Akane Is Dead

Crickets chirp in the grass of the garden, their songs a fervent harmony to the festivities within the Lord’s mansion. Bright lights and laughter emanate from within the paper paneled walls as the Lord enjoys the company of the finest entertainers from the pleasure district of Yoshiwara.

The rising moon’s reflection in the still waters of the courtyard pond is partially blocked by the silhouette of Otoe. A tall beauty, her form is accentuated by layers of garish embroidered silks tied in the front by a huge gold and pink obi of unmatched elegance.

Otoe picks her way across the hill overlooking the Eastern side of Lord’s manor, each step skillfully measured to cause the elaborate skirt of her costume to flutter, sending billows of mist rolling away to reveal the powdered skin of her shapely feet. Her back remains straight as she carefully picks her way across the rocky hills to the temporary stage tucked just out of sight in a little overlook.

This is the way a Yoshiwara courtesan walks. A consummate professional, Otoe’s policy is to wear her best outfits and, of course, provide the best performance at important engagements.

Her three kamuro flutter about her like sparrows, their arms filled with the accoutrement of the evening’s performance – her koto and the white box containing Akane’s remains. The third and youngest girl clings tightly to a doll with a porcelain face, its red kimono rippling in the wind.

* * *

At Otoe’s signal, the kamuro busy themselves with setting up the stage and tuning the koto. While they work, Otoe kneels, lights the incense and gives obeisance to Akane’s ashes, given pride of place on a platform at the front of the stage.

Otoe’s fingers gently caress the koto’s thick red strings, as she prepares herself for the performance. Even now, years after its first creation, they still feel damp, as if the blood soaked into them was still wet.

The first movement of the piece is gentle and playful, the innocent laughter of a child splashing in puddles in the rain flowing down to join with the raucous laughter of the more salubrious entertainments below.

In her childhood, Akane had been the best of Otoe’s kamuro, always close at hand and eager to do her big sister’s business. Her only shortcoming was a marked stubbornness in giving up the name her parents gave her. Since numerous dissuading punishments had no effect, Otoe had been forced to allow this single concession.

Though far from the most beautiful child in Matsukazeya pleasure garden, Akane’s charming demeanour soon made her the darling of Yoshiwara, beloved by all. Her debut was a singularly lavish affair, with clients lining up along the streets and showering the girl with sheafs of money for a mere glimpse of her parade.

* * *

The second movement seems slower, more ponderous, the dying breaths of a woman in exquisite pain.  Beads of perspiration appear on Otoe’s brow as she continues to play, her hands on either side of the instrument, teasing out each discordant note and bending pitch.

“The standard lie of the prostitute is ‘I love you’. The standard lie of the client is ‘I will marry you.’” It was a lesson writ on the hearts of every Yoshiwara courtesan.

Akane had been naive enough to think that she would be an exception to the rule, and foolish enough to believe the sweet words of the first man to promise her freedom. She had given him everything—her money, her jewelry, her kimono and her life—but he had taken more before vanishing into the wind.

Heavy with child and heedless of Otoe’s warnings, she had gone looking for him.

People were scandalised when Akane’s naked corpse turned up in a back alley, the huge wound in her belly spilling her guts onto the street. Matsukazeya’s Mama had been tasked with collecting the body, but the old woman had merely tipped her pipe out onto Akane’s staring eyes and walked away with a disgusted grunt of, “Foolish girl.”

Otoe knew in her heart that Akane’s soul would not be able to rest after such an egregious end.

* * *

Otoe’s fingers fly back and forth across the koto for the climax of the piece. Far below her, the music from within the Lord’s house changes ever so slightly. The hauntingly sweet fluting of a fue, the sensual twanging of the shamisen and the rhythmic tapping of the tsuzumi, each melody complementing the discordant tones from her own instrument.

All of Yoshiwara had agreed with Otoe’s plan. From the lowest Teahouse Girl to the highest ranked Oiran, each contributed in their own way.

Asobi boatwomen entertained customers with mournful songs of Akane’s doomed love, their eyes and ears peeled for her murderer’s whereabouts as they roamed the waterways. Kugutsu puppeteers came together to make a doll to house and calm her spirit. An old Kabuki propmaker, long retired from the trade, made the koto, soaking the strings in Akane’s blood and fashioning the body from the remnants of her coffin.

The musical composition is Otoe’s particular gift.

The youngest kamuro lifts the lid off the white box and watches its glowing contents, the last of Akane’s ashes, rise from confinement, mingling with the heavy mist flowing through the doll in her little arms.

Finally, Otoe looks up and beholds Akane, resplendent in the red regalia of the apprentice courtesan, her hanging entrails barely covered by its many layers. Otoe gives her student a curt nod of dismissal.

Akane bows politely to her teacher, then flies down to join her lover in the mansion below. Though it is unseemly for a courtesan of Otoe’s rank to show her teeth, she cannot help but grin when she hears the Lord’s terrified screams rise up and join with the koto’s song.

* * *

Ⓒ Selphie Ke