The Blonde Samurai (16 page)

“Isn’t that where your friend Mallory is?” my husband asked coyly.

I ignored his innuendo. “I’m not going back to London with you, James.”

“Then neither am I returning, my dear wife,” he said, holding my arm so tightly it hurt.

“What do you mean?” I asked, afraid of his answer.

“I’m going with you to Ōzaka,” he sneered. “I couldn’t let anything to happen to you, could I?”

L
ife in Kobé with James became insufferable. He followed me everywhere and afforded me no privacy dressing—staring at the swell of my breasts spilling over my corset or my bare legs when I rolled up my stockings—and constantly hounded me about ruining his life.

Your life, what about mine?
I yelled back at him, reminding him I gave up my social position in London to come to Japan. A position he bestowed upon me by marrying me when no one else would, he was quick to add, then belittled my work with the British Legation, implying certain members had induced him to get me out of Tokio for embarrassing Her Majesty’s government.

I panicked.
Had someone recognized me at Yoshiwara?

I experienced a conflict between the joy of that night with Shintaro and the fear of discovery, but fortunately for me
and
for you, dear lady reader, it was not the case, since
then there’d be no memoir to scandalize you. It was my meddling in the railway business that was my undoing, with certain members of the British Legation (no doubt Lord Penmore was among them) feeding on me with pleasure like leeches. To them, I was tarnished finery, seeing how I was Irish-American.
And
a woman. To keep me from delving too far into their questionable business tactics, they convinced James to secure passage for us on a steamer back to San Francisco. When James discovered I’d made plans to go to Ōzaka, he saw a way out that wouldn’t arouse my suspicions about their dirty dealings and jeopardize his own financial gains. As long as I was out of Tokio, he convinced the legation, I wouldn’t cause them any more trouble.

Such fools they be to think Katie O’Roarke would not prevail. That’s the Irish in me, fighters that we are, looking for a row when there are rough seas to be sailed. And so they were with James and me after we left Tokio. We made the trip to Kobé first then Ōzaka on the
Oregonian,
with me spending the three-day trip alone in our cabin, nausea hitting me continuously as the ship hit rough currents and choppy seas, and my dear husband off to steerage class to enjoy the charms of the singsong girls on their way to the brothels.

After a brief sojourn in the commercial city of Ōzaka, we boarded the train as honored guests for the inaugural run of the railway line to Kobé to show cooperation between the mikado’s government and the British Legation (the irony of it did not escape me). We traveled the twenty-two miles mostly over flat land, crossing rivers and streams, the journey but a footnote in history books. For me it was a step closer to Shintaro. I could barely contain myself so certain was I that I would find him and nothing destroyed that, nothing could.

For the sake of appearances, James and I lived as man and wife in a western-style house in Kobé decorated in Oriental simplicity and cozy comfort. That was as far as our living arrangements extended, but I had lost my freedom. James was always at my side, insisting I translate for him in my halting Japanese with native shopkeepers and dockworkers. I believe it was an excuse for him to keep watch over me while he helped conduct business for Lord Penmore, who was financing a private railway line from Kobé to Kioto. (Was he behind the ousting of Shintaro from the mikado’s court? I’ve often wondered.) My dear husband assured me he was merely assisting his old friend, busying himself with the plans, working with the British engineers and inspecting the machinery when it arrived from England.
And
drinking and whoring at the town bordello run by an enterprising madam of questionable European background who insisted her girls wear flesh-colored stockings.

Why do I mention this? To set your tongues wagging with erotic gossip? No, dear lady reader, merely to explain to you my state of mind so you understand why I ran away, why I left my husband. There was no other way. The insufferable days under James’s thumb were maddening, two sinners we were, possessed of disdain for each other. My husband tried to break my spirit with taunts and degradation, while I lost myself in reading the translated works of the native writers I’d brought with me, existing in their floating world of silk and fragrance, lost in smoky incense and wistful sighs. I yearned for those wonderful days in Tokio with Mr. Fawkes escorting me around the city, accompanying me to the palace…my conversations with the empress…and most of all, my sightings of Shintaro. I had acted like a schoolgirl when
I saw him, flirty and romantic, shy but daring, but those days were gone. Frustrated, deflowered, my spirit stifled, my heart lonely, I longed to lift my mood to that special place I had known with him when I slid open the silken paper door to his sensuous world and my life began behind that screen.

I had matured since that night in the pleasure quarters, though the paralyzing conflict I faced regarding my marital infidelity blocked me since I didn’t know how I was going to resolve it. I wouldn’t rest until I found Shintaro and damn everything else. It never occurred to me he would turn me away, not want to see me. My strength at that time was my unfaltering, physical need for him, his hands sliding everywhere over my body, my being not caught up in romantic illusions, for how could I, an Occidental woman, ever hope to know his love? I possessed such hunger for this man, ached for him, for his cock, I was like a blessed candle, its yellow-blue flame burning without shame. No woman can understand that feeling until she’s experienced the trembling inside her, the throbbing anguish that never goes away until he touches her again and a seething overcomes her as if she’s turned to liquid lead.

I thought I would die if I didn’t see him again.

Weeks passed and my opportunity for exploration of the surrounding hillsides was blocked not only by James’s constant attention to my person, but by the social duties of my being Lady Carlton. I found it ironic that the one thing I desired above all else back in London had become a stifling means to keep me from searching for Shintaro and the samurai village. While James was occupied with business, I was expected to do what foreign wives do. Sit with the other women
on the balcony, drinking tea and watching the foreign ships laying at anchor and the sampans with their broad white sails bustling in the harbor. Then I’d wander around the curio shops on the main shopping street, buying up the local specialty of basket weaving and asking the secondhand-shop keepers if they’d found any more “old blues” (porcelain dishes trimmed with blue designs hundreds of years old). I also strolled along the sandy shore with my parasol shading my face
and
my thoughts. The air was clear and dry here, the sand white, but it was toward the mountains my eye wandered, wondering, Where,
where
was Shintaro?

I began to believe my ability to find him had reached an impasse, when a member of the entourage from the mikado’s government assigned to us indicated he had visited England and “knew what foreigners needed.” I suspected the gleam in his eye meant something more than servants and a house, most likely the opportunity for James to spread open the silken kimono of a local girl chosen for him. I was pleasantly surprised when the official brought round a horse, a fine breed she was, brown with a white spot on her forehead and as spirited as a derby winner. James balked, saying he had no desire to ride four-legged animals. I told him we must accept the gift or the man would lose face. He laughed, then told me to do as I wished with the animal.
The horse must be exercised,
I said, a plan forming in my mind as clear as the twinkle in a fae’s eye,
so his lordship would have no objection to me riding him in the hills behind the settlement?
So eager was he to take his leave with Lord Penmore visiting from Tokio, he adjusted the brim on his hat and bade me not to concern him any further with such unimportant matters.

Watching the two men in close conversation as they walked down the road toward town, I realized I no longer noticed
my husband’s slight limp, as if the depth of his mental cruelty surpassed anything my eyes could see. Like the reality of a gray, misty morning. It hid nature’s flaws, but they were still there. Did that make him more dangerous to me? I didn’t know. Would I ever be able to read his true thoughts, make conversation with the man I thought I’d married, keep pace with his debauched needs?
Could any woman?

I found an English bridle and an old saddle in a strange curio shop in an alley off Motomachi Street. No sign, nothing but an ancient sword hanging over its entrance. The old swordsmith filled my teacup and unrolled embroideries to show me, our conversation consisting of my halting Japanese and what little English he knew. When I noticed armor, banners and swords stashed in the corner, I discreetly asked him what he knew about a samurai village. He became strangely silent.
I had to find Shintaro,
I told him, but he ignored me.

I continued to visit his shop, hoping he would help me. I dared not make public inquiries. Everyone knew everyone else in the small foreign settlement built on less then a mile of sand against the abrupt green hill-walls. Home to several hundred westerners, the houses in Kobé were spread out along a long strand extending down to the water’s edge, their unique position exposing them to the winter sun and the summer winds.

The hills behind us beckoned to me every morning after breakfast, a low-lying pink mist of early dawn hovering over them and daring me to enter a mysterious realm whose fragile existence I began to believe existed only in my mind, a transience that slipped a little more into the mist each day. But I wouldn’t give up. I pulled on my slim black-and-gold tweed riding skirt, slipped into my boots and donned my tight-
fitting black velvet jacket and gloves, pulled my hair back with a black ribbon and out I went into the day.

Over the hills I cantered, behind a thatched-roof teahouse perched on top of a hill, past a shrine guarded by a red wooden gate, down narrow dirt footpaths, crisscrossing a creek, looking for Shintaro. I searched for him with a rawness, an insistence that he was real, the village was real, desperation and passion dominating my motivation. I may not have admitted it to myself then but I do now: I wanted to get away from James before his dark, shadowy games turned into something ugly and violent. I was in a state of nakedness in my pursuit, not in the physical sense, but my emotional core was so fragile I swear it was held together by frayed silken threads. James’s constant questioning contributed to my panicked state. He was convinced I’d had an affair with Mr. Mallory, though his accusations were unfounded. I had only spoken to the American to exchange pleasantries during our stay in Ōzaka. That mattered not to my husband. Whatever I did was wrong, whomever I spoke to was cause for scandal.

When I asked him to explain
his
whereabouts, he told me to ask no questions, but I knew he went to the brothel with Lord Penmore. He always seemed pleased with himself when he returned, drunk but satiated, which meant he didn’t try to kiss the back of my neck or slide his hand up my petticoats. I was grateful for the respite from his husbandly advances. I couldn’t let another man touch me, not after I had experienced the strong hands of Shintaro, his smoldering touch upon my bare skin with his lips, his thrusting into me with his cock. I didn’t know then about his…no, ’tis too soon to pull you from the dreamlike state you’re in since that night with Shintaro, for I would only intrigue you more, make your heart flutter, your voice crack with questions, not understand
ing this land with its intricacies and innuendos in the ways of the flesh, how pleasures can exist side by side yet be so distant, how lips can taste the sweetness of more than one blossom…

And so it became a pattern, James’s accusations, his glee at discovering our investment in the railway was making money (I had received news from Mr. Fawkes that wealthy native merchants were becoming stockholders), and his philandering and drunkenness.

I’ve no doubt it would have continued had James not made the mistake of taking a riding crop to an unwilling bare bottom in the local brothel.

I was in high spirits on this fine morning, swearing it was one of those days when the sun could coax the wild irises up from the earth with nothing but a smile. I ignored the dark clouds at my back and visited the curio shop, again asking the old swordsmith for help, telling him I feared trouble was brewing for Shintaro.

Showing no expression, the swordsmith refilled my teacup, then opened tiny compartments in a small lacquered chest and pulled out what I believe were dried pine and withered orange blossom. Wrapping the fragile items in a silk banner, he handed them to me, smiled then bowed. I thanked him and left, eager to be on my way, but excited. I was certain this was his indirect manner of telling me what I wanted to know. I remembered riding through a grove of pines high in the thickly wooded mountains about an hour’s ride from the settlement, a place where I swore I’d smelled the scent of orange blossoms but found none.

I rode out there again this morning, galloping away from the settlement. I urged the young mare up the vibrant green hillside, my face perspiring, my arm aching from pulling on
the reins, my arse bobbing up and down, my boots slick with horse sweat. I
must
be close. The scent of orange blossoms was so strong here in the grassy hills covered with pine where the ridge dropped abruptly. A steep escarpment led down into a deep-cut valley, dense foliage and weathered rocks hiding whatever was below from my view.

I looked upward to get my bearings. The noon sun yawned, as if bored with my futile exploits, then feisty dark clouds covered her face, sending the day into a familiar grayness. Their bellies bulbous with rain, the clouds descended, drawing nearer and nearer until horse and rider were enveloped in a thick fog, forcing me to turn back. I was
so
close, but I feared what would happen if my horse lost her footing.

Showers came fast without warning, raindrops splattering my face, my back, yet a fever burned within me. It was the fever of consuming desire to find my samurai, burning so intensely inside me I pulled hard on the reins, ready to keep searching. Only the voice of reason I somehow still possessed made me return home, my clothes drenched, my hard nipples pointing through my wet black velvet jacket. For that indiscretion, I would pay dearly.