Fifty Words for Rain(35)

“I’m so very glad to hear that, child,” her grandmother whispered. She looked genuinely moved. “I truly am. As women, we do what we can. We do what we must.”

She shot a glance at the door but quickly looked back at Nori again.

“We do things that we never thought we were capable of in order to protect what we love.”

Nori was nodding now, trying to hold back the joyful tears. “I promise. I do promise.”

The old woman smiled one last time before turning her back; as she turned, Nori caught sight of her clutching that old leather book to her heart.

The doors opened. The short, fat man stuck his head in. He was sweating even though the house was comfortably cool.

“Well?”

Her grandmother did not turn around. “Take her.”

Nori looked from one to the other, her brow knitted in a frown even as her lips were still frozen in their smile.

He stomped into the room, and as he came near her, she caught the stench of tobacco. She backed away.

“Grandmother?” she whispered. She wanted to speak louder, but she couldn’t. Her voice was all gone. “Grandmother?”

But her grandmother was not looking at her. Her head didn’t even move to acknowledge that she had heard Nori speak.

Then there were arms around her waist and she was being dragged. The hem of her kimono caught under her scampering feet, and she pitched forward, clawing at nothing.

“Obaasama!” she shrieked, her voice coming back to her in a terrible rush. “I don’t understand! Please! I don’t understand!”

But the figure before her was frozen, a goddess of ice, immune to Nori’s plea.

“Obaasama! Please!”

“Come on, girl! Mind me now!” the man huffed at her, panting with the effort of pulling her towards the open doors.

“Oniichan!” Nori cried, though she knew her brother was far away at school and could not hear her. “Akira!”

“He’s gone,” the man said simply.

There was a sharp pain at the back of her neck and then there was nothing.





PART II





CHAPTER SEVEN


    EXILE


Fall 1951

AKIKO



The shout splits the air like a clap of thunder.”Where is she?”

My lady meets her grandson’s eyes without flinching. “Akira-san, calm yourself.”

I am cowering by the door of the study, a tea tray clattering in my hands. I have walked into a storm.

“Where?” he booms, and I find that I am surprised at his wrath.

Yuko-sama crosses her arms. “You’re a highly intelligent boy, Akira-san. Surely you understand that this was necessary.”

The veins in Akira-sama’s forehead are bulging out, and his eyes are stormy. “What have you done with Nori?”

“She is no longer your concern. If you lack for company, I will find you some proper acquaintances.”

Akira-sama is clearly stunned at her cool demeanor. “What is wrong with you?”

“The girl is fine,” Lady Yuko says absently. “I assure you she won’t be harmed.”

“You’re lying,” he spits at her.

She sighs. “Dearest grandson, this conversation is at an end. It’s time now to look to the future.” She smiles broadly. “And what a bright future it will be.”

He starts forward, and for half a heartbeat I think that he is going to strike her. I think she thinks so too. But then he shakes his head and turns on his heel to walk away, realizing that there is nothing more to be gained from this. Not today, at least. Maybe not ever.

I leave the tray on the table and scramble into the hallway after him.

He gives me a weary look. “Do you know where she is?”

I start to say no, but I choke on it. I really don’t know where the little madam is. But I know I heard her scream. I know she is not safe. And I said nothing and let her go.

As if those clear eyes can see straight into the heart of my shame, Akira-sama tosses a last remark at me before he strides away. He sounds almost bewildered. “She trusted you.”

I turn my gaze to the floor I polished just this morning. The light catches it, and it glints like thirty pieces of silver.



* * *





KIYOMI



There are fifty-two girls in the hanamachi right now, fifty-three including our newest addition.

And I oversee all of them. This may not sound like much, but I was born on a straw floor in 1921, the youngest of four and the only girl. My father was a rice farmer, and my mother only had one good arm, so she could never get any work, even in the rich people’s houses. We lived on a pathetic patch of land that was always wet and gray. That’s all I really remember. Well, that and the hunger. There was never any food. The crop failed year after year, and my big brothers and I withered up too. When I was nine, my ribs were poking through my skin and you could trace my collarbone like a stencil.

I was so thin that the whorehouse my father sold me to almost didn’t take me.

I glance at the pale girl kneeling in front of me in the darkened room, and I find myself wishing, not for the first time, that my sympathy had not all dried up many years ago.

At least she’s not crying. Most of the girls who come to me are less than nothing, country girls with families who need meat more than another useless daughter. Some come willingly, knowing that they will have food in their bellies and a bed to sleep in, even if it is one they will have to share. Some are ugly and some are pretty. But all of them cry.