Free The Ghost Brush by Katherine Govier Page B

I hear he’s destroyed it.”
    “Don’t believe it. No writer ever destroys his work. He’s got a copy,” said Kyoden. “A secret part of him believes it will be discovered one day, and he’ll be seen as a genius.”
    “Probably the loyal retainer has it.”
    “I remember one line,” said Tsutaya dreamily. “‘The truth dawned on me: words of praise that had been showered on me were nothing but flattery from those who wanted my favour. I had neither talent nor good memory.’”
    Everyone laughed. “He got that right.”
    Now Sadanobu was within earshot.
    The Mad Poets all turned their backs and became fascinated with the troupe of dancers in the riverbed. I saw that Waki was trembling, and that sweat came from his temples.
    We felt, rather than saw, Sadanobu stop. He was breathing heavily. He was big, and from the side he bulged like a pregnant woman.
    “I have a message,” he said. Nobody moved. “A message for the man called Utamaro.”
    “No such man here,” Utamaro called out. “No such man at all. The artist of that name is an immortal.”
    More heavy silence.
    “When you meet him next”—heavy irony here—“kindly tell him he should take care. He treads close to the line.”
    “Close to the line? With what?”
    “His pictures of the courtesans. He makes their faces known, as if they were heroines of legend. As you all know, the brothel world brings shame on our realm. It has long been forbidden to put out pictures of these evils. He has been warned.” The heavy man was out of breath.
    No one said anything. The retainers folded Sad-and-Noble back in their midst and set off.
    When the horses’ hoofs could no longer be heard, the laughter began.
    “You see?” Utamaro preened. “I am the best. That proves it.”
    No one rose to the bait. The wine was gone. A chill rose from the grass. I felt it through my kimono. The waitress kneeled on the bank picking up glasses. The birds pipped; it was dusk. A sadness welled. Yuko sat with her hands folded in her lap, with no expression on her face. Only Utamaro went on.
    “Let him say what he wants. I know I’m safe. I’ve been painting these women for how many years? So many. And never been touched. Kyoden was arrested because he used words. Words are flagrant and can’t be ignored. But pictures,” Utamaro was saying, as we all packed up, “pictures can be as I please. Strictly speaking, they are forbidden, but that means nothing when it is a question of greatness.”
    “Bring your picture, Ei,” said my father gently. He lifted it and looked at it carefully. “It’s not so very bad. We might be able to put it in the book.”
    I SAT WITH SHINO IN HER ROOM , making characters with brush and ink. She was heating water for tea on the small grill. She was a proper courtesan now. She’d debuted and had her own clients. Her contract would have been up, but she had debts and she had to work until she paid them off. No matter how careful a courtesan was, the debt built up and ate the earnings. She was always tired, but she tried to teach me manners. Right now she was telling me not to peek around the screen that divided her room from Fumi’s. But I was doing it.
    I saw Fumi’s bare back. I saw fat fingers parting the hair on her beautiful nape and beginning to knead her flesh. She had called in the masseur. It was the blind man I had often seen in the crowds watching the courtesans’ parade. I poked my head farther in. His pear-shaped face wore an expression of rapture. I doubted it was because of her matted and stiff hair or her thin shoulders. I doubted it was even her smell.
    “Ei, away from there,” Shino hissed. “Here—tea! Sit and we will have conversation.”
    I withdrew and sat squinting though the crack. The blind man’s backside looked like a big sack of rice and his fingers were pale parsnips. His white eyes rolled up. He smiled as he heard Shino, confirming my suspicions. However softly she spoke to me, her voice caused that look