Each grain of sand on
The beach was created by the
Gods. Despise nothing!
Manaka concentrated on gathering my hair together.
I watched intently as he pulled and smoothed each hank until the whole lay in his hand uniformly. Still without looking at me, he began to stroke the pitiful bundle slowly, almost as if it was a favorite cat demanding his attention. Finally, he wound it around his fist, and I thought he was about to kiss it, but at the last moment, he clearly realized that he must not and moved it smoothly away from his face.
“That was your own fault.” He sounded petulant, almost as though it was I who had hurt him. “You made me do that with your stubbornness. It would not have been necessary if you told me what I needed to know.”
I watched him and wondered. Unless Manaka was a far better actor than I thought he was, it seemed to me that something had changed, something as subtle as the sound of a frosted blade of grass snapping beneath a cat’s paw as it hunted its prey. I shook my head, not in denial of his words, but because the feel of my short hair flying around my face was energizing.
I am not—never have been—a vain sort of a woman.
From a very early age, Mother took pains to impress upon me that I was far from pretty. She told me often that it was a great shame that I took after my father in the matter of looks rather than her.
“You may be intelligent, Mi. I admit that. But what good are brains for keeping a husband by your side?”
As she had just explained to me that Father had eyes for no other woman but her, to the extent that he had never taken a concubine, had not even frequented a house of pleasure, I thought she must be right. Mother was a beautiful woman. Even now, when she was middle-aged, her hair was still glossy black and her skin was unmarred with wrinkles. I thought that when she was younger, she must have been very pretty, so she knew what she was talking about when she told me I was plain.
And, of course, when the dreadful paralysis of the morning turned me into a cripple, it was obvious that I had never been attractive—and never would be.
I consoled myself with the knowledge that at least my hair was beautiful. Unlike most women’s hair, which tended to be dead straight, mine curled vigorously as if it knew it was the only redeeming feature I had.
Even Mother agreed that it was lovely hair. She forbade me to cut it—not that I wanted to—so it grew past my waist.
Now, it had been taken from me so suddenly, I knew that the only reason I had been proud of my beautiful hair was because it was the only thing about me that pleased Mother.
The knowledge hit me with the force of a slap and a slow smile lifted my lips. Was it possible that Manaka had done me a favor?
Manaka stared at me, his mouth moving silently.
He must have thought this was not how it should have been. Losing my hair should have been the final blow, the action that broke my spirit and reduced me to tears. After the first cruel cut, I should have begged him to stop, told him I would answer all his questions if only he would leave the rest alone.
Suddenly, his back became rigid. His face was cold, yet I could see the confusion in his eyes. I spared a sideways glance at the guard, wondering how much of this odd show he understood. Clearly, he was not a sensitive sort of man. He was grinning with intense pleasure as he looked at my shorn hair.
“It’s not too late, Mi-san.” Manaka’s voice cut across my thoughts abruptly. Any trace of sympathy left him. His tone was that of a teacher instructing a wayward child. “If you tell me what I need to know, then I promise that I will take your hair personally to the best wig maker in Tokyo and have it made into an excellent wig for you. You can wear it until your hair grows out again. And, naturally, you will be released immediately if you only see sense and cooperate.”
He seemed to realize he still held my shorn locks in his hand as he put the hair down abruptly on my futon. He shooed at it with his hand, almost as if it were a living thing.
I stared at my hair. Already, I no longer felt it had once been part of me. The memory of the wig I had purchased when I was intent on turning myself into a top-class oiran filled my thoughts. I remembered the merchant insisting that the opulent wig was real human hair, the finest that money could buy, and for the first time, I wondered how that hair had been obtained. Was it possible that it had come from some wretched woman who, like me, had been imprisoned here? Perhaps even somebody who Manaka had tortured? Or, more likely, had it been sacrificed by a poor woman with only her hair to offer in exchange for the cash she needed to fill her belly and keep a roof over her head for a few days longer?
Both options filled me with sorrow for the poor women parted from their hair.
At the time, I had not thought about where the hair in my wig had come from. Now, I felt physically sick at my lack of compassion. The knowledge that I had worn somebody’s hair without considering how it had been obtained demeaned me. Silently, I vowed to burn the wig as soon as I returned home. Or I would ask Shig to do it for me. The thought of even touching it repulsed me.
Home. How long had it been since I believed I would return to my own house? I had long since lost track of the passage of hours and days, and my misery had become so deep that all thoughts of leaving this place had long fled.
Abruptly, hope returned to me. I would go back to Tokyo. I would resume my former life. How long it would take, I had no idea. But it would happen.
I realized Manaka was waiting for me to answer, so I shrugged.
“That—” I pointed at my hair. “—is no longer part of me. Do what you like with it. Even if you were to get the best wig in Tokyo made from it, I promise you I would not wear it. My hair will grow again. I can wait.”
The guard gasped at my insolence. He glanced at Manaka, and I understood that he was expecting his superior to strike me for my defiance. When he did not, the guard looked confused, switching his gaze from Manaka to me. I smiled at Manaka, inviting him to join in the joke that the guard did not understand.
When he smiled back—briefly, but I saw it—I knew I was right. Manaka would not kill me. He could not. From the moment he cut my hair, I had the upper hand. He no longer held any fear for me.
I would survive. In time, I would be released. By then, Gen would have had time to leave Honshu. When he was gone, there would no longer be any threat to Anzu.
The knowledge was so pleasing I felt dizzy, almost as if I had drunk too much sake.
“We will leave you to consider your position, Mi-san. I advise you to think very carefully before I return. Take that with you.”
Manaka gestured at my hair. The guard grabbed it greedily, turning away quickly as if he was afraid Manaka would change his mind and take it from him. I supposed it was an unexpected and very welcome bonus for the guard. No doubt any wigmaker would pay him well for it.
He was so anxious to leave with his trophy that he knocked against me, quite hard, and pushed me so that I sprawled on the futon. I grunted in surprise and pain.
Manaka was already outside my cell, but he turned with the agility of a very young man and grabbed the guard by the scruff of his neck, shaking him as if he weighed nothing at all. His teeth were peeled back from his teeth in a snarl of anger. I stared at him in astonishment.
“If you hurt her, you will take her place!” Manaka’s face was so close to the guard’s that I saw flecks of his spittle land on the other man’s cheek. For a long moment, there was no sound but Manaka’s rasping breath, then his shoulders slumped and I guessed that, once again, he had control of himself. He spoke precisely, biting off each word. “This woman is in our charge on the orders of the emperor himself, do you understand that?” The guard’s eyes were bulging. He muttered something I did not catch. Manaka shook him again. “Until she tells us what we need to know, you will treat her carefully.”
He let the guard go, and the man scuttled away without a backward glance, clutching my precious hair firmly in his dirty hand. Manaka gave a tight smile and bowed very slightly toward me.
“I apologize for that miserable peasant’s behavior, Mi-san. It will not happen again—unless I order it.”
I watched him leave. It was not until I was certain I would not be seen that I began to smile as I wondered if Manaka was aware of how revealing his parting words had been.