Side Story #15: Keiko's Kabuki Act

<Author’s note: This story takes place before the events of Book 1.>

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Side Story 15: Keiko’s Kabuki Act

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■■ Tonogasha ■■

“We don’t deal with your kind here! This is a legitimate establishment!”

The barkeep yelled loud enough to wake up half of Tonogasha. It was a wake-up call the sleepy town desperately needed: it was past mid-morning and most of the residents were still asleep. Keiko envied them—she hadn’t slept a wink in the past week. She wouldn’t risk the nightmares, not when the waking memories were enough to bring her to tears.

“Papa, what should I do?” Keiko asked while wiping fresh tears away with the sleeve of her dirty silk kimono. What were once stunning white robes with lavish blossom designs were now browned with mud and stained pale green with nights spent sleepless atop beds of grass. The daughter of the recently deceased Lord Yamagata, head of the Yamagata-gumi, was alone and without a ryō to her name.

It wasn’t always easy being a yakuza.

Keiko lifted the cloak she had borrowed from an unattended wagon over her head. It wasn’t because the overcast sky warranted concerns for a sudden downpour. It was because of her face—specifically, the inked cherry blossoms that ran up her neck, across her chin and over her cheek. Facial tattoos were reserved for yakuza royalty: she was a princess in the criminal underworld of Jijinto, permanently marked on her eighteenth birthday.

“But here I’m no better than a Kondo. No, at least they can find work!” Keiko groaned and her stomach followed. She was starving—a poor time for a kasutera vendor to open up nearby. The moist cakes were fresh and lathered with honey, emitting a scent that caused the yakuza’s mouth to drool.

Remembering that she was a lady and not a dog, Keiko snapped from her daze and headed towards a long rectangular building at the center of town. It had caught her eye because of one detail: the windows—or rather, the lack of any.

“A gambling den? It has to be!” Keiko smiled, her pace speeding up as she heard clattering tiles and bickering men from inside. “I could be a Chō-Han dealer. Spirits know I’ve watched Papa play enough games!”

Her excitement turned to confusion after she slid open the shoji doors. The hall was even larger than it had appeared from outside, lined with dozens of small tables with pairs of men sitting across from each other. Raised seating lined both lengths of the hall, with many onlookers batting fans as the scent of sweaty men permeated the venue.

“This...this isn’t Chō-Han. And it’s not Hanafuda either,” Keiko said with a gulp. On the tables were boards with dozens of tiles upon them, each etched in symbols referring to their rank and value. The clattering she had heard from outside wasn’t from dice being rolled but wooden chips being placed and maneuvered in this nerdy and incredibly boring game.

It was too late for Keiko to escape unnoticed.

“Oh? A female!” said one of the shogi players, standing up from his table and pointing to her as if she was an exotic animal. A group of smelly ‘gentlemen’ quickly surrounded her.

“Greetings m’lady!”

“Are you perchance interested in shogi?”

“It would be my honor to teach you how to play!”

Keiko found herself in a corner, surrounded on all sides by men giving generous—if suspect—offers to teach her the rules of the game. They were overweight, smelly, and above all desperate for a woman’s attention. Were her stomach not already empty she might have lost her breakfast.

“Back off!” she yelled, pulling off her hood and giving them a good look at her cheek. “You know what I am, don’t you?!”

Each man gave her a stare more red with blush than white with fear. The shogi players quickly competed to give compliments to her flowery facial design. It was obvious that these men were so sheltered from crime and the underworld that they had never met nor seen a yakuza before. Keiko’s popularity only grew—much to her dismay—as most players delayed their games to gaze upon her.

“K-kuso!” Keiko cursed, summoning the Nishi side of her. She pulled out a knife and brandished it, causing several men to tumble back and give her room enough to escape. She used one man’s gut as a launching pad to jump free, running out the front entrance while swearing never to deal with shogi nerds ever again.

Not watching where she was going, she ran into a passerby who was carrying a bag of vegetables—which were now rolling across the street. She bowed and apologized to the one she bumped into, before raising her head and looking him in the eyes.

Or at least, she tried to. The man’s eyes were behind slits that were barely open, giving him a mischievous expression that was only amplified by his broad, sly smile. His hair was white and his kimono was stitched together in a hundred different colored patches. He brought a hand to his chin as he spoke in an odd falsetto:

“A face of blossoms,

well-watered with tears untold,

seeks the sunlight’s grace.”

Keiko sniffled, not understanding the weird poet’s haiku. To be polite, she smiled and nodded, helping him gather his tomatoes before they rolled away. Her first day in Tonogasha looked to be a horrible one, yet fortune was about to change in her favor.

“I’m sorry again, sir. I just came in from Jijinto and I...oops!” Keiko realized she was waving her knife around, and nearly cut the poet’s sleeve. She gave a cute little laugh as she bowed once more in apology.

The poet found the routine incredibly amusing. “A cherry blossom with thorns is a rare find indeed! My name is Bashō, a modest poet with bold ambitions. Now if I might ask, what is a member of the notorious Yamagata-gumi doing outside my door?”

Keiko looked around and found that they were in front of a poetry house. With little left to lose, she gave Bashō a nod. She’d tell him the story—parts of it, anyway. It began with a name. She gazed into her reflection on the knife’s edge and spoke it.

“Nishi-chan.”

■■ Jijinto, Days Earlier ■■

It was just before the crack of dawn when the three yakuza—Keiko, Nishi and Daisuke—had returned to Fish Eye Hospital in Jijinto’s Eastside slums. They had returned expecting to see their bloodied master in rough but stable condition. The yakuza boss was tough enough to survive an assassination attempt that to any weaker man would’ve been fatal.

Keiko had even brought flowers and cards from the rest of the gang wishing him a quick recovery. Their spirits were high and hopeful.

But when Nishi slid open the door to the clinic they were assaulted by a mouthful of metal. The stench of blood was so heavy they could taste it. They traced back a pair of bloody footsteps to the backroom and saw the doctor’s assistant, Momoko, sitting slumped against the wall with her eyes wide and vacant in shock.

And across from her, on the operating table, was what remained of Lord Yamagata.

Keiko couldn’t bear to look at him. The scene was too gruesome; vomit filled her throat as she spotted her father’s heart outside his chest. His blood—the same that flowed through her veins—puddled into a pool across the floor. She saw her own red reflection beneath her, tremoring upon the fall of her tears.

“Damn it! Damn it all! Damn you!” Nishi yelled, grabbing Momoko by the throat and raising her up off the floor. The yakuza captain clenched Momoko so tightly that the woman couldn’t speak, yet Nishi demanded she do so all the same. “You killed him, didn’t you?! Tell me that it’s all your fault!”

Momoko gasped out an unintelligible groan. With her arms limp at her sides, she made no motion to stop Nishi from snapping her neck. The enraged woman was about to do just that when Keiko grabbed her fellow yakuza and put herself between them.

“Nishi-chan! Please, stop it!” Keiko screamed, tears streaming down her face. “Papa’s dead! Killing her won’t change that!”

Nishi raged a little longer, but once the initial anger subsided the adrenaline left too, and the sleep-deprived yakuza could only gaze upon the truth while her legs folded beneath her. When Momoko found her voice she told them of the culprit: an assassin, more beast than human, with golden eyes that pierced right through her. The one who had nearly killed their boss had returned to finish the job.

A silence came over the group, until the bald giant Daisuke looked towards the captain with a question. “What are we gonna do now, Nishi?”

She stood up and braced her forehead with her now-bloodied fingers. “How’d that bastard—bitch, whatever—find out he was here? Only told the most loyal of our boys where we were keepin’ him. Them and...and her.”

“Shiroyama.” Keiko said the name that Nishi didn’t. The two exchanged looks and mutual scowls for their boss’s new wife, a woman who was as suspicious as she was greedy, and far too ambitious for their liking. Ambitious enough, perhaps, to do the unthinkable.

Nishi planted one hand upon Keiko’s shoulder and held out a knife in the other. “Take it and go, Kei-chan. You have to leave the city—it’s not safe for you here!”

The heir to the Yamagata-gumi took the knife but shook her head all the same. “I don’t want to leave you, Nishi-chan! And where would I go? Perhaps...I could head to—”

Nishi brought her lips down and against Keiko’s. The two shared a deep kiss, interrupted only by Daisuke’s gawking. When they parted, the captain looked at the yakuza princess and said her goodbye.

“It’s safer if I don’t know where you’re going. We’ll meet again soon, after I clean up this fuckin’ mess!”

■■ Tonogasha ■■

Keiko stood and waited outside of the White Peach: the largest kabuki theater in town. Though it wasn’t as lavish as the theaters she had seen in Yamato, it was just as beautiful. Brightly painted tapestries hung from above the front entrance; depicting actors in costume, they fluttered in the wind as if tonight’s performance had already started.

But it was early afternoon and the theater was closed off to visitors. That was fine—Keiko didn’t intend to be one for long. This was where the poet Bashō recommended she go for a job. So she steeled her courage and walked forward, under the illustration of a long-nosed oni demon in battle with a red-haired samurai in a golden kimono.

There was a flurry of activity both on stage and off of it, with workers and actors alike carrying around props and costumes. One young man had the misfortune of carrying a dozen sharp-looking katana swords by himself. He could hardly see where he was going much less where his feet were, and tripped upon the flowy kimono of one of the spirit maidens. The result was a ruckus that ended with him getting smacked several times over the head with a paper fan.

“For spirits’ sake, Ige! Get those swords backstage before I stab you with them!”

Keiko gasped. Not at the sight of the large older woman abusing a stagehand, but upon the name: Ige was the one Bashō told her to ask for. Though he was a far cry from the starring kabuki actor she had hoped for, the yakuza princess followed the young man backstage all the same.

When she caught up with him, the stagehand was hanging the katanas up onto a rack. That he was grabbing them by the blades was a good sign that they were blunted—for theatrical use only.

“Excuse me, are you Ige?”

“Eeeip!” Ige yelled and jumped in surprise. The sword he held in his hands dropped to his foot, and though the blade wasn’t sharp it was heavy all the same. “Ow! That really smarts!”

Keiko bowed to apologize but did so too quickly; she came off-balance and fell forward into the stagehand, collapsing both Ige and the rack of swords behind him. The two were bombarded from above as a shower of blunted blades fell over them. By the way Keiko fell, the young man’s face was smothered between her bosoms. Though he didn’t die from lack of breath, he was close to doing so from embarrassment as a couple actors came by to see what was the matter. Both congratulated him on his youthful resolve.

“I’m so, so sorry!” Keiko said, apologizing once more after freeing Ige from the awkward embrace. “I can’t believe I’ve made such a bad first impression. I should never have listened to  that Bashō in the first place!”

“Ah, Bashō-san?” Ige said, his face still crimson from blushing. “I take poetry lessons from him twice a week. He’s quite a profound teacher, once you get past his...eccentrics. The theater is in need of extras during our crowd scenes, so I asked if he found anyone suitable to send them our way.”

Extras, as Keiko understood it, were background characters. They were ordinary and wore plain clothes, making the colorful protagonist and their romantic pursuits stand out by comparison. It was an important yet far from glamorous occupation, yet the yakuza was in no position to be picky.

She put down her hood and smiled. “Would I be suitable, Ige-san?”

Ige’s eyes went wide as he saw Keiko’s blossom branding. Realizing he was with a yakuza, he let out an audible gulp and then an ‘Ah’ that went on for a minute. He eventually recovered, enough at least to nod his head and come up with a plan. “Please follow me. What was your name, again?”

Keiko introduced herself as Ige led her to the powder room. It was called that for a very obvious reason: it was where the actors dabbed their faces with the makeup kabuki was most known for. The white powdery mist in the air was so heavy that the yakuza nearly choked on her own breath.

“Covering my face...I feel like I’d be hiding who I am,” said Keiko, nervous as she took a seat in front of the mirror. Mirrors were incredibly rare—this one was no doubt the greatest luxury item in the theater. It had been years since Keiko had last looked at herself through one. She smiled and her reflection smiled back, both of them relieved that she still looked as cute as always—even after the week’s horrific ordeals.

“Ah, well,” Ige started, “though masks and makeup may hide our faces, oftentimes they help us better express who we truly are. Once we look beyond what’s outside...we can see the beauty within.”

Keiko giggled. “I think you’re wise beyond your years, Ige-kun! I imagine you’ll be running this theater yourself one day.”

Ige let out a nervous laugh as he proceeded to cover up Keiko’s tattoos with a shade of paint nearly identical to her skin color. Though it was ticklish to have a brush sweeping across your neck and face, the yakuza kept perfectly still as the stagehand did his work. After he was done, Keiko saw that the face looking back at her no longer resembled a yakuza but was as un-inked and natural as any other’s.

“Amazing! It’s fantastic!” Keiko took Ige into her arms and squeezed. “How did you get so skilled?”

“Ah, well I...I have to help the Headmistress each morning with her makeup. I’ve gotten plenty of experience covering up all her warts and wrinkles. Older women tend to—ah!”

The paper fan from earlier had returned with renewed fury, and the grimace atop the Headmistress’s face was hot enough to send her makeup running. “So this is what you’ve been up to?! Entertaining trollops when you should be working?”

Each emphasized word came with another wallop. What was worse than the assault, however, was the glare the Headmistress directed towards Keiko. “Let me guess. You want to be an actress—a star!”

Keiko shook her head, but the head of the theater continued her scolding.

“Do you have any idea how many geisha dropouts we get each week? Where did you even train, girl? Or have you no training at all—aside from spreading your legs in dirty ryokan, that is!”

Keiko was too afraid to say anything but the truth. “I...I trained in Yamato, Headmistress. At the Lioness Institute for Charm and Grace.” It wasn’t a lie but it wasn’t entirely true, either: she had gone there under Nishi’s old name: Noriko Morita. Nishi had forsaken her birthright as a proper lady and given Keiko the chance she had only dreamed of. Though her stay there was short, it was a gift Keiko would never forget.

The Headmistress was taken aback by the name of the institute, nearly dropping her fan. “You went to the Lioness? What happened to the standards there? Not even my application was accepted! Do you think that makes you more graceful than I?!”

Keiko shook her head once again, yet the Headmistress ignored her.

“You do, don’t you?! Well then—let’s see just how graceful you are covered in filth!” she yelled, picking up a nearby mop and bucket and tossing it at Keiko. “You wanted work, right? We’ve got a show tonight and those floors better sparkle!”

“Y-yes Ma’am!”

■■■■

Kabuki plays were often day-long affairs, and a large portion of the theater’s income came from the overpriced offerings at the intermission tables. Tonogasha wasn’t close to the ocean but they had plenty of sushi cooled and ready for sale all the same. It wasn’t cheap nor fresh but it sure looked delicious.

“Looks like the new girl has an appetite,” said an actor in an ugly oni mask. When he lifted it off his shoulders he revealed himself to be a woman as pretty as any Keiko had ever seen. “The Headmistress will notice if you snatch any now. Your best bet is taste-testing during the second act.”

She gave Keiko a wink and continued on her way. The actress was kind and as welcoming as all the other performers and stagehands; they were like a family, joking and bickering and calling each other by their first names. They weren’t blood related yet shared a close bond all the same. It reminded her of the yakuza and all of her friends in the Yamagata-gumi.

Keiko shook off the memories of her past and focused on the here and now. Though she was an outsider, she was determined not to be one for long. “I’ll work so hard I know they’ll accept me!”

Rice, noodles, and spilled saké were all over the floors, while dust, hair and stains covered the cushions. That didn’t even include the dozens of old pamphlets scattered everywhere. Though the guests wouldn’t see most of it—considering it was often pitch dark away from the stage—that didn’t make such a mess acceptable.

Keiko had a talent for cleaning and a love for it too. There was something deeply satisfying about cleaning something unclean and bringing out a room’s hidden beauty. It wasn’t often that the yakuza princess got the opportunity to tidy up, but here at the White Peach she let herself loose.

Time flew by unnoticed as she went from one row to the next like a woman possessed. Ige had to grab hold of her arm to stop her, much to her annoyance—there was a stubborn stain of soy sauce that had yet to come out.

“Ah, Keiko-san! You did a fantastic job. But the doors are about to open for the guests! We need to get backstage.”

Keiko nodded, then smiled and blushed as her new coworkers gave her praise and approval. Some even remarked that she was too pretty to be cleaning soy stains, offering her acting lessons. That talk was cut short thanks to the whack of a paper fan from the Headmistress, who gave Keiko a scowl as she barked out an order.

“To your places, everyone! Stagehands—make like the rats that you are and scurry out of sight!”

■■■■

Keiko fell over laughing. She and a hundred kabuki patrons were enjoying a rendition of ‘The Zen Substitute’: a comedy where a man switches places with his servant during meditation to trick his possessive wife—all so that he can visit his courtesan in secret. The antics and close-calls were so compelling that, even with the worst seat in the house, Keiko couldn’t help but be captivated.

“The first act is just about over,” Ige said with a sigh of relief. He was more concerned about things going wrong—like actors forgetting lines or props falling apart—to enjoy the humor. Looking at the other stagehands, Keiko saw the same level of focus. She still had a lot to learn about show business, she realized.

After the curtains closed, one of the actors yelled out for Ige, saying that they had a costume emergency. The young man ran off backstage, leaving Keiko to herself. Though she wasn’t alone long; the Headmistress appeared behind her with a wicked grin, as well as with a bar of soap, bucket and mop.

“Having a laugh, are we? Get back to work! Ichikawa managed to cut his toe on stage. Go clean up the mess!”

Keiko took the cleaning instruments but was confused as to what her employer wanted. “The next act should be starting soon, Ma’am. Shouldn’t we wait until intermission?”

The response came in the form of a push. Keiko was flung on stage, and thanks to a spilled bucket of soapy water, she slid across the floor. Chuckles and a loud growing murmur met her ears. To her horror, a hundred pairs of eyes stared down at her watching her every move.

Stagefright hit Keiko like a martial artist’s uppercut. Her legs clamped together as she went stiff as a board; she fell so flatly that she flopped over on her head. It was an embarrassing stunt that drew even more laughter from the crowd. “This is bad! I’m making a fool of myself!”

Trying to recover, she reached out for the bar of soap—which proceeded to fly out from her fingers. She hurried and crawled over to reach it, but every attempt proved as futile as the last until she had squirmed across the entire stage floor.

The laughter grew as did Keiko’s shame. She couldn’t look at the crowd so she looked backstage and found a line of stagehands gesturing frantically for her to get out of there. She nodded and hurried over, or at least tried to. Not watching her feet, Keiko tripped over the mop while swinging out her arms in a futile attempt to keep her balance.

She face planted the wet stage with a *splat* that sent the crowd wild. It was all she could do not to cry. One of the stagehands tossed her a towel out of pity. Keiko used it to hide her face. Several of the actors—men dressed as overfully fanciful samurai—came to drag her off stage, but them coming near her was the last thing she wanted.

For beneath that towel wasn’t the face of the new girl they knew, but the yakuza princess they would fear. The makeup had come off. Keiko staggered back, blind with a towel on her face, and unsteady on her feet. For the latter, at least, she managed to grab hold of the mop. She tried to swing it around to keep the actors at bay, but ended up striking one across the head and another in the gut by mistake.

She bowed deeply and apologized after each accidental strike.

The crowd roared out with a belly-aching laughter as the absurd combat ensued. They were watching a hopeless house cleaner fend off half a dozen supposedly-legendary samurai. They didn’t have a clue that this wasn’t scripted, and that the cute maiden on stage was actually a yakuza on her first day. 

With another actor down—this time with a shot to the groin—the remaining samurai quickly routed. Keiko looked around before turning towards the audience, lifting her towel just enough to reveal an embarrassed smile.

She waved her goodbye as the crowd stood from their seats and broke into applause.

■■■■

After her impromptu performance, Keiko was hurried off by Ige to reapply her makeup. The stagehand had just finished when a group of actors barged in and demanded Keiko be fired on the spot. Or at least, that was what she imagined they were there for.

“She’s a natural! Ige-kun, quit hogging her to yourself!”

“They loved it! Ichikawa has his work cut out for him following that routine!”

“Hope you’re ready to sign some autographs after the show, dear!”

Getting hugs and praise from the performers put Keiko in a state of bliss. She thought she had made a complete fool of herself—and in all honesty, she had—but it turned out to be exactly what the audience wanted. Even the Headmistress couldn’t complain at the results; she stood at the door with her arms crossed and refused to look her in the eye.

Keiko was ditzy and cute—the combination of which enraptured the hearts of all who came to the White Peach. Their male audience especially loved her, and among those was a wealthy silk trader who happened to be one of the joint-owners of the theater.

He introduced himself to Keiko as Anzai Sukenobu, fourth son of Miyahira Sukenobu, called the Striker of Sells…

“...though my opponents know me as the Gold General! Indeed, my skills in shogi have earned me the title of the game’s most powerful piece. I suppose my habit of wearing golden silk also helped in that regard, haha!”

Keiko feigned a smile. She was sitting across from the man in a fancy teahouse, and cared as much about the tea as she did the conversation. That was to say, not at all: the White Peach’s newest actress was too busy stuffing her face with dumplings and tempura to be concerned with anything else.

“Why even bother inviting me out to dinner if you’re only going to talk about yourself?” Keiko thought as she downed a second bowl of beef stew. Anzai was deep into this month’s sales report, bragging at length on how his investments last year were already beginning to pay dividends. It was a one-sided conversation made worse by the man’s lackeys who hung behind him and feigned interest.

Anzai was overweight and generally repulsive, not to mention he was a shogi player. Yet as a fan of hers and an owner of the White Peach, Keiko had felt compelled to go out with him. Not to mention that the Headmistress had all but ordered her to do so. She hoped to finish the meal and this ordeal as quickly as possible, yet Anzai had other plans.

He placed a hand over hers. It was all Keiko could do not to snap it away. “But enough of me. Your performance was remarkable. Your cuteness is like a blossom I wish to cultivate. I can make you a star, Kei-chan.”

Keiko felt the opposite of attraction but the temptation of stardom all the same. At least until the silk trader had called her by the name that only Nishi was allowed to use. She pushed Anzai off her and stood up from her seat.

“Thank you for the dinner, General-san. But I suggest you find another flower to...cultivate.”

“You wish to be an actress, yes? I would hate to see such a promising flower wilt before its time,” said Anzai in a thinly-veiled threat. “Besides, I’ve already set up our accommodations for tonight.”

Keiko pounded the table, rattling the bowls and plunging the teahouse’s dining room into silence. All eyes were on her just as before—but this time she wasn’t going to be paralyzed by stagefright.

“How dare you threaten me into your chambers, you piss-stained bastard! I’ve had enough!”

Keiko stormed out of the teahouse and into a summer rainstorm, much preferring the company of the warm downpour over Anzai. The silk merchant huffed and puffed over to follow her out, shouting curses and making the mistake of grabbing her on the shoulder.

The yakuza whipped out her knife and cut him apart—or at least, his sash. With his belt in pieces, his kimono flew open and the bottom half of him became exposed. Keiko—the real Keiko, with the inked blossoms on her face showing—looked him over and shook her head in disgust.

“I am the Blossom of the Yamagata-gumi, and I’m proud of it! Now get the hell out of my presence, you short-stemmed weed!”

Anzai quickly obeyed, hurrying off while clutching at his robes to conceal his shame. Keiko stood there in silence amid the rain watching him go, realizing that her days at the White Peach were at an end.

Suddenly, the rain stopped. No—an oil paper umbrella was raised over her head. The umbrella’s holder was looking at her with an amused grin, which shifted into a concerned frown after seeing her expression.

“That’s not just rainwater falling down your cheek,” said Bashō. “What is the matter, Keiko-san?”

She blinked away her tears and explained it all. Though she enjoyed working at the White Peach with Ige and the others, she had made an enemy out of Anzai—an owner of the theater. Her kabuki career was over the day it began.

The poet patted a finger to his lips as he went deep into thought. “Perhaps your services could be better used elsewhere, then. My master is a lord with a large mansion. One that his butler and personal chef are woefully ill-equipped to clean. He would welcome you with open arms, I’m sure.”

Keiko thought on it as the rain pounded down above her. Though the poet looked like a weasel, he hadn’t steered her wrong yet. She did love to clean, and a mansion by a mysterious lord certainly seemed inviting. But was it too good to be true?

“This lord...your master, what sort of man is he?” she asked.

Bashō grinned with lips that seemed to stretch from one ear to the other.

“He is a man unlike any you have met before—of that much I’m certain! Come, let me take you to the estate of...Roderico da Mirandola!”