to wonder what he was talking about. My stomach jumped when I saw a young man pulling a jinrikisha, racing out of the shiny blackness of a narrow street.
My father looked pleased, very pleased, to see him.
So was I.
Instead of wearing the cloak made of oiled paper the jinrikisha drivers wore in the rain, he was nearly nude, exposing his sinewy bronze flesh in the most delectable manner, as if he enjoyed showing off his muscular body to the rain goddesses. I imagined being a raindrop and landing upon his lips and tasting the sweetness of his kiss. I giggled. Kissing was very naughty to the Japanese, an intimacy they rarely exchanged, though I was eager to discover its pleasures.
I eyed the bulging muscles on the boy’s arms, naked and pleasing to my eye, as were his powerful-looking legs. He ran barefoot with only a bit of rag tied around his big toe. What intrigued me most was the swath of dark blue cotton he wore around his torso. I giggled. It wasn’t much bigger than the bit of rag.
Most days, the station was filled with jinrikisha boys waiting for passengers, Father told me, noticing my avid interest in the young man. They were well-informed runners who knew what stranger arrived when, whose house you were passing, what plays were coming out, even when the cherry blossoms would unfold. The station was empty today except for this boy, the only one brave enough to run in the rain.
He stopped in front of us and bowed low.
Dusty, bare-legged coolies, I often heard the English ladies call the jinrikisha drivers. How could that be? Not this boy. I closed my eyes, letting my mind drift through a whispering darkness. An irresistible urge rose up in me that made me yearn for something, something, but I couldn’t grab on to it. As if an invisible spirit with cool fingers dropped icy dewdrops upon my naked belly and made me squirm with delight.
I opened my eyes. I couldn’t contain my curiosity about the young man who pulled the big two-wheeled baby carriage. I craned my neck to see him better, but his face was hidden from me by a low-brim straw hat. No matter. I knew in my heart he was handsome.
A bigger surprise awaited me. Without a word my father hustled me into the black-hooded conveyance. I drew in my breath, somewhat in awe. Excitement raced through me. Only geisha were allowed to ride in jinrikishas. I swore I could smell the scent of the camellia nut oil from their hair lingering on the seats.
Closing my eyes and resting my head against the seat, I imagined I was a beautiful geisha. What would I do if I found a handsome young man when my frenzied sensations were at a peak, my face flushed, my breasts swollen, my nipples hard, my throat dry?
Would I lie down, raise my legs up as my lover kneels between my thighs, his hands on the straw mat?
Or would he lie on his back and stretch his legs straight as I straddle his body, my knees to his sides?
I inhaled the fresh smell of rain in the air. I found such thoughts so romantic and amusing, but I lost my smile and kept my eyes straight ahead when I saw my father staring at me.
“I’m troubled, Kathlene. Something is amiss. There’s no one here from the temple to greet us.” He rubbed his chin, thinking, then: “I have no choice but to trust this boy to take us to our destination.”
“I trust him, too, Father.” I grinned when the jinrikisha boy turned around and lifted up his head from under the flat straw plate of a hat he wore and smiled at me. I lay back on the seat, relieved. He wasn’t much older than I was. And he was handsome.
Surely my father couldn’t keep me hidden away in a nunnery forever, without a chance to see anyone? Nevertheless, these irrational fears chilled me, flowed through me, and crawled up and down my skin like tiny golden-green beetles. Cold perspiration ran down my neck.
How was I going to become a geisha if I was shut away in a nunnery? Nuns were kept out of sight from visitors and spent their time in meditation and arranging flowers, not in ogling the muscles of jinrikisha boys. As if the gods decided to remind me I had no choice, thunder rolled overhead. A downpour was on the way.
I heard my father give the boy instructions where to take us, the boy nodding his head up and down. He bowed low before raising up the adjustable hood of steaming oilcloth covering us. A canvas canopy arched over the seat to protect us from the rain.
“Hurry, hurry!” Father shouted with urgency to the driver, then he sat back in the two-seat, black-lacquered conveyance.
The boy grunted as he lifted up the shafts, got into them, gave the vehicle a good tilt backward and took off in a fast trot.
I had no time to ponder my fate as the boy snapped into action and pulled the jinrikisha down a street so narrow two persons couldn’t pass each other with raised umbrellas. I thought it unusual the boy didn’t shout at the few passersby to get out of our way as most drivers did. Instead, he ran in silence, his heavy breaths pleasing to my ears. I kept trying to see his face, but every time I peeped out of the tiny curtain, my father yanked me back inside the jinrikisha.
“Keep your mind on our mission, Kathlene.”
“I’m trying my best, Father, but you’re not telling me everything,” I dared to blurt out. Worry for his safety made me anxious.
“I can’t. All you have to know is you’re my daughter and you’ll act accordingly.”
Angry, I crossed my legs, my black button boots melting into the softness of the floor mat. I wiggled about on the red velvet-covered seat, trying to get comfortable in my wet clothes and sinking down lower into the soft cushion. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful to my father, but I was frightened. Frightened of what lay ahead.
I looked over at him and went over in my mind the events of the past day and night, trying to understand why he’d ordered me to pack my things because we were leaving Tokio at once. Next he ordered our housekeeper, Ogi-san, to pack rice, pickled radishes and tiny strips of raw fish into lunch boxes so we’d have something to eat on the day-long journey ahead of us.
He’d hardly spoken a word to me since we left. I wished he would confide in me, as he often did. This time he said nothing. Instead, he ordered me to speak to no one.
“My life depends on it, Kathlene,” he told me, putting his right hand under his jacket, as if he hid a pistol there.
My father was a handsome man, but at this moment he looked funny, strange even, bent over in the tiny jinrikisha. His clean-shaven face was wet with rain, his head hatless, his hair matted. His rich, black overcoat glistened with dewy pearls of raindrops. Even his black leather gloves shone with a rainy sparkle that played with my imagination, hypnotizing me into believing this whole escapade was a game. That nothing was wrong.
For what could go wrong in this beautiful, vibrant green land of misty plum blossoms? Lyric bells played a song on every breeze and the sweep of brilliant red maple leaves harmonized with the melody.
To me, it was a gentle land inhabited by a gentle people. And the only home I’d known since my father brought me to Japan with my mother when I was a small child. He’d known my mother was sickly and the ocean voyage from San Francisco had weakened her, but Mother wouldn’t stay behind without him.
So she came. With me. My heart ached with fresh tears, trying to remember my mother. It was difficult for me. She died that first year. I never shared my pain with anyone. Especially my father. He seemed to hold back his feelings around
