Shadows on the Moon (37 page)

“It is?” That got my attention.

“Yes, but your dancing does not have that extra quality which will make it stand out from the others,” Yoshi-san said. “Not even your Chu No Mai, which is what I would recommend you perform. If there is a girl there who has the soul of a true dancer, she will outdo you and probably ruin your chances.”

“Then what am I do to?” I asked.

“Costume!” Mie-san said. “Do you remember that seven-layered costume I had, Yoshi-chan? Each layer was inspired by a line from the poem ‘The Mountains of the Moon.’”

“Yes, yes!” Yoshi-san said excitedly. “It would not have mattered if you had fallen over your own feet that night. All anyone remembered was the costume.”

Mie-san looked affronted and Yoshi-san quickly added, “You danced beautifully, though.”

“Yoshi-san is right,” Akira interrupted. “The other girls will not think of costumes — they are noblewomen, not
gijo.
I imagine they will simply dance in their formal kimonos. This is a way for Yue to stand out. We do not have time to create a seven-layered costume, but perhaps . . . three layers?”

“Inspired by a haiku?” Mie-san asked.

“Love comes like storm clouds . . .”
Akira said. “Perfect.”

Within minutes, what seemed like all seven of the
gijo
who lived in Mie-san’s
okiya
had been unearthed from their rooms and given instructions to open their clothes chests and search out suitable kimonos for alteration. The little sitting room where Mie-san and Yoshi-san took their tea became a sewing room, and we all lived in it for the next five days, working feverishly to transform the borrowed kimonos into a costume so beautiful that it would hide the performer’s missing heart.

I would arrive at the ball in the kimono that Akira had already had made: a demure, pale pink one sewn with flowers and birds. It was the sort of kimono that most of the girls would probably be wearing. All the better, said Akira, to highlight my uncommon beauty. On top of that I would wear an
uchikake
kimono — a very long robe with a padded hem that would be left untied and allowed to trail behind me. That was in a deep pink and was covered in a pattern of daisies and songbirds.

Unlike the rest of the girls, though, I would be wearing another costume beneath that first one, hidden from view at the neckline and hem by a plain white
nagajuban.

The first layer of my dancing costume was black: shocking because it was a color never worn by unmarried girls unless they were in mourning. We sewed tiny sparkling fragments of metal to its surface in patterns that resembled the constellations of the stars, and embroidered the sleeves and hems with silver-thread clouds in billowing swirls. This was the night sky with clouds from the first line of the haiku. Rather than an obi — which would be impossible to untie during a performance and would be too bulky anyway — it was held closed by a sash of flame red. For maximum effect, Mie-san suggested flinging it away into the audience once it was no longer needed.

The second layer of the costume was a gown of silver gauze which I believed was actually a piece of nightwear. The
gijo
to whom it belonged had not been glad to give it up, but her protests were hushed by the others. The fabric was incredibly fine, fluttering and catching the air as I moved. It represented the “wind” of the second line, and to make this clear, we made curling leaves from gold and red and copper silk and fastened them to the hems and cuffs, where they drifted and rustled just like real ones. The sash for this one was gold, and again I was to send it flying as I untied it.

The final layer represented the moon. It was pure white — a color reserved for brides, just as black was reserved for mourning — and it had no ornamentation. The shadows of the haiku would be created by my hair, which now reached the middle of my back, and by the movement of my body as I danced, shifting the sheer fabric across curves and lines it did not quite reveal. This kimono had to be pulled on over my head because it was sewn shut.

My final sash was also white, but it was embroidered with yellow camellias for longing, blue forget-me-nots for true love, and red zinnias for loyalty. The sash belonged to Mie-san, who surrendered it to the cause willingly. Yoshi-san, who was the best seamstress, carefully added one yellow chrysanthemum to the design. This was the flower of the Moon Prince’s crest and would be the equivalent of sewing his name on the sash. It told him I longed for him, loved him, and would be loyal to him.

“You must aim this at Tsuki no Ouji-sama,” Yoshi-san said. “Let it fall at his feet. He will pick it up and read its message, and feel the warmth of your body in it and smell your scent.”

I nodded and smiled, pretending to admire the beauty of the sash and the cleverness of Mie-san and Yoshi-san’s plan, when truly her words made me feel ill.

That night, while everyone slumbered, I slipped out of bed and down to the sewing room, and lit a lamp there. The costume, complete now, lay on the table, its various layers tenderly folded, glowing and glittering in the golden light. Waiting.

I picked up that last, flowery sash, and took a needle and threaded it with orange thread. I was no master seamstress, but I had just enough skill to add a tiny, tiny star of orange in the top right-hand corner of the piece of fabric. That star represented the many delicate petals of an orange lily. The flower that stood for hatred, and revenge.

When my work was complete, I refolded the sash and placed it back in its position of honor at the top of the low table. Then I blew out the lamp and sat quietly in the moonlight that filtered through the lattice window screens.

All the preparations were complete. The decisions had been made — the melancholy Chu No Mai was to be my dance — and there was nothing left to be done. In under two days, I would attend the Shadow Ball and spend every particle of my will to capture a prince.

I looked again at the stunning costume. There had been times over the past few days, as we worked our fingers to the bone, when I had wanted to laugh at all our efforts to make it fit the haiku. Not because it was funny, but because it was so desperately sad. Of course, my costume must be inspired by that poem now, of all times, now, when I finally understood it.

When Akira had recited the haiku to me the first time, I had been confused, thinking it compared love to storm clouds because they were capricious and fleeting. Perhaps love was capricious and fleeting, but that was not the true meaning of the poem. The true meaning was this: that love, when it came, was powerful enough to transform everything. Anything. Even the unchanging, ever-changing face of the Moon herself.

Youta’s story had proved that. Akira’s story had proved it. But I had needed to fall in love myself before I could truly understand. I had needed to meet someone so precious that he had the power to transform me completely.

I had thrown my love away like trash on the wayside. I hated myself for it, and yet I knew that it had been inevitable. Such a precious thing could never have been meant for someone like me. If I had tried to keep it, I would have destroyed him.

I had been telling myself all week that I wanted nothing more than revenge now, that it was my only desire and my only wish. It was not true. In the aching emptiness of my soul, there was room for one more wish, just as powerful as the first.

I wished that Otieno would be happy. That despite all I had done to him, the way I had betrayed him, he would recover and go on with his life. I wanted him to heal cleanly as Akira had said he would. I wanted him to be the same bright, shining person he had been before we met, and I wanted him to fall in love with someone else and be happier with them than he ever had been with me.

“I love you, Otieno,” I whispered. “Good-bye.”

I bowed my head, sending my wish for him out into the world. Then I closed that part of me, the part that was Otieno’s, folded it up like a piece of paper, and tucked it away.

No more. That life was over.

Finally I got up, and left the room, and went back to bed.

As Yoshi-san had said, I needed plenty of sleep to look my best.

The day of the Shadow Ball came.

After breakfast I wanted to practice my dance again, but Akira told me it was more important to rest my muscles. She said I could play if I wanted, but I refused. I had not touched my
shamisen
for over a week. Not since . . . I blinked, and the thought fled. I was getting better and better at pushing such thoughts away. The coldness inside me made it easy. The colder I got, the less I seemed to need to think at all.

Akira brought out the
g
o
board, with its black and white pieces, and challenged Mie-san to a game. Yoshi-san was working on a piece of embroidery, though judging by her muttering it was not going well. I sat calmly. The nervous tension that thrummed in the house did not touch me.

This might have been because of the few private minutes I had taken before breakfast to scratch several small lines on the inside of my knee. Yet it was not just that. There was a sort of stillness inside me now. The clearness of ice. I felt like one of the warriors from the ancient poems, on the eve of battle. I was prepared. I was resolved. I was not afraid.

When afternoon came I took a bath — alone, despite offers of assistance — covered myself with scented oils, and washed my hair until it was as smooth as threads of unwoven silk. When I emerged, Akira was waiting. She urged me to drink a little tea and eat a light meal of clear soup with fish and rice. Silently she dried my hair and rubbed a sweet-smelling pomade into it to give it gloss. She made me rub creams into my face, hands, and feet to soften and brighten the skin.

“Now rest for a while. I must attend to my own bath.”

She drew the screens, and I lay down on my futon and dozed, without dreams. When Akira came back, she was fully dressed, resplendent in a formal black kimono that had designs of red-and-gold birds across the sleeves, chest, and back. It reminded me of the gown she had been wearing when we first met. She brought Yoshi-san and Mie-san with her, carrying between them my many-layered outfit for the ball.

They rolled up my futon and had me stand naked in the middle of the room. The moon kimono went directly over my skin, with no underwear, so that the effect would be perfect when I danced. All I was allowed to wear beneath it were my
tabi
socks. The white sash was carefully tucked around my waist so that it was secure but easily unfastened for my dance. The silver and the storm-cloud kimonos went over the top, each secured with its own sash. Next came a long, plain white under-kimono. It was to shield the exotic costume from peeking out at collar and sleeves. Then came the pink kimono with a formal obi and belt, and the final layer, the trailing, deep pink
uchikake
robe. They had me walk across the room, and turn and bend, in order to check the ease of movement, and then I was made to sit again, so that Akira and Yoshi-san could start work on my hair. Since I was supposed to wear it down during the performance, it was important that the arrangement could be easily disassembled, but it must still be beautiful and intricate and — most important — sturdy enough to last for the first part of the evening.

I endured it all without speaking. They smiled and rubbed my shoulder reassuringly, but they did not make me talk, and I knew it was because they thought I was nervous and trying to compose myself. I was not. I felt as peaceful and distant as I had all day. I watched the sky grow dim, blue shading into gray, into deep blue, and sat as still as a doll, letting them work.

“We cannot improve you any further,” Akira said finally. She looked into my face. “Yue, are you ready to go?”

One question that hid a hundred questions. I answered them all with a word:

“Yes.”

One by one, the
gijo
— most of them just waking up — came into the room, each giving me a lucky kiss or a touch on the head, even Haruhi-san, whose beloved silver gown I had stolen.

“Do your best. You are representing all of us, remember,” she said, and then yawned and went back to bed.

I collected my kiss of luck from Yoshi-san and Mie-san, smiling and thanking them for all their help. Then Akira and I climbed into the carriage and left them behind.

Akira opened the screen at the window, letting in a breeze to dispel the close, warm air inside. I had expected to be too warm in my many layers, but I still felt cold. When I brushed a fluttering moth away from my face, my fingers felt like ice against my cheek.

The journey, which took us across the entire city, seemed to last only seconds. We arrived at the massive gates of the Moon Palace before full dark had fallen. Akira held the official invitation — a long scroll of paper with red and green and gold seals and two long strings with gold tassels — out the window to be checked by the guards, one of whom then opened the carriage door and helped us out.

As the light from the lanterns at the gate fell full on first Akira’s face and then mine, the guard’s impassive gaze altered, and his bow was reverent.

“Your first victim of the evening,” Akira remarked quietly when we were out of earshot.