He finally released her hands with a slight squeeze.  “Otomae,” he said, turning to the nun, “will you help Toshiko with the costume?”  He gestured toward a lacquered trunk decorated with flying geese.  Otomae smiled and got up.  She moved somewhat painfully.  The emperor said to Toshiko, “Go with her, my dear.  It would give me great pleasure to see you dance just the way your teacher Akomaro did.”

Toshiko was much younger than Otomae, but she found her legs strangely unsteady when she stood.  Otomae was holding a white silk jacket, cut like a man’s hunting cloak, and a pair of pleated red silk trousers, the traditional costume of shrine maidens and shirabyoshi.  Where was she to change?  The nun did not waste any time.  She quickly gathered Toshiko’s long, loose hair and tied it in back with a white silk ribbon.  Then she removed the embroidered Chinese jacket and laid it aside.  When Otomae untied her sash and let it fall to the floor, Toshiko realized that she was being undressed here, before the emperor’s eyes, and murmured a protest.

Otomae paused to look at her.  “It is for His Majesty,” she said softly.  “Do not be afraid to give him pleasure.”

And so, layer after layer, the colored gauze gowns were removed and laid aside.  Toshiko kept her eyes on the floor and turned obediently when Otomae tugged her this way and that.  And then she wore nothing but her thin white under gown and the white trouser skirt.  The cool silk moved against her hot skin, and she shivered.  She remembered how it had felt when the fabric had clung wetly to her breasts and raised her hands protectively.  Her eyes flew to the Emperor.  He looked back, intently, and smiled a little at her gesture.

When Otomae reached for the ribbons that held Toshiko’s full trousers around her waist, Toshiko shuddered away from her touch.

“I think that is enough, Otomae,” the Emperor said.  “Toshiko may dress in complete costume next time.”

“Raise your arms, child,” instructed the nun.  She wound the long sash tightly around Toshiko’s waist, making her turn like a top with her arms in the air, and when she was done, she attached the long, gold-embossed sword to the sash with red silk cords. Then she helped Toshiko into the full-sleeved man’s jacket and tied a man’s tall black hat on her head.  Except for her long hair, Toshiko looked like a young courtier.

It was a strange and uncomfortable costume to dance in.  Akomaro had explained that shirabyoshi dance in men’s clothing to tease a male audience and make them wonder what was under the clothing, but His Majesty had just watched Toshiko’s transformation.  There was little left for him to wonder about.

Otomae placed an open fan into Toshiko’s hand, then stepped aside.  His Majesty nodded.  “Charming,” he said.  “Now, my dear, what will you dance for us?”

Because she was still ashamed, Toshiko chose one of Akomaro’s religious songs, “When I hear the Lotus Sutra.”

The emperor chuckled, but Otomae gave her an approving nod and took up a hand drum to start the throbbing measure of the dance.  Ottomae was very skilled, and Toshiko was fond of the Buddha song and poured out all of her hopes and secret prayers.  “My body shines like a brilliant mirror,” she sang, “and my heart becomes the heart of Buddha.”  When she was done, it took her a moment to return to the present.

His Majesty was silent at first but then He applauded.  “Excellent.  This song is new to me, and the delivery is quite unusual.  This Akomaro was a true artist.”

Toshiko bowed deeply.  “Akomaro was perfection itself.  I am only a poor student.”

“Will you write down the words of all the songs you remember?”

“Yes, sire.”

He patted the pillow beside him.  “Come here.”

She went to kneel beside him, feeling strange with the hat on her head and the awkward sword by her side.  He did not really like my performance, she thought.  He was disappointed.  That is why he wanted me to sit down again.

As if to prove her correct, the Emperor turned to the nun.  “Otomae, will you favor us next?”

Otomae shook her head.  “No, sire,” she said — though no one ever says no to the emperor.  “I am old and have put aside the things of this world, except for the memories you keep stirring up.  Dancing is for the young.”  She smiled at Toshiko.  “Pleasure is for those who are still in the world, sire.”

There was a brief and strangely weighty silence, then the Emperor said, “You know that I make no distinction between the performance of imayo and religion.  As for my being in the world, I shall follow your advice, but you must not refuse me your help in this matter.”

Toshiko looked from one to the other.  Something significant had just passed between them, something that affected her.

Otomae hesitated, then got to her feet.  “Because I bear you great respect, sire, I will just this once, dance for you.  I have a song in mind that I would have you remember in the months to come.  It is called ‘Dance, Little Snail.’”

“Oh, I know it,” cried Toshiko.  “It is charming but sad . . .”

They looked at her in surprise, and she stopped, embarrassed.

“Go on,” said His Majesty.

She stammered, “Well, Akomaro said it was very sad but I never knew what she meant.”

The emperor reached for a box and took out a plain flute.  “I also know it.  It is not sad at all.  Give us your version, Otomae.”  He put the flute to his lips and played a few notes.

Toshiko became wide-eyed with surprise.  “Oh,” she cried, “how beautiful!  I did not know you played so well, sire.”  It was a very stupid thing to say, and she immediately clasped a hand over her treacherous lips.

He lowered the flute, leaned a little closer, and whispered, “For such a charming compliment, I promise to play often for you, little one.  We shall make music together all night long.  Perhaps we shall even drown out the cuckoo’s cry that marks the dawn.”

Toshiko understood his meaning.  Face flaming, she bowed.  “I scarcely know if this is a dream,” she murmured.  “Perhaps the cuckoo will wake me.”  He laughed softly, and her heart pounded so that she pressed a hand to her chest to still it.  But the gesture reminded her of Lady Sanjo and she quickly lowered it again and took a deep breath.  He laughed again and reached for her hand.

Otomae cleared her throat, and they drew apart like children caught at a forbidden game.  The emperor snatched up his flute again and began to play in earnest.

Otomae moved her fan with extraordinary grace, but Toshiko watched blindly, her breathing shallow and rapid.  She knew she should pay attention but was much too conscious of Him.  Otomae’s voice had astonishing strength and sweetness.  It was full and had a much greater range than Toshiko’s, and as she sang, a powerful emotion seemed to flow from her to Toshiko.

Dance, little snail,

Dance!

Don’t falter, snail,

Or my horse will kick,

My horse will stamp,

My horse will crush you.

And Otomae’s foot stamped and ground the invisible snail into the soil, until the viciousness of her words and movements seemed like a knife in Toshiko’s belly.

Then the nun paused, adjusted her posture, and changed her tone and melody to cheerful banter:

But if you dance well for me,

I’ll let you dance in my garden.

There was a moment’s silence when she stopped.  Then the emperor applauded.  “You have not forgotten your art,” he said.  “That was wonderful.  Will you repeat the song with this child?  I have a great desire to see you dance together.”

But Otomae begged to be excused, and the emperor did not press her.

Toshiko thought that they would have made an odd pair, a young girl beside an aged nun — like something seen in a magic mirror that shows the beginning and end of life.  Akomaro had been in the middle of hers, at the height of her skills of giving men pleasure.  Now Toshiko’s own fate had begun.