When we were kids, my three year-elder sister Lara was obsessed with the fairy tale of Snow White. Knowing the story by heart she used to act out scenes from the story in our living room, forcing me to play along.

Her skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood, and hair as black as ebony, were the words that annoyed the hell out of me, having listened to them over and over again.

Much to her dismay, Lara with her blonde hair and freckled skin looked nothing like Snow White -- a fact I was happy to throw in her face, each time she forcefully cast me in the role of a dwarf due to my short height at the time.

Lara outgrew the Snow White in her teenage years when, ironically, feminism became her new obsession, as for me, the Snow White’s beauty, which my sister so much revered, became, probably out of some rebellious resentment, the type of beauty I’d never go for in the later years. The women I had dated were almost all blondes.

I realized I underestimated the imprint that Snow White left on me in my childhood when the angelic beauty of the woman that stood at the back of the stage in Tenko corresponded perfectly with Lara’s description of Snow White. And I was blown away by that very beauty like never before.

Her skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood, and hair as black as ebony…

The young woman in a light blue kimono with pink cherry flowers strewn across it -- this Japanese Snow White, enslaved my gaze.

Her long hair, black as ebony, fell evenly over her shoulders all the way down to her waist. Two flower hairpins at her temples held it slightly back, exposing her face, white as snow. Her small, heart-shaped lips, red as blood, were parted, as if in wonder or expectation.

The beauty she radiated was so unearthly, angelic or, one could say, out of a fairy tale, that everything happening around her became an unimportant echo, noticeable to me only if it had to do something with her. Like…the older woman, also dressed in kimono, that had joined her side just as Ela finished her song. Or the commotion that issued on stage and attracted her lovely eyes – first the chairs that were brought and placed against the curtain, then somebody adjusting the microphone…Ela and the musicians leaving the stage.

When everything seemed set, my Snow White departed from the red and white striped curtain and with her arm around the elbow of the other woman, advanced towards the front of the stage.

The president of Yamato Damashi, the thick-necked oyabun of Tokyo’s Minamoto clan, walked up to the microphone. Dressed in samurai-like clothes his sturdy body obstructed my view of Snow White, prompting me to move in order to regain the full sight of her again.

The chairs that were placed on the back of the stage were taken by Fujiwara and two other men, all dressed in similar traditional clothes as the president and all gazing at the crowd below with the same piercing focus in their eyes. Snow White and the four oyabun.

The people in the crowd went quiet, their chatter died down and their faces turned toward the stage. The president’s hoarse voice resonated through the microphone, while she stood at some distance behind him, her arms resting over the wide silky sash of her kimono, her fingers of her left hand wrapped around her right wrist. Her gaze was cast downwards as if she was afraid to face the crowd before her.

Who is she? Why is she there?

Applause followed the oyabun’s speech, delivered in Japanese. With a wide grin, he turned his head toward Snow White and the older lady, said a few words in a pompous tone and extended his arm in an inviting gesture.

Snow White’s stare lifted from the ground, her eyes, two glittering dark pools, faced the crowd with the demure of a startled deer. An applause from the crowd followed, and the oyabun beckoned her once again to come forward. She hesitated until the other woman gave her a nudge on her back.

Nervousness showing on her face as well as in her reluctant walk, she proceeded. Just a few steps away from the president her Japanese clog hit one of the instrument cables that lay on the floor, and she tripped.

A synonymous loud sigh from the crowd was heard, while my body flinched and moved forward, my arms rising in an impossible attempt to catch her as I was nowhere near her.

She steadied herself most graciously and exhaled with a shy smile on her face, her hand touching the crease of her kimono over her chest in a reassuring and apologetic gesture. A smile followed on the lips of the guests as well, their faces showing relief that the angel didn’t fall.

Her hairpins, caught by the light, sparkled amidst the blackness of her hair as she made a deep bow, first to the president then to the audience. Another applause and then she retreated a step, while the oyabun continued to speak. She nodded a few times at his words, her small lips parting in a thin smile.

Her uncomfortableness was so evident I wanted to go up on the stage, take her in my arms, and carry her away.

Why is somebody like her standing next to the president of Yamato Damashi?

She couldn’t be part of the fighting world. She was too sophisticated, her beauty far too gentle, her demeanour too delicate.

An elbow nudged at my ribs from the right side, waking me from my dream-like state.

“Close your mouth, Nik san…”

K’s voice carried a patronizingly teasing tone and when I turned towards it, I saw two snickering faces -- hers and Sunny’s.

“Nik san, has Mayumi chan bewitched you as well?” Sunny poked.

“W-who? Is that her name…Mayumi?”

Sunny nodded, grinning through her teeth. “Hai. Mayumi Minamoto, the daughter of Akihiro Minamoto, the president of Yamato Damashi.”