Red Light Tsubaki
by Michelle Clarisa Willianto
Michelle creates a sensitive portrayal of human rights issue and child labour in her Term 1 Mover final project, “Red Light Tsubaki.” During class, she engaged in deep research and critical interrogations into colonial culture and its relation to the exploitation of children’s and women’s bodies. But most importantly, at the heart of this portrayal, the readers shall witness a sisterly bond that saves the soul of these two girls trapped in this systemic violence.
Content Warning: PG 13
I remember my introduction to the red light district, the first time I’d tasted its sights: the lower-ranking teahouse courtesans, staring back from their side of the wooden bars inside, a kamuro from another brothel running errands for her ‘ane-san’, absolute in her path.
Accompanied by her attendants, an oiran graced us with her presence as she showed off her extravagant golden plum blossom patterned kimono. How could she hold her head so high with all those kanzashi ornaments? How did she execute those figure-eight steps perfectly, even balanced on mountain-tall geta? My father had to pull me along to stop me gawking.
Just like the other visitors of the pleasure district, I was hypnotised by its illusions. I failed to see the truth behind it. The people here craved the notion of ‘pure beauty’, like trimmed camellias in the garden, and if a flower withered, it was simply disposed of.
Here, the flowers were the courtesans of the floating world. It wasn’t until later that I realised how similar the lattice walls putting the prostitutes on display looked like bars.
We passed the dirty streets snaking around the red light district. Father never looked back, or around, only ahead, his feet rigid in the direction he was to go. Meanwhile, my curious head spun around, bobbing like a hakata koma — the spinning tops the boys in my village would play with all day.
He stopped so abruptly I stumbled a little. “We’re here.”
❀
Sometimes I think my parents named me Eiko because that was what they wanted: flourishing prosperity, honour. Maybe they hoped I would bring luck and wealth to our struggling household.
Besides my parents, I’d heard that I had an older sister, but funnily enough never met her — she had already left for marriage when I was born and that was all I knew.
Since there was no one to play with, I played with myself. Catching bugs by the river, making up games, exploring the countryside, and occasionally helping my mother with the washing.
So was life until one night. My father had been out all day, but that was usual. He was either working or drinking somewhere. Whichever it was, he’d return.
When he did, I was already asleep — or actually, pretending to be. I heard it all; the slide of a door to the other room with my mother, their muffled voices, raising and lowering like waves.
“... Tomorrow… Only way…”
“...Another child…Gone…”
“...Somewhere better… Need the money…”
I let the words lull me to sleep. Tomorrow was the last time I saw home.
❀
“How old is she? Four?”
“My Eiko is…” Father turned to me when he didn’t know.
“I’m six.”
The brothel owner nodded slowly, stroking his beard. “One of our new courtesans is in need of kamuro.”
My father brightened. “How much are you paying? She’s obedient, no trouble at all.”
Before this visit, Mother explained that if things went well, I would live somewhere better, though I didn’t quite understand why I’d be separated from them.
Nevertheless, I kept my mouth shut as they haggled over my price. Finally, I was dragged away; simple as that, no tears or screams.
The hallways reeked of something unknown, and despite being admittedly more secure than home with all the extensive protection detail, I started to regret not struggling or at least protesting. But somehow I knew resistance would’ve only gotten me a stinging cheek and chastise. Perhaps I wouldn’t have to worry about rain leaking through the threadbare roof or hunger-induced sleeplessness anymore, but now… now I was completely alone.
The woman who’d knelt silently beside the owner — probably his wife or the mistress — had taken it upon herself to guide me through the brothel. On the way, she named several places, but her brisk pace and abrupt voice, both of which I couldn’t catch, made every corridor look the same to me.
We finally reached our location. Out of breath, I wondered if all adults walked and stopped this brusquely.
The woman in the room didn’t notice us when we entered, absorbed in a trance of focus as her needle and thread flew in and over the wool fabric stretched taut across a tambour frame. Her concentration was broken when the brothel mistress spoke. “You know, men don’t favour women who can’t even greet them when they enter.”
The courtesan lifted her head casually. “True,” she agreed, “but then are you a man?”
Even beneath her dusted face, I could see the mistress redden like a ripe tomato. “You—! Here I bring you an apprentice and you say such insolent things to me! Be grateful I don’t wish to deal with punishment today!”
With an ironically silent slide of the door, she left me with the courtesan, who took notice of me for the first time. Her gaze seemed to soften with something like pity, the kind which one would have to regard as a stray cat unprotected by the rain. …But why? Before I could truly figure it out, the strange soft look disappeared, replaced with a tilt of her head and a slight smile.
“Hello dear,” she said in a much kinder tone, “I’m Tsubaki. What’s your name?”
After I’d mumbled my name, Tsubaki beckoned me to sit beside her. I obeyed her.
“Sorry you had to hear that between Yukiko and me. Not a very good greeting. We simply disagree with each other and such happens.” She continued the conversation of life here, what I was supposed to learn and do among other topics.
I wondered if Tsubaki expected me to speak or just wanted my quiet when she raised the finished patch of wool, embroidered with red and ivory camellias. The thread pattern and thread count made it lifelike, born from patience and practised skill. Satisfied, she set it aside, picking up another fabric, this one empty and coloured an off-white.
"What should I embroider on this, Eiko?" Caught off guard by the sudden question, I let out an undignified "Eh?" before correcting myself. "Ah, whichever you think best, Tsubaki ane-san," I said because that was what she had told me to call her.
"What do you think?" she insistently asked again. I don’t know. Nobody had ever been so intent on asking things about what I thought. Tsubaki noticed my confusion and calmed down, but there was still an urging tone in her words. “Hmm… Maybe… What's your favourite flower?”
Panic shook me inside. What would happen if I failed this question? I could tell her it was sunflowers. There are some in the margins of the countryside where I lived. Used to live. But I never really felt anything for them. They just poisoned the plants our village farmed. I couldn’t even answer this simple question. Fear threatened to swallow me up. I picked up the sound of the sliding door. I didn’t think this man worked here. He reminded me of my father with his sunhat and cotton kimono. Which meant…
Tsubaki stood up to bow her respect. “Fine morning to you, sir. Eiko, be a darling and go to the room next door, will you?”
With a sense of helplessness, I stumbled out. The exchange replayed over and over in my mind, drowning out sounds from the neighbouring room.
Tsubaki came out hours later. Her clothing was sliding slightly off her shoulder as if it had been donned on hastily but I pretended not to notice. She was tired. It showed in her expression, her still lips, her lowered gaze. Seeing me, she fixed her expression and outfit. “Ha, I’m so hungry I’m getting dizzy!” She laughed, although it wasn’t funny. Telling her to wait, I found directions to the kitchen. Tsubaki ate rice, dried fish and clear tofu soup cleanly with gratitude, but so quickly I was half afraid she’d choke. Relieved she was satisfied with simple commoner food, I was startled when the door opened again. Tsubaki had barely eaten five bites and another client had already arrived. Alone again, but slightly more at ease, I examined her leftovers. She’d already finished an impressive amount of rice, and the soup was half-finished, but the dried fish seemed like only little pieces were hacked away to go with the rice. I knew what to cook now.
We settled into this schedule for the days to come. Every time Tsubaki entered our quarters I would have learnt to prepare in advance and when she left, I would study what was left on her plate. There was a new dish the next day. Sometimes when I ran errands I picked up a treat or two. The trials ended when Tsubaki finished her soba noodles and rice cakes with a smile on her face.
❀
It had been a week since my arrival and Tsubaki was teaching me crafts, skills and etiquette that were necessary for the courtesan I might be one day, a possibility I was unsure of. Some made me almost grateful to be here. My letters trembled every stroke, but I was learning to write! And then there were some I was struggling with. Excitement made me learn hungrily, but poems were another thing.
One day I encountered Tsubaki penning something on karakami, her hands as swift with a brush as with a needle for embroidery. When backing behind her to peek, she tsked **jokingly and covered the paper. “Not until it’s done!”
Prodding for answers but getting none, I relinquished and waited. Tsubaki eventually gave me one, showing me the beautifully crafted poem she made— for me.
Holding the paper like it was a priceless jewel, and it was to me, I told her I’d get better at poetry and return the gift. And, spending the early hours of daylight, I did. Taking more notice of the small things happening around me, like the sound of shamisen from another courtesan, or people milling around the district when I was out, even flowers in the countryside, I tried to encapsulate their essence in poems, scribbling them on conservative spaces in the karakami.
Once, looking at Tsubaki, I wrote something down on a piece of paper. When I looked at the prose it surprised me. My penmanship had improved, and yes… This is the feeling I want to capture for Tsubaki.
“Tsubaki ane-san, please look at this…”
❀
It was normal for brothels to receive gifts from clients if they were particularly partial to their courtesans. Expensive kimonos, exquisite kanzashi, whatever they could afford. The prostitute would don the gift, have a procession through the streets, escorted by kamuro like me and people with costumes making noise to advertise the brothel.
Tsubaki explained this all to me one day as I listened quizzically. She would often have random bursts of inspiration like this when her profound, flitting thoughts, moving like people cycling around the red light district, and then they’d finally slow enough to organize into words. Tsubaki would tell me about life here, or show me a drawing, poem, or letter she penned, maybe even anecdotes from her past, though these were rare. I’d listen to her musical words until they stopped and I’d ask where they came from, no longer having to summon the courage to speak without Tsubaki’s urging.
“I’m telling you this, Eiko, because I want to show you something. Something a client gifted once that wasn’t paraded through the district or displayed in some way,” Tsubaki said this time, rising and reaching for my hand. “Something nobody cares about, but it’s so close.”
The walk “there” was oddly solemn, even though she informed me we were only going to a discreet area near the back of the brothel. It was a big building since the brothel owner just about accepted everybody willing to work in this business and those not, then left them all to his wife, the brothel mistress called Yukiko*.* This was why it took ages for Tsubaki to receive one kamuro, though from Yukiko having too much on her hands to attend to it or just refusing to is questionable.
Thankfully there were no banished drunks around vomiting, and I didn't have to run to catch up with Tsubaki. We arrived soon, but I was not prepared for what I would see next.
Flowers positively dripped from the wall, somehow clinging to it in a net of greens, pinks, even whites. Thousands of paper-thin petals peeped out from their shrubbery, forming the beautiful layers of camellias.
“The farmer who came here didn’t have much to give, but I’m glad he did. I’ve been taking care of them.”
Breathless, I’ve concluded. I know what my favourite flower is, and it’s camellias, just like mine.
❀
I estimated the remaining time before the break of dawn. Enough to get going, but I was reluctant to leave her. It’d been bearable when Tsubaki had only caught slight fever spells, but when I touched her forehead now it felt like holding a cup of scalding tea. Who’d take care of her if I went to the garden?
Tsubaki stirred as she clasped my hand. I couldn’t help but notice how weak her grip was. “Go… I’ll be… fine—” her soft voice dwindled in a harsh cough. Gently I coerced some water into her and left with the teapot as I glanced back at the still body, mouthing, “I’ll be back.”
The garden seems less magical than the first time I came here. That could just be a reflection of my current state, but I try in vain to ignore the drooping heads of the wilted buds, the cracks in the barely visible wall that weren’t there last year. I’m taking poor care of the camellias, both hers and Tsubaki herself. Crouching, I drench the soil, tilting the teapot where I’m aware the camellias’ roots actually grow. Despite hurriedly doing each, I know there are too many to water fast enough.
Tsubaki’s not there when I slide the door open standing up— Yukiko would be stunned, but despite also having immaculate etiquette, Tsubaki doesn’t mind. At first –aside from a little confusion and accompanying worry- I’m not concerned. Tsubaki likes to push herself even while clearly sick. So I scour the fleeting hallways and peek into the rooms with opened doors. Asking people is futile. They all ignore kamuro except when errands need to be run, but this time their ignorance is joined by a slightly uncomfortable expression.
The anxiety only comes after I’ve searched everywhere and wonder if I just haven’t looked carefully. Doubtful. I’m more observant than most. Leaving the final option…
Tsubaki’s condition prevents her from receiving clients, much less being invited somewhere with them, but she might’ve slipped out while I was in the back. Slim chance, but I go anyway, hovering around the front but as no Tsubaki appears and for fear of being seen ‘loitering’, float to the streets near the area of the brothel. More time passes as I pace around, realizing what a fool I am. Tsubaki is ill, not deranged. Why would she be loose in the crowds? Maybe I overestimated myself and she’s hiding somewhere in the building— but the unease nibbles at the edge of my being.
I reach said brothel and go to the back to check one more time when I see something that makes my heart drop to the floor.
Two people- another person and Yukiko, her perfect hair tussled and arms heaving a bundle of cloth. Except it’s not an empty drape, from the way they’re struggling with it. I don’t understand what it is until Yukiko slips, revealing legs, limp and dusted as white as snow. Wrapped in the skirt of a camellia-patterned kimono.
In a second my world threatens to lurch. It’s Tsubaki.
I don’t even know if they saw me but I run. Faster than I’ve ever. Faster than even that time a random courtesan demanded me to deliver a letter with an absurd time limit, and I didn’t even know her. When Tsubaki found out, she exchanged a few icy **words with that prostitute, threatening her back, gaining an enemy for me.
Tsubaki…
I find myself sobbing into the last piece of embroidery she managed to sew of her camellias, not remembering how I stumbled my way back here and not caring.
❀
The brothel owners must think themselves very kind to put up with my breakdowns throughout the first few nights of inactivity. Then when the tears ran out they must’ve expected me to come back, make up for the work. But the door stayed shut, so silent inside I could’ve disappeared all this time.
The first few— days, but it might as well be weeks— are blank, like the gap of time where you’re unconscious after a hard blow. I try to swallow the emotions, or rather lack thereof, back somewhere in the pit of myself or throw it up somewhere. The only things I can bear to do is sleep, my mind gifting me with dreams where she’s there until I awaken to the bleak reality, and making sure what she left behind doesn’t collect dust.
My attempts at continuing her unfinished embroidery go wrong, hands shaky and prone to dropping or pricking myself with the needle as the pervading scene of the fabric as white as her powdered skin with the weight to it repeats over, over, again, again.
Yet I pick up the needle and fabric every time. One day, without any warning from the haze of emptiness, it slams into me.
Tsubaki is dead.
Her body, finally unable to handle the deprivation of food, —despite being provided to her— the swollen sores, the last fever, was disposed of. Maybe along with her clothes, though they probably thought it a waste and stripped it later from her naked body. The thought’s so revolting, Tsubaki alone —who knows where they even buried her if they did?—, unable to be left undisturbed after death, that after my anger subsides I find objects I’ve presumably thrown at the wall.
The fog lessens as I now have something driving me and I realize they’re probably going to replace Tsubaki, meaning…
I’m going to be assigned to another prostitute.
The thought is a fresh wave of terror. I can’t let them do that. The owners haven’t found out about my disobedience yet, or they’d have beaten me. The brothel has no shortages of people but that doesn’t mean I don’t need to pull my weight.
Suddenly it’s like I hear a fresh wave of footsteps hunting me down, ready to deal punishment. In panic, I start grabbing the scarce furniture in our room, placing them before the door. This isn’t enough. They’ll come, angrier. My only hope is the lacquered cabinet, but can I? Half as tall as me, heavy too. I’ve got to try. I’m desperate.
The fear seemed to bring me a burst of strength because though my entire being shakes I manage to heave it up, then down. Then I hide in the corner of the room with knees up to my neck waiting.
They don’t discover it until I start hearing the shouts, the curses, the banging on the wood. For a few hours, haggard and hungry, it seems like I’ll actually win. The drumming even ceases.
Then I find out why it did. Two voices now, male and female. Yukiko and the brothel master.
My heart stops. The cabinet comes crashing down.
❀
I’m dragged with a grip of iron breaking my wrist as I dig my heels against the ground, letting out a howl for everything that’s happened. Such a contrast from the obedient, silent child that first entered these halls. The world spins in a blizzard of back-and-forth screaming, much like the one happening outside right now.
Our breath fogs the second we’re out the door. He yanks my wrist and rips the winter shawl off my shoulder. The snowflake wind slices at my exposed skin as we trudge towards the silhouette of a tree. Yukiko produces a thick rope, flinching when the owner barks a command at her.
Realizing what they’re going to do, I double my resistance with kicks and scratches, but he forces me back and strikes me across the face. My shock leaves them enough time to bind me to the tree.
Their shapes, too, seem as vague as the tree before, getting more distant.
I feel the burning in my fingers first, and the bare feet I didn’t have time to cover.
Everything feels stuffed with cotton. The wind howled, striking cold into my being.
It’s so warm now… I think I’m going to sleep.
“No! You, stay alive!” the unfamiliar voice shouted, desperate, and my vision stopped swimming. Something scalding is forced down my mouth.
I swallow the tea, registering the arms of someone similar in stature around me, the rope somehow severed. It’s another kamuro, draping her shawl on me.
“Thank… You,” My teeth chattering but less, I burst into tears. She seems startled but starts patting me on the back. The last tear freezes on my cheek. I feel somewhat better.
“My name is Yuki,” the kamuro offers.
I smile. “I’m Eiko.”
