched, entranced.
    But the most unforgettable thing was that under the layers and layers of brocade and silk, her tiny feet were bare. It was the most erotic sight, it sent a shiver up the spine. They peeked from beneath the heavy finery, the only reminder that underneath the painted face, the priceless headdress, the three layers of under-kimono and four layers of over-kimono, there was a real woman.
    It must have been even more poignant in the old days, if anyone then