She darted across the upper-floor room, sending dust smelling of rice straw puffing from the ancient tatami mats, pushed back the screens and leaned out over the rickety balcony. Below her, geishas swished along the lamp-lit alley in elaborate festive kimonos, long sleeves swinging, trailing musky perfume and bintsuke oil, the pomade they slathered their hair with to keep it in place. They looked up and bowed and smiled, calling out greetings in bird-like coos, every bit as glamorous as the Kyoto geishas she’d known. Taka’s new geisha friend, sixteen-year-old Toshimi, with her perfect oval face and wide-eyed air of innocence, dipped her head as she passed, tossing the frilled skirts of her western gown. Boys pushed by balancing stacks of lacquered food boxes, their breath puffing out like steam in the icy air. From behind closed doors and shuttered windows came the plucking of shamisens and women’s thin voices, plaintively singing. Smoke wafted out, heavy with the tang of grilling eel, roasting beef and stewing pork, and Taka thought of her father and how he used to enjoy tucking into his meat.
