A Woman of Pleasure

I have a god inside me, too. The god of the sea.

Apparently,” said Tetsuko, frowning, “he says that we cannot build a strong country by paying heed to every claim of the uneducated poor.” “But isn’t listening to the opinions of only the rich and powerful dangerous for both the country and the people?

When did we ever put our trust in men?

She’d heard that Jesus took the form of a man and floated up into the sky. Well, why shouldn’t the god of the sea appear in the sea? Which was more ridiculous? She shook her head, perplexed.

The owner talked to me. Hes wrong. I wont die in my bed Ill die on the waves.

If these girls sold into prostitution had remained in the countryside, they would have gone their whole lives not knowing how to write, never straining to find words to express the beauty of flowers. They would have led lives where flowers were flowers, birds were birds, trees were trees, and that was that. It was a world without flaws but lacking in subtlety, taste, and suggestion. They would have worn rustic clothes and crawled around in muddy rice paddies, working up a seat, till they reached the end of their lives as stooped old women. If there was any benefit in becoming a prostitute, it was only the possibility of becoming literate and discovering the power of words.

For Ichi, the sight of a huge turtle three feet long was enough to make her shiver in awe. Sea turtles had no fear of humans and were perfectly happy to swim alongside them. Sometimes while they swam, one of them would look Ichi in the eye and wink—a signal that meant “Come here.” When she saw the big blue shadow of a sea turtle in the bright, radiant sea, Ichi felt she had seen the shadow of a god.

Ichi drifted off to sleep. In water shot through with sunlight and pearl-like bubbles, she saw the seven-tailed sea turtle from Watatsumi Palace come gliding toward her. She cast off all her clothes and became as smoothly naked as a fish. It felt good. “Thank you, everyone.” In her dream, Ichi offered thanks to no one in particular.

Tetsuzo,” said Shinonome in a quiet tone, “we all must die one day and be held to account for how we lived. Tonight you have a chance to do something good.” She was addressing a man who had once taken a human life.

Not even impoverished prostitutes unable to afford a rest could carry on their trade during their time of the month, and this was the reason. Being a woman was impractical, Shinonome concluded, sitting by the hibachi with one knee raised and holding her long thin pipe in one hand as she blew out a stream of smoke.

In Shinonome’s haiku, the darkness of water on which water lilies floated created a striking visual image. The baby had emerged from dark amniotic fluid in its mother’s womb. The poem seemed to be about a child whose birth brought little joy. Ichi’s baby, however, was a star child, innocent and pure. The first star of evening, outshining all the rest. By “home” she must mean her home island of Iojima, far off in the southern seas. Farther away even than the stars. Tetsuko had never read a haiku by Ichi before.

But I could never be honest with a client I dislike—how could I? Men all come here to enjoy themselves, even the ones who are disagreeable, boring, vulgar, old, or ugly. If a prostitute were always true to her feelings, she would have to tell them she didn’t like them and send them all home.” She continued to explain while Ichi ground ink. “For a woman of pleasure, lying is a virtue. The lies of an oiran are the greatest virtue of all.