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Oiran: Chapter 2 - Tea Cups & Cupping

by Haku Baikou ::: 25.May.2003

Steam curled lazily from the cup of tea she placed before him. Yumi sat with hands folded in her lap, silently staring at her somewhat bedraggled friend. A month had passed since she’d seen Jubei last, and she took her time now, taking note of every detail, studying the artist with the same careful attention he’d so often paid her whenever he’d sketched her portrait in the past. He seemed all right, she saw with relief. She hadn’t been sure, despite his protests when he first arrived, that he was truly well. His voice had been terribly hoarse, and he’d had a slightly bewildered, unbalanced look, one that truly had her concerned. But a quick inspection of his person, and additional reassurances from Kitada-san finally convinced Yumi that Jubei was in fact unharmed and, for the most part, no worse for the wear after his little exertion on the road outside. He was tired and cold, was all. Nothing a warm bath and a little hot tea couldn’t fix.

She watched him drink his tea, absorbed, as always, by the aesthetics of his appearance. Even in a disheveled state, he was pleasing to the eye, was her Jubei. The hands wrapped lightly around his teacup were the long-fingered, fine-boned hands of an artist. Beautiful, sculpted hands, far better suited for creating art than for wielding a sword, she thought. And so very skilled, those hands, she remembered with an inward smile. Very skilled indeed. She could remember the feel of them, light and sure as they traveled down her back….

They’d been lovers once, long before they became friends, long before he became sick. She could recall as if it were yesterday, the shy young client she’d been introduced to, the brilliant woodprint artist that was the newest darling of Asakusa’s cultural elite. The denizens of the theatre district in nearby Asakusa had raved to her about the young man, of his incredible portrayals of the famed kabuki stage actors, many of whom were her friends. Her curiosity piqued, she’d agreed to meet with him, for him to do her portrait. And the rest…. Yumi smiled. It hadn’t been long before he’d returned for a second visit, and then a third…. And aside from all the…pleasantries that had occurred during those subsequent visits, she really had been pleased with the result of his work. His portraits of her were, as everyone had said, nothing short of brilliant.

He had helped make her what she was today, one of the most famous of the oiran, her face known throughout Tokyo. And in return, the popular portraits of Komagata Yumi had boosted and solidified Nishida Jubei’s reputation as a woodprint artist. The two of them had made an excellent pair, both in business and out. And the first year they’d known each other, their professional and personal lives had been intertwined, full of creative energy, heart-pounding and feverish and exciting.

Until he’d become sick. Which had changed everything.

Changed everything for the better, actually, thought Yumi, though most people would have assumed the opposite to be true. They’d stopped being lovers. And when she and Jubei had blinked the dazzlement out of their eyes and adjusted to the reality of their doomed affair, something new had blossomed between them. The fire was gone, the surface trappings of their torrid relations stripped away to reveal something quieter, deeper, and far more meaningful. It was as if their minds were suddenly clear, and they could truly see each other for the first time. It had taken his illness to make them realize how blind they’d been, to make them realize that despite their physical attraction, they had, in all their time together, never really been in love.

Infatuation gave way then to a warm abiding friendship, one that had grown deeper throughout the years and one that Yumi treasured above all others. Nishida was still a brilliant and famed artist to the rest of the world, but to her, he was simply Jubei. It had been a strange blessing of sorts, their altered relationship. Had they continued with their tempestuous affair as it had been, Jubei would most likely have come and gone like so many other men in her life. But because of the change, he had become a permanent part of her life, a warm and dependable presence. He was one of the few people in the world who had access to Yumi’s true self, the self she showed only to those she cared for the most, the self that was locked away and hidden deep beneath the oiran shell she maintained for the rest of the world.

She looked at him now, this dear friend of hers, and tried to hold her anger in check. What in the world had he been thinking to rush headlong into a battle he was in no way conditioned to withstand? He’d always been a sensible fellow, staying well away from swordfights despite his obvious skill with a blade. He’d told her once that his life as a swordsman was long over, that in his heart, he’d always had the soul of an artist, not a warrior. That he’d joined the Shinsengumi because his family had dictated that he do so, not because of any love of fighting. So what the hell had he been thinking tonight?

Yumi glowered, her mood growing darker by the minute. It took all her self-control not to throttle the young artist at the moment. He had, at least, the good graces to look visibly abashed and squirm a bit under her disapproving glare. And well he should, fool that he was, fighting in the rain on a bitterly cold night such as this. If she weren’t so concerned about his health, she would have seriously given thought to doing him bodily harm herself. Jubei, the idiot.

Her idiot. Her best friend…. Still an idiot….

“You’re awfully quiet. Have you nothing to say?” he ventured at last as he carefully sipped at the tea. And when the silence continued: “Yumi, my dear. What are you thinking?”

“I must admit I’m in awe,” she said, her voice venomous silk. “In complete and utter awe at the endless bounds of your stupidity, Jubei, the immensity of the scale of your idiocy. And don’t ‘my dear’ me. Cheap endearments will not work this time.”

Kitada-san, who stood quietly by the door, choked back a muffled cough. Endo Mari, who sat quietly next to Yumi, politely covered her mouth with her hand and cast her eyes downward, quite proper except for the amused sidelong glance she directed at Yumi.

“My stupidity is flattered and thanks you. But Yumi, my endearments are never cheap,” Jubei murmured, pointedly ignoring the old Shirobei captain behind him who was struggling not to laugh and the seemingly demure geisha by Yumi’s side who hid her smirks a little more successfully than the old soldier by the door.

“Jubei, Jubei, what am I to do with you?”

“I take it that’s a rhetorical question.”

She sighed heavenwards and glanced at Mari who smiled and shrugged.

Jubei’s eyes were lowered. Thoughtful. Intent on his tea. “You could start by welcoming me home.”

She arched an eyebrow and tried not to smile.

“Okaeri nasai,” said Mari softly.

“Thank you, Mari, sweetling. I’m glad someone at least missed me,” he said wryly. A mischievous glance over the top of his cup as he took another long sip. “Was that a smile I just saw, Yumi-san?”

“Iya.”

“Are you sure? I do believe—“

“Iya.”

“Aa.” He sighed, his eyes looking back down at the tea. “A pity.”

She laughed then, outright, unable to hold her amusement in any longer.

“Damn you, Jubei, I’m trying to be angry with you! Can you not cooperate a little and have the decency to look ashamed? You’ve been a fool tonight.”

“I won’t deny that,” he conceded.

“You could have been killed!”

“I almost was,” he agreed blandly.

Mari gasped, and Yumi blinked, her playful mood fading.

“So,” she said. “You’re settled in now. You’ve had your bath and your cup of tea. You’re warm and comfortable. And we’re all waiting. Will you finally tell us what happened, Jubei?”

“There’s not much to tell, really. I was coming home and saw some fighting in a field not far from the Gate.”

“That close?” asked Mari, her eyes wide.

Yumi looked to Kitada-san in concern at this news.

“I’ve sent men to investigate,” the old warrior assured her.

“That’s good, Kitada-san,” said Yumi.

“I would be very interested in hearing whatever your men manage to find out,” said Jubei. “At any rate, these East Bank scoundrels were attacking a warrior and a child. A strange pair. This warrior, he had bandages all over from head to foot. And he had the oddest looking red eyes. They were quite unsettling, actually. It felt as if they pierced right through me. As if the man could see through to my soul.”

He smiled and shook his head. “Ah, but you should have seen him fight, Kitada-san. The man was amazing. Truly amazing.”

“He may have fought during the Bakumatsu,” commented the old warrior.

“He must have,” agreed Jubei. “But not on my side, I’m fairly certain. None of the Shinsengumi I knew used moves remotely like his. Perhaps he fought for your Ishin Shishi, Kitada-san? The child called him Shishio. Do you know the name?”

“Shishio.… Sounds vaguely familiar, but I can’t place it,” said Kitada, frowning.

“I’ve not seen such expertise with a sword since the war,” said Jubei. “The East Bank hirelings didn’t stand a chance. Had I known the man’s level of skill beforehand, I wouldn’t have bothered helping him. As it was, I was noticed by one of them by the time I got close enough to see what was going on. A few of them fought me, and I did pretty well until I got careless at the end. And the man I was originally intending to rescue ended up rescuing me. And that’s all, I’m afraid. Not much to tell, really.”

“And the child?” asked Mari.

“He was with the warrior the entire time, huddled at the man’s feet. After the battle, he tried to get up, but he couldn’t. This Shishio fellow threatened to leave the boy if he couldn’t get up on his own. I thought he was kidding at first, but when I saw his face, I thought he looked like he meant it. So I picked the child up, and I offered them both a room here. But the man walked away leaving the boy with me.”

“He’s a strange little boy,” said Yumi. Mari nodded in agreement.

“Strange? How so?”

“He didn’t say much when we put him to bed, but…” she shook her head. “I don’t know. The boy was pleasant enough, but something’s just not quite right with that one.”

Jubei frowned in concern. “He is very ill. And he’s been through quite a shock tonight.”

“Perhaps that’s it,” said Yumi, doubting it.

She got to her feet and sighed. “Anyway, It’s late. I’m sure Jubei needs his rest. And the boy, strange as he is, needs tending to.”

Kitada-san excused himself and left to rejoin his men at the guardhouse, and Mari offered to fetch the cupping globes and some cotton so they could treat the boy with them later. Which left Yumi alone with Jubei for the moment as the two of them headed for Jubei’s suite of rooms.

It was a comfortable room, decorated with an odd assortment of trinkets, yet still simple and spacious. It was neat and clean, kept spotless by the teahouse staff while Jubei was away. And he often was away since this was not his only residence. He had his permanent home in Asakusa’s theatre district, but a room at the ageya had been set aside for him when he’d collapsed from a fit of coughing once after leaving the teahouse to return home on a cold, snowy night.

The proprietors of the teahouse well knew Jubei’s worth, and for once, they spared no expense at ensuring their prized artist’s welfare. In a show of unprecedented generosity, they’d set aside an entire suite for him and even spared a few staff to look after it while he was away. And equally surprising, they’d said nothing of Yumi’s frequent visits with him when fraternization with the opposite gender had been severely frowned upon for the women of the House. Perhaps it was because they knew the nature of Jubei and Yumi’s relationship had long ago changed, that the presence of the sick young artist would in no way threaten Yumi’s clients. Or perhaps it was because of their fame, both of them bringing the teahouse far more earnings than their little luxuries cost. Whatever the reason, Nishida Jubei enjoyed a privilege few men in Tokyo could ever know: a permanent, private room just down the hall from the most desired woman in Tokyo, and free access to her company whenever and wherever he wished. Yumi had known men who would have killed for such a prize. But when Jubei had first been told of the guest suite, he’d merely smiled, and said, “How very thoughtful of them.”

She smirked at the memory and leaned against the wall watching him as he unsheathed his sword and methodically cleaned the blood off with an oiled cloth. Cleaning his sword was the first thing he did even before he unpacked his belongings. Once a swordsman, always a swordsman, Yumi supposed.

He quickly finished and set the sword upon its rack by the window. There were now two swords there, the one he’d just cleaned, and another. Another sword he never used. And not for the first time, Yumi found herself staring at this other sword, wondering where it came from. Jubei treated the two weapons completely differently. The first one, the one he fought with tonight, was always kept clean and in good working condition, but was treated the same as any of his other belongings. It was an object to Jubei, nothing more. The second sword was a different matter entirely. Jubei treated it with reverence, cleaning it so that it shone, placing it with the utmost care on its rack. It was a beautiful weapon, Yumi could see, and it obviously had some great meaning to Jubei. But it was one of the few things he didn’t talk about with her, and she knew the man well enough to not bother asking. She watched him run his finger lightly along the sheath before turning to set his other bags down. The odd thing, thought Yumi, was that despite all his care towards the weapon, it seemed to her as if Jubei truly and deeply hated the thing.

“It’s just a sword. It’s not all that fascinating, my dear.”

She started guiltily and looked at him. He was sitting on his bed now, looking at her with amusement in his eyes.

“Is it? You don’t seem to think so.”

He shrugged. “It’s a piece of metal, nothing more.”

“Aren’t you full of lies tonight,” she murmured, sitting next to him on the bed. It was a Western styled bed, raised off the floor. Jubei had a predilection for Western things. His room was filled with odd curios from various countries. The raised bed, besides being an interesting piece of furniture, served a more utilitarian purpose as well. It was easier for Jubei to get in and out of the raised bed instead of a futon on the floor whenever he wasn’t feeling well. And the way he’d sunk down onto it tonight told Yumi that he was far more tired than he admitted.

“Whatever do you mean?” he asked as he swung his legs onto the bed and lay comfortably, his elbows under his head.

She turned to face him. “You’re hiding something from me, Jubei. I can see it in your eyes.”

“I’ll have to teach my eyes to be more careful.”

“Did something happen during the fight?”

He blinked, but recovered quickly and shrugged.

“Jubei.”

He turned on his side and buried his face in the pillow.

“Jubei….”

He looked up at her, raising himself to rest on one elbow.

“In the middle of the battle, I practically coughed my lungs out, slipped like an amateur, and nearly got myself killed by men who aren’t worth the dirt they stand on,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact and deceptively light.

“Is that what it was? I’d wondered what you meant by ‘careless,’” she said softly.

“And do you want to know something strange? I thought I saw flames coming from his sword. I know that sounds crazy, but I could have sworn his blade was on fire for a brief moment. And do you know what I felt when I saw that? I was scared. I was scared the whole time, even as my stupid, over-inflated sense of justice made me join in.” He shook his head, frustrated. “I was never this scared back during the Bakumatsu, Yumi. Sure, I was nervous before battle, but I was never this…cowardly.”

“You’re no coward, Jubei,” she assured him quietly. “I’ve known you too long. You’re far from cowardly.”

He lay back against he pillows, covering his eyes with one arm. “That’s all, woman. Is there anything else you want to know?”

“Jubei—“

“I apologize. That was rude,” he muttered, his tone still short. “Pardon my lack of manners tonight, Yumi…. I’m merely sick and tired of being sick and tired.”

It pained her, seeing him in such a mood. He was rarely short with her like this, and when he was, it was usually a sign that he was truly bothered by something.

“Jubei, Is there anything I can do for you?”

He thought about it. “Are you free tomorrow?”

Damn, she hadn’t told him yet. “No, Takei-san is—“

“Takei?” He sat up. “Takei still comes here?”

“Jubei, calm down.”

“I am calm,” he said, visibly disturbed.

She looked at him.

“He’s trouble, Yumi.”

“He’s very wealthy, Jubei.”

“If it’s money you need, I have—“

She put her finger against his lips, silencing him. “Go to sleep, Jubei. You need your rest. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

She pushed at his shoulder gently until he lay back against the pillows again. He really must have been exhausted for he let the argument go and said nothing more.

Yumi reluctantly got up to leave. “Would you like me to stay with you a while?”

“No need,” he murmured fuzzily, half awake. “Just make sure the boy’s all right. Shishio will kill me if he dies.”

Yumi tensed and looked at Jubei sharply, but he was asleep, having murmured those last words as he drifted out. She briefly considered waking him to ask what he’d meant, but decided against it. There was time to ask him tomorrow morning. For now, he really did need his rest, and it would not do for her to be confronting and upsetting him right before bed.

Yumi made her way down the hall toward the other guest room where Mari was caring for the boy.

The child was awake, lying belly-down on his futon, his chin resting on crossed arms. His back was bare except for a row of little globe-like glass cups placed in a line down the left side. It was an odd site, one that Yumi never quite got used to, but Mari insisted that cupping was a wonderfully effective treatment for respiratory illnesses, and people did seem to get better after the girl was through with them. Yumi stood silently in the doorway, watching the geisha work on the boy.

“Yumi-san,” the boy greeted, smiling genially, innocent eyes wide.

What was the child’s name again? Ah, yes.

“Hello, Soujiro-chan,” she said pleasantly enough, though she still had a nagging sensation that something about the child was wrong.

Mari glanced up and smiled briefly as Yumi entered before returning her attention to her work. She took another wad of cotton and drenched it in alcohol before lighting the cotton with a small candle. The flame flared, a brilliant and pale blue, as Mari held the small bit of alcohol-soaked cotton under another one of the rounded glass cups, warming the air within before pressing the rim of the cup firmly against the boy’s back. As the warm air under the glass cooled, the skin underneath was suctioned upwards into the globe, a little pink lump that Yumi thought looked like a glass-enclosed mushroom.

“It still feels…rather strange,” said the boy, stifling a cough.

“Well, it should hopefully help this nasty cold of yours,” said Mari. “Did your mother never do this for you when you were sick?”

The boy hesitated, but his expression remained as friendly and carefree as ever. “No, I don’t think so, Mari-san. I don’t remember much about her.”

She saw Mari frown in sympathy, but before the young woman could say anything, Yumi had her own questions to ask.

“And what about your father?”

“Gomen, Yumi-san. I don’t remember much about him either.”

“Then the man you were with is not your father?”

“Shishio-sama?” The boys impossibly large eyes grew even larger. “Iya, of course not.”

“Oh,” said Yumi nodding. “Then he’s your uncle, I take it.”

“Iya,” answered the child.

“Then who is he?”

A normal child would have responded to her guessing game, would have told her without hesitation. This one just looked at her and smiled.

“He’s not one to be taken lightly, Yumi-san.” Spoken politely and congenially. But the words chilled Yumi’s blood.

She suppressed a slight shiver. Such words should have come from an adult, not a child. It was eerily strange coming from the lips of such an innocent little boy. She had hoped to question him further, but his oddness was unsettling, and she was at a loss as to what else to say to the boy.

She looked at Mari who was staring at the child nervously as she placed the last of the cups on the boy’s back.

“Are you done, Mari?” asked Yumi.

“Hai,” said the young woman. “I’ll be back in a little while to take the cups off.”

Yumi nodded and left the two to retire to her own room.

Random thoughts from the evening’s conversations tumbled through her mind as she changed into her sleeping yukata. Not surprisingly, she had difficulty falling asleep. The excitement of having Jubei home again, the new and disturbing events with that Shishio character, and the odd little boy down the hall. It was enough to keep anyone wide-awake. But she stilled herself and took a deep breath. She had much to do tomorrow, and she needed her rest.

And finally, she did manage to slip into a deep sleep. But red-eyed devils with flaming swords plagued her dreams the entire night.