The Printmaker's Daughter Read Online Free PDF Page B

customer at heart. They represented the best interests of the Yoshiwara merchant.
    So the little book would say something like this: “Misty Moon is eighteen years old and has rounded breasts but a slim figure and teeth with a space between the first two. Her look is demure, but her temperament is fiery. . . . Easy to please and passionate in her response . . .”
    This was a load of night soil, but never mind. You had to buy the book to read it, and everyone wanted to read it. And if you’d already bought one, you probably bought another and another, because you had to have the latest. The saiken had to be edited and released twice a year. New girls debut, and old ones die or—rarely—retire.
    Of course, if you knew anything, you knew that the saiken ’s truthfulness was limited, to put it nicely, because Tsutaya had a lot of people to please: the brothel owners, the teahouse owners, the clients themselves. But the tsu didn’t think of this. He read and his mouth gaped and his mouth watered and he believed.
    It does not take a genius to make money publishing the saiken . In fact it takes a certain stupidity. And this wasn’t even the first Tsutaya, but a pale son. Why should a man like that have power over my father?
    I glared at the publisher’s head as if I could bore holes through it. I fidgeted. He didn’t say yes, but he didn’t say no. What was so difficult? Hokusai was as good as any other artist Tsutaya published—better! But there was one thing about my father: he made no effort to please anyone but himself. “I won’t pretend to love doing what I hate doing.”
    Our needs were modest. He hardly ate anything and wasn’t a gambler, and he worked from early morning until late at night. Earlier in their relationship, Tsutaya had encouraged him. Now he tried to tell him what to do.
    “Now that one—that could work. Take that girl, isolate her from the surrounds, take the other people out, lengthen her out, and show her looking in a mirror. Then it will sell.”
    Hokusai’s face turned red. I pressed myself against his legs. He gathered up his drawings and made ready to leave. I pressed harder into the side of his thigh. Tsutaya folded his arms in the way of a stubborn boss. I was ready to provide a distraction by running away when a girl appeared in the doorway.
    She saved us all, this apprentice courtesan.
    “Who let you out?” snapped Tsutaya.
    The prostitutes weren’t supposed to go outside the gate. But the gate was just a few yards away, and the guard was watching her.
    “Excuse me. I am very sorry to disturb, but—”
    “What is it?”
    “I am to get the very special tea leaves that O-Fumi wants, to please her client who has made an appointment to see her.”
    She bowed respectfully and spoke with an elegant, clear, high voice. I knew right away she was new: she was funny-looking, gawky, and nervous. She had a thin neck and a face that tipped up, as if she had questions for the whole world. That made her heavy knot of hair topple over one ear. Her feet were bare, her nose was long and red at the tip, and it was running.
    Plus, she was different. Her language marked her as nobility. The usual apprentice prostitute was a poor girl from the country, sold into this life, who disguised her accent with witty Yoshiwara slang.
    Tsutaya snorted. “Wait. My mother will serve you.”
    She bowed again. She was very graceful. “Your mother? That would be excellent. But could you please let her know that I am in the shop and need her help?”
    Tsutaya laughed, including my father in his smirk. “If it isn’t Lady Murakami herself.”
    She inclined her long neck. “I beg your pardon, sir, but I am not entirely certain we have met,” she said, with courtesy so exaggerated it was an obvious slap in the face.
    Tsutaya looked down at her. He looked through her to the street. On the Edo side of the bridge, the city was teeming. But the gate to the pleasure quarter was empty of people. This did not