The Persimmon Tree (54 page)

Anna knew that there would come a time when she would have to resist Konoe Akira, but as quickly realised that if she refused to wear the kimono it would be the little Japanese housekeeper who would be blamed and punished, not herself.

‘I am not sure,
Yasuko-san
. It is very beautiful — but it is for a Japanese woman.’

Yasuko had been too excited to sense her reluctance and now looked utterly crestfallen. ‘But
Anna-san
, it is
silk
, even in Japan a silk kimono, only the highborn, the very rich, can have one! I myself cannot ever hope to own such a kimono. It is the highest compliment. The colonel
Konoe-san
is showing you great honour with this gift of silk!’ It was clear that the
mama-san
found it impossible to comprehend Anna’s reluctance to wear the beautiful gown.

Anna decided she would wear the kimono to protect the little Japanese housekeeper, but did so with a great sense of foreboding. Konoe Akira was, she realised, beginning to shape her, to do what he had done with the dahlias. Even if he admitted to himself that she was not the yellow and white vase, he had made the multi-coloured one stand to attention in the same way, leaves and stems and blossoms. She was to be that combination of discipline and perfection he strove so hard to attain as an aesthete — a beautiful thing, tamed and under his control, his ultimate achievement.

Anna slipped off her blouse and sarong, and Yasuko, fussing and happy, helped her into the silk garment. The kimono fitted surprisingly well and Yasuko informed her that the cut was the one used by young women for it had longer sleeves and the waistband, about nine centimetres wide and known as an
obi
, was tied in the
fukura suzume
way (the sparrow style) so that it resembled a sparrow and was suitable for an unmarried woman. The silk that was used for a young woman’s kimono is traditionally more colourful, and this one was a design of cherry blossom against a blue sky, the blue almost, but not quite, matching the deep violet of her eyes. Anna, looking into the full-length mirror, could see that it was simply stunning. The mayor entered and nipped and tucked and left again for Anna to slip out of the gown so that he could complete it.

‘Now we must do the make-up and hair. In the bedroom there is a make-up mirror,’ Yasuko said.

‘No!’ Anna cried. ‘No make-up. I am sorry,
Yasuko-san
, but the appearance of my face and hair is my own decision. I will wear the kimono out of respect for you and your husband
Tokuma-san
— it is only a garment — but no make-up, no hair-do; my face is my own.’

‘But… but… he will be very angry,
Anna-san
!’ Yasuko persisted. ‘Those were his instructions.’

‘With me, perhaps, but not angry with you. I will explain it myself to the
colonel-san
so that you do not get into trouble.’ Anna’s heart was beating fiercely as she spoke. Why had her life become all defiance? All about men who expected, as if they possessed a natural right, to exert their will over her and to dominate and override her own self? Konoe Akira, she knew, held ultimate power over her. He could kill her if he wished, but she instinctively knew that to do so would be an admission to himself that he had failed. Anna was aware that in his mind he would not have completed the task he intended to perform and, in turn, had not received what he desired from her. She was beginning to understand the mind of the Japanese noble.

Yasuko, relieved that Anna would take the responsibility for refusing any make-up, now said pleadingly, ‘I have
geta
sandals and
tabi
socks, will you wear them,
Anna-san
?’

‘May I see them?’ Anna asked.

Hesitating at her reply, Yasuko said, ‘There is one more thing.’

‘What is it?’ Anna, at once suspicious, enquired.

‘I must show you how to hold your hands when you bow.’ The mayor’s wife demonstrated the height the arms are held and the width the elbows are apart so that only the tips of the fingers touch with the thumbs resting parallel to the forefingers. ‘You will be wearing a formal kimono that is usually worn when remaining in the geisha house to entertain an honourable male or when going out. It is the one the
colonel-san
requested. When you hold your hands and bow as I have shown you, it is to show off your kimono, so the shorter and wider sleeves fall correctly and the silk appears in perfect repose.’

The Mayor of the Squashed Hat, now turned back into a very weary tailor, called out impatiently to his wife and they returned to the sewing room. He waited outside the door while Anna undressed, conscious of her simple cotton knickers and bra.

Yasuko brought her a long slip that she termed a
juban
, followed by the single-layered silk kimono together with a wide
obi
of the same silk, which she tied in the sparrow style so that it was just below the bosom. While her husband may have been an indifferent town official, he proved to be an excellent tailor and this time the kimono fitted perfectly.

The
mama-san
produced the
tabi
socks and Anna laughed. ‘I wore socks like this when I was a little girl,’ she said as the housekeeper, now acting as a personal maid, knelt and fitted the white socks onto Anna’s feet, then followed with heeled wooden thongs. Anna attempted to walk in them and was forced to take small steps, keeping her back rigid, if she hoped to keep them on. They clacked loudly as she walked. ‘They make an awful clack-clack sound. Am I walking incorrectly?’ she asked Yasuko.

‘No, that is correct. A Japanese woman, she must not approach a man so he does not hear her coming; the clack-clack is out of respect so that she doesn’t appear suddenly and he can call out to her if he does not wish her presence.’

Anna was beginning to understand my explanation that the Japanese have a rule or a convention for everything; that this was not a society where spontaneity was tolerated or originality and individuality were thought to be important.

She endured a final inspection by the tailor-turned-mayor-turned-tailor again. He seemed pleased with his work and, now that she had assumed an importance in his mind, bowed obsequiously and thanked her for the privilege of allowing him to create the garment.

It was five minutes to twelve o’clock and there was just sufficient time for Anna to assume her customary place at the bamboo setting. At precisely noon the horn of the big American car announced the arrival of the senior Japanese officer. But Anna was forced to wait a further twenty minutes before Konoe Akira came through the door onto the verandah. She was surprised to see that he no longer wore his uniform but instead a black cotton robe of a crosshatch design that fell to the floor and was belted at the waist. She would later learn that it was a summer kimono called a
yukata
that originated from the dress of a travelling samurai warrior. It was a costume once worn by the fiercest of warriors, but Konoe Akira, approaching her with his pronounced limp in the middle of the day, reminded Anna of someone convalescing on a hospital verandah after an accident.

She rose to the rustle of silk and bowed deeply, trying to remember just how she should hold her arms: elbows slightly outwards, fingers only just touching, thumbs parallel to her forefingers. The Japanese officer’s return bow was too ingrained to change and ended with the customary ‘Ho!’ Konoe Akira remained standing, then looking directly at Anna he brought his hand up and dabbed at both her cheeks and grunted.

Anna took a deep breath. ‘
Konoe-san
, my face is brown and I do not wish it to be white or my cheeks to be stained with blush and my lips the colour of fresh cow’s liver. My hair falls naturally to my shoulders, I do not want to lift it to the sky or decorate it with chopsticks.’ About her hair she wanted to add ‘or turn it into a nest for eagles’ but she lacked the courage, as they had never shared a joke and he might well consider the stark geisha make-up yet another form of perfection. But what she did add was, ‘I will try to please you, but at best I will be a bloom in the second vase and not the first.’

Konoe Akira glared at her momentarily and then, as suddenly, threw back his head and laughed. ‘You would not make a good
maiko
,’
he said.

‘
Maiko
,
Konoe-san
?’

The Japanese officer, having gone through the awkward motions of being seated, thought for a moment. ‘A neophyte, a trainee geisha. But if you could be trained, you would become a good
okami
,
that is an older geisha who trains the
maiko
and when they become fully trained geishas she organises the patrons,’ he explained and then added, ‘Sit, please.’

Anna sat down carefully, unaccustomed to the kimono as a garment or how to arrange it when seated. It seemed to be a gown that was not styled for sitting in a chair but rather to be on one’s knees in service to a male. ‘I do not wish to be a geisha,
Konoe-san
,’ she said quietly, then glanced up at him and he saw that while her voice had remained soft, her eyes were defiant.

The Japanese colonel looked surprised. ‘It is not possible,
Anna-san
. You are not Japanese.’ It was the first time he had referred to her as
Anna-san
. Konoe Akira lit a cigarette in the now-familiar manner. Finally he exhaled, sending the usual cloud of smoke towards the roof of the verandah. ‘There is a philosophy that belongs to the geisha tradition but is, I think, instinctive to all truly beautiful women. Would you like to hear it?’

‘As you wish,
Colonel-san
,’ she said, though again her thoughts immediately strayed; it was probably some ponderous rationale the Japanese had evolved to cope with what the seventeen-year-old Anna saw as their restricted and over-particularised lifestyle. Besides, they viewed women differently, as objects or — she could think of no better description — inferior beings to be used for whatever purpose suited them. Anna was not vain, she knew she was pretty, beautiful if you like, but she was not overly concerned with this aspect of her person. Instead, she refused to be compliant or to be possessed, although her fear of death at the hands of the Japanese colonel had caused her, on more than one occasion, to compromise and to restrain her wilful nature and sense of independence. For sixteen years her stepmother had tried to destroy her confidence and to crush her personality and had not been successful. This was different — the threat overhanging her was much more severe. Anna knew she wouldn’t openly challenge Konoe Akira’s theory about women.

‘There is the philosophy of the patron,’ the Japanese colonel began.

‘Patron? I do not understand,
Konoe-san
.’

‘The man — that is, the male who is in a position to acquire a geisha or a woman.’

‘Acquire? You mean a man who loves a woman and she him?’ Anna asked, clearly confused.

‘No. Love is not necessary. What use is love? Duty, discipline, service, dedication and occasional pleasure and offspring, is that not the natural role of a wife?’ Before Anna could answer, if she was even capable of thinking of a reply, he continued. ‘But a truly beautiful woman or a truly great geisha is different. She is already a potential work of art. She is her own art in the making, the creator
and
the canvas onto which the male’s fantasies and desires are painted. Such a woman when acquired may become a wonderful artist and also powerful, because she holds the key to the male’s innermost desires; he cannot be without her in his life. Do you understand,
Anna-san
?’

‘She is his mistress, then?’ Anna asked.

‘No, it is more, much more, than that.’

‘But you said he acquires her — he owns her?’ Anna frowned. ‘I would not like to be owned,
Konoe-san
.’

‘Acquired does not mean owned. If a woman is her own art and canvas I cannot own her, I can only acquire the skill and, with her consent, the right to influence the artist. I can be her teacher. She must be brought willingly to express herself, to be different, to grow. A pupil needs instruction but she may possess a talent well beyond that possessed by the teacher. Then, if he demands that she change her art and alter the canvas simply to imitate him, he will destroy what he wishes to acquire. There is no point in acquiring what you already own. Whatever happens between us must be an experience heightened by the inspiration of the artist.’

Anna thought for several moments. ‘Have you acquired
me
,
Konoe-san
?’ she asked, looking directly at the Japanese man.

Konoe Akira stubbed his cigarette, this time obliterating a part of the butterfly’s wing. He looked directly into her eyes. ‘Yes,’ he said simply. ‘Yes, I have.’

Anna fought to contain her fury, valiantly attempting to choke back her indignation. ‘And I have no choice?’ She jumped to her feet, knowing it was the wrong thing to do but suddenly too angry to care. ‘I am not a geisha!’ She plucked at the sleeve of her kimono. ‘I do not want to wear this — this Japanese dress!’