One, two, buckle my shoe..., the Americans sang.
Actually I hated the shoes and refused to wear them. What good were they now anyway?
"Change is in the air," the old man at the door said absently. He couldn't have been talking to me, I decided so I ignored him.
I slid my bare foot along the boards, feeling the roughness and the tiny splinters. I closed my eyesand the world fell away.
The fans moved in my hands the way I had been taught. My weapons of war, they were. My armor was silk and lace. I laughed internally at the notion.
Pumpkin! What kind of name is that for a geisha? I would never be legitimate. Kage, I called myself secretly. Ghost.
The art we made was dying. Japan itself was dying and Kyoto was going along with it. The Americans had dropped their bombs and occupation had begun.
Like the walking dead, we all had the same look. Old, young and in-between, it didn't matter. I wondered if I was any different. So I danced to prove them wrong.
The name Pumpkin was whispered somewhere unseen. Or maybe it was my imagination. It haunted me, ever present, always haunting.
What a curse.
So I performed my craft in a derelict theater and wondered if I was even alive anymore. Maybe this was the dream, the illusion. One day perhaps I would wake to eternity only to burn to ashes in an instant.
I danced for now. The fans moved clumsily and my feet betrayed me. I had received little training and forgotten much of that anyway.
I had never even gone to mizauge. I was worthless as a geisha. Despite everything I was bound for the brothels and a life of depravity and poverty.
Someone clapped and shouted at me. Even with my eyes still closed I knew it was one of the American invaders. A soldier, what a joke. Just by the sound of his voice I could tell how boorish-
It was inevitable, one might say.
My stupid uncooperative feet became tangled in my loose obi and in the act of falling I cursed myself for my carelessness and haste while leaving home today.
I would never be a proper geisha.
I felt the tiny bones in my hand snap as I tried to catch my weight.
But I was not a proper geisha and it didn't matter. I hadn't painted my face in months and my makeup wouldn't run. So I let myself cry.
Suddenly, he was beside me. His hands were gentle and swift. He wrapped my hand with the discarded obi. I was horrified by the thought. Didn't he know how sacred that simple length of cloth was to my reality?
Apparently not. He pulled it taut and tied it off. I looked ridiculous with the ends of the sash trailing the ground they way they were.
But I was not a proper geisha, I decided as he helped me back to my feet. He smiled at me and I didn't shy away from his gaze. I smiled back.
So much for propriety. Hatsumomo would be so proud; having been my mentor and a proper geisha at that. No one else remembered her name anymore in Kyoto although she had burned brightly just a handful of years ago.
Maybe I didn't want to be a ghost after all.
"Thank you," I told him.
He looked surprised. "You speak English and you look directly at me," he said.
"I'm not a really a geisha," I told him, hardly knowing why.
"What a relief," he said. "I'm not really a soldier. I'd be happy to go the rest of my life without shooting another being. Or being shot at," he said, laughing softly.
So he was in on the joke too. I sighed demurely, old habits and all. I felt my face turning red. I fluttered my fan teasingly and used it to cover my face and we both laughed and it was wonderful.
I walked myself home anyway but I stole his jacket. It was that ugly brown one that all the Americans wore, with fur lined collars and sleeves. It looked hideous with my silk kimono but at least I could tell Hatsumomo that I robbed one of the invaders. My obi still trailed behind me, snagging frequently along the broken path.
Hatsumomo was leaning out the window when I got there. She was furious but whatever. She only had the one mood. I could tell by looking up at her that she was cold today not hot, but that just made it worse.
So when my feet kept moving I didn't try to stop them.