Memoirs of a Geisha (24 page)

The maid couldn’t bring herself to look at Mameha. Even when Mameha lifted her chin, the girl still pointed her eyes downward just as if they weighed as much as two lead balls. When we left the teahouse, we could hear Hatsumomo’s voice coming from the window above—for it was such a narrow alleyway that everything echoed.

“Yes, what
was
her name?” Hatsumomo was saying.

“Sayuko,” said one of the men.

“Not Sayuko. Sayuri,” said another.

“I think that’s the one,” Hatsumomo said. “But really, it’s too embarrassing for her . . . I mustn’t tell you! She seems like a nice girl . . .”

“I didn’t get much of an impression,” one man said. “But she’s very pretty.”

“Such unusual eyes!” said one of the geisha.

“You know what I heard a man say about her eyes the other day?” Hatsumomo said. “He told me they were the color of smashed worms.”

“Smashed worms . . . I’ve certainly never heard a color described that way before.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what I was going to say about her,” Hatsumomo went on, “but you must promise not to repeat it. She has some sort of disease, and her bosoms look just like an old lady’s—all droopy and wrinkled—really, it’s dreadful! I saw her in a bathhouse once . . .”

Mameha and I had stopped to listen, but when we heard this, she gave me a little push and we walked out of the alley together. Mameha stood for a while looking up and down the street and then said:

“I’m trying to think where we can go, but . . . I can’t think of a single place. If that woman has found us here, I suppose she can find us anywhere in Gion. You may as well go back to your okiya, Sayuri, until we come up with a new plan.”

*  *  *

One afternoon during World War II, some years after these events I’m telling you about now, an officer took his pistol out of its holster during a party beneath the boughs of a maple tree and laid it on the straw mat to impress me. I remember being struck by its beauty. The metal had a dull gray sheen; its curves were perfect and smooth. The oiled wood handle was richly grained. But when I thought of its real purpose as I listened to his stories, it ceased to be beautiful at all and became something monstrous instead.

This is exactly what happened to Hatsumomo in my eyes after she brought my debut to a standstill. That isn’t to say I’d never considered her monstrous before. But I’d always envied her loveliness, and now I no longer did. While I ought to have been attending banquets every night, and ten or fifteen parties besides, I was forced instead to sit in the okiya practicing dance and shamisen just as though nothing in my life had changed from the year before. When Hatsumomo walked past me down the corridor in her full regalia, with her white makeup glowing above her dark robe just like the moon in a hazy night sky, I’m sure that even a blind man would have found her beautiful. And yet I felt nothing but hatred, and heard my pulse hissing in my ears.

I was summoned to Mameha’s apartment several times in the next few days. Each time I hoped she was going to say she’d found a way around Hatsumomo; but she only wanted me to run errands she couldn’t entrust to her maid. One afternoon I asked if she had any idea what would become of me.

“I’m afraid you’re an exile, Sayuri-san, for the moment,” she replied. “I hope you feel more determined than ever to destroy that wicked woman! But until I’ve thought of a plan, it will do you no good to follow me around Gion.”

Of course I was disappointed to hear it, but Mameha was quite right. Hatsumomo’s ridicule would do me such harm in the eyes of men, and even in the eyes of women in Gion, that I would be better off staying home.

Happily, Mameha was very resourceful and did manage to find engagements from time to time that were safe for me to attend. Hatsumomo may have closed off Gion from me, but she couldn’t close off the entire world beyond it. When Mameha left Gion for an engagement, she often invited me along. I went on a day trip by train to Kobe, where Mameha cut the ribbon for a new factory. On another occasion I joined her to accompany the former president of Nippon Telephone & Telegraph on a tour of Kyoto by limousine. This tour made quite an impression on me, for it was my first time seeing the vast city of Kyoto that lay beyond the bounds of our little Gion, not to mention my first time riding in a car. I’d never really understood how desperately some people lived during these years, until we drove along the river south of the city and saw dirty women nursing their babies under the trees along the railroad tracks, and men squatting in tattered straw sandals among the weeds. I won’t pretend poor people never came to Gion, but we rarely saw anyone like these starving peasants too poor even to bathe. I could never have imagined that I—a slave terrorized by Hatsumomo’s wickedness—had lived a relatively fortunate life through the Great Depression. But that day I realized it was true.

*  *  *

Late one morning I returned from the school to find a note telling me to bring my makeup and rush to Mameha’s apartment. When I arrived, Mr. Itchoda, who was a dresser just like Mr. Bekku, was in the back room tying Mameha’s obi before a full-length mirror.

“Hurry up and put on your makeup,” Mameha said to me. “I’ve laid a kimono out for you in the other room.”

Mameha’s apartment was enormous by the standards of Gion. In addition to her main room, which measured six tatami mats in area, she had two other smaller rooms—a dressing area that doubled as a maids’ room, and a room in which she slept. There in her bedroom was a freshly made-up futon, with a complete kimono ensemble on top of it that her maid had laid out for me. I was puzzled by the futon. The sheets certainly weren’t the ones Mameha had slept in the night before, for they were as smooth as fresh snow. I wondered about it while changing into the cotton dressing robe I’d brought. When I went to begin applying my makeup, Mameha told me why she had summoned me.

“The Baron is back in town,” she said. “He’ll be coming here for lunch. I want him to meet you.”

I haven’t had occasion to mention the Baron, but Mameha was referring to Baron Matsunaga Tsuneyoshi—her
danna
. We don’t have barons and counts in Japan any longer, but we did before World War II, and Baron Matsunaga was certainly among the wealthiest. His family controlled one of Japan’s large banks and was very influential in finance. Originally his older brother had inherited the title of baron, but he had been assassinated while serving as finance minister in the cabinet of Prime Minister Inukai. Mameha’s
danna
, already in his thirties at that time, had not only inherited the title of baron but all of his brother’s holdings, including a grand estate in Kyoto not too far from Gion. His business interests kept him in Tokyo much of the time; and something else kept him there as well—for I learned many years later that he had another mistress, in the geisha district of Akasaka in Tokyo. Few men are wealthy enough to afford one geisha mistress, but Baron Matsunaga Tsuneyoshi had two.

Now that I knew Mameha would be spending the afternoon with her
danna
, I had a much better idea why the futon in her bedroom had been made up with fresh sheets.

I changed quickly into the clothing Mameha had set out for me—an underrobe of light green, and a kimono in russet and yellow with a design of pine trees at the hem. By this time one of Mameha’s maids was just returning from a nearby restaurant with a big lacquer box holding the Baron’s lunch. The foods inside it, on plates and bowls, were ready to be served just as in a restaurant. The largest was a flat lacquer dish with two grilled, salted
ayu
poised on their bellies as though they were swimming down the river together. To one side stood two tiny steamed crabs of the sort that are eaten whole. A trail of streaked salt curved along the black lacquer to suggest the sand they had crossed.

A few minutes later the Baron arrived. I peeked out through a crack at the edge of the sliding door and saw him standing just outside on the landing while Mameha untied his shoes. My first impression was of an almond or some other kind of nut, because he was small and very round, with a certain kind of heaviness, particularly around his eyes. Beards were very fashionable at that time, and the Baron wore a number of long, soft hairs on his face that I’m sure were supposed to resemble a beard, but looked to me more like some sort of garnish, or like the thin strips of seaweed that are sometimes sprinkled onto a bowl of rice.

“Oh, Mameha . . . I’m exhausted,” I heard him say. “How I hate these long train rides!”

Finally he stepped out of his shoes and crossed the room with brisk little steps. Earlier in the morning, Mameha’s dresser had brought an overstuffed chair and a Persian rug from a storage closet across the hall and arranged them near the window. The Baron seated himself there; but as for what happened afterward, I can’t say, because Mameha’s maid came over to me and bowed in apology before giving the door a gentle push to slide it the rest of the way closed.

I stayed in Mameha’s little dressing room for an hour or more while the maid went in and out serving the Baron’s lunch. I heard the murmur of Mameha’s voice occasionally, but mainly the Baron did the talking. At one point I thought he was angry with Mameha, but finally I overheard enough to understand that he was only complaining about a man he’d met the day before, who’d asked him personal questions that made him angry. At last when the meal was over, the maid carried out cups of tea, and Mameha asked for me. I went out to kneel before the Baron, feeling very nervous—for I’d never met an aristocrat before. I bowed and begged his favor, and thought perhaps he would say something to me. But he seemed to be looking around the apartment, hardly taking notice of me at all.

“Mameha,” he said, “what happened to that scroll you used to have in the alcove? It was an ink painting of something or other—much better than the thing you have there now.”

“The scroll there now, Baron, is a poem in Matsudaira Koichi’s own hand. It has hung in that alcove nearly four years.”

“Four years? Wasn’t the ink painting there when I came last month?”

“It wasn’t . . . but in any case, the Baron hasn’t honored me with a visit in nearly three months.”

“No wonder I’m feeling so exhausted. I’m always saying I ought to spend more time in Kyoto, but . . . well, one thing leads to another. Let’s have a look at that scroll I’m talking about. I can’t believe it’s been four years since I’ve seen it.”

Mameha summoned her maid and asked her to bring the scroll from the closet. I was given the job of unrolling it. My hands were trembling so much that it slipped from my grasp when I held it up for the Baron to have a look.

“Careful, girl!” he said.

I was so embarrassed that even after I’d bowed and apologized, I couldn’t help glancing at the Baron again and again to see if he seemed angry with me. While I held the scroll up, he seemed to look at me more than at it. But it wasn’t a reproachful stare. After a while I realized it was curiosity, which only made me feel more self-conscious.

“This scroll is much more attractive than the one you have in the alcove now, Mameha,” he said. But he still seemed to be looking at me, and made no effort to look away when I glanced at him. “Calligraphy is so old-fashioned anyway,” he went on. “You ought to take that thing in the alcove down, and put up this landscape painting again.”

Mameha had no choice but to do as the Baron suggested; she even managed to look as if she thought it was a fine idea. When the maid and I had finished hanging the painting and rolling up the other scroll, Mameha called me over to pour tea for the Baron. To look at us from above, we formed a little triangle—Mameha, the Baron, and me. But of course, Mameha and the Baron did all the talking; as for me, I did nothing more useful than to kneel there, feeling as much out of my element as a pigeon in a nest of falcons. To think I’d ever imagined myself worthy of entertaining the sorts of men Mameha entertained—not only grand aristocrats like the Baron, but the Chairman as well. Even the theater director from several nights earlier . . . he’d hardly so much as glanced at me. I won’t say I’d felt worthy of the Baron’s company earlier; but now I couldn’t help realizing once again that I was nothing more than an ignorant girl from a fishing village. Hatsumomo, if she had her way, would keep me down so low, every man who visited Gion would remain forever out of my reach. For all I knew I might never see Baron Matsunaga again, and never come upon the Chairman. Wasn’t it possible Mameha would realize the hopelessness of my cause and leave me to languish in the okiya like a little-worn kimono that had seemed so lovely in the shop? The Baron—who I was beginning to realize was something of a nervous man—leaned over to scratch at a mark on the surface of Mameha’s table, and made me think of my father on the last day I’d seen him, digging grime out of ruts in the wood with his fingernails. I wondered what he would think if he could see me kneeling here in Mameha’s apartment, wearing a robe more expensive than anything he’d ever laid eyes on, with a baron across from me and one of the most famous geisha in all of Japan at my side. I was hardly worthy of these surroundings. And then I became aware of all the magnificent silk wrapped about my body, and had the feeling I might drown in beauty. At that moment, beauty itself struck me as a kind of painful melancholy.

  chapter sixteen

O
ne afternoon as Mameha and I were strolling across the Shijo Avenue Bridge to pick up some new hair ornaments in the Pontocho district—for Mameha never liked the shops selling hair ornaments in Gion—she came to a stop suddenly. An old tugboat was puffing its way beneath the bridge; I thought Mameha was just concerned about the black fumes, but after a moment she turned to me with an expression I couldn’t quite understand.

“What is it, Mameha-san?” I asked.

“I may as well tell you, because you’ll only hear it from someone else,” she said. “Your little friend Pumpkin has just won the apprentice’s award. It’s expected she’ll win it a second time as well.”

Mameha was referring to an award for the apprentice who’d earned the most during the previous month. It may seem strange that such an award existed, but there’s a very good reason. Encouraging apprentices to earn as much as possible helps shape them into the sort of geisha who will be most appreciated in Gion—that is to say, the ones who will earn a lot not only for themselves but for everyone else too.

Several times Mameha had predicted that Pumpkin would struggle along for a few years and end up the sort of geisha with a few loyal customers—none of them wealthy—and little else. It was a sad picture, and I was pleased to learn that Pumpkin was doing better than that. But at the same time I felt anxiety prickling at my stomach. Pumpkin now seemed to be one of the most popular apprentices in Gion, while I remained one of the most obscure. When I began to wonder what it might mean for my future, the world around me honestly seemed to grow dark.

The most astonishing thing about Pumpkin’s success, as I stood there on the bridge thinking about it, was that she’d managed to surpass an exquisite young girl named Raiha, who’d won the award the past several months. Raiha’s mother had been a renowned geisha, and her father was a member of one of Japan’s most illustrious families, with almost limitless wealth. Whenever Raiha strolled past me, I felt as a simple smelt must feel when a silver salmon glides by. How had Pumpkin managed to outdo her? Hatsumomo had certainly pushed her from the very day of her debut, so much that she’d begun to lose weight lately and hardly looked herself. But regardless of how hard Pumpkin may have worked, could she really have grown more popular than Raiha?

“Oh, now, really,” said Mameha, “don’t look so sad. You ought to be rejoicing!”

“Yes, it’s very selfish of me,” I said.

“That isn’t what I mean. Hatsumomo and Pumpkin will both pay dearly for this apprentice’s award. In five years, no one will remember who Pumpkin is.”

“It seems to me,” I said, “that everyone will remember her as the girl who surpassed Raiha.”

“No one has surpassed Raiha. Pumpkin may have earned the most money last month, but Raiha is still the most popular apprentice in Gion. Come, I’ll explain.”

Mameha led me to a tearoom in the Pontocho district and sat me down.

*  *  *

In Gion, Mameha said, a very popular geisha can always make sure her younger sister earns more than anyone else—if she is willing to risk hurting her own reputation. The reason has to do with the way
ohana
, “flower fees,” are billed. In the old days, a hundred years or more ago, every time a geisha arrived at a party to entertain, the mistress of the teahouse lit a stick of one-hour incense—called one
ohana
, or “flower.” The geisha’s fees were based on how many sticks of incense had burned by the time she left.

The cost of one
ohana
has always been fixed by the Gion Registry Office. While I was an apprentice, it was ¥3, which was about the cost of two bottles of liquor, perhaps. It may sound like a lot, but an unpopular geisha earning one
ohana
per hour has a grim life. Probably she spends most evenings sitting around the charcoal brazier waiting for an engagement; even when she’s busy, she may earn no more than ¥10 in a night, which won’t be enough even to pay back her debts. Considering all the wealth that flows into Gion, she’s nothing more than an insect picking at the carcass—compared with Hatsumomo or Mameha, who are magnificent lionesses feasting at the kill, not only because they have engagements all night long every night, but because they charge a good deal more as well. In Hatsumomo’s case, she charged one
ohana
every fifteen minutes, rather than one every hour. And in the case of Mameha . . . well, there was no one else in Gion quite like her: she charged one
ohana
every five minutes.

Of course, no geisha keeps all her earnings, not even Mameha. The teahouse where she earned the fees takes a portion; then a much smaller portion goes to the geisha association; and a portion to her dresser; and right on down the line, including a fee she might pay to an okiya in exchange for keeping her account books and tracking her engagements. She probably keeps only a little more than half of what she earns. Still, it’s an enormous sum when compared with the livelihood of an unpopular geisha, who every day sinks deeper and deeper into a pit.

Here’s how a geisha like Hatsumomo could make her younger sister seem more successful than she really was.

To begin with, a popular geisha in Gion is welcome at nearly any party, and will drop in on many of them for only five minutes. Her customers will be happy to pay the fees, even though she’s only saying hello. They know that the next time they visit Gion, she’ll probably join them at the table for a while to give them the pleasure of her company. An apprentice, on the other hand, can’t possibly get away with such behavior. Her role is to build relationships. Until she becomes a full-fledged geisha at the age of eighteen, she doesn’t consider flitting from party to party. Instead she stays for an hour or more, and only then telephones her okiya to ask her older sister’s whereabouts, so she can go to another teahouse and be introduced to a new round of guests. While her popular older sister might drop in on as many as twenty parties during an evening, an apprentice probably attends no more than five. But this isn’t what Hatsumomo was doing. She was taking Pumpkin with her everywhere she went.

Until the age of sixteen, an apprentice geisha bills one-half
ohana
per hour. If Pumpkin stayed at a party only five minutes, the host was billed the same as if she’d stayed a full hour. On the other hand, no one expected Pumpkin to stay only five minutes. Probably the men didn’t mind that Hatsumomo brought her younger sister for only a brief visit one night, or even two. But after a while they must have begun to wonder why she was too busy to stay longer; and why her younger sister didn’t remain behind as she was expected to do. Pumpkin’s earnings may have been high, you see—perhaps as high as three or four
ohana
every hour. But she was certain to pay for it with her reputation, and so was Hatsumomo.

*  *  *

“Hatsumomo’s behavior only shows us how desperate she is,” Mameha concluded. “She’ll do anything to make Pumpkin look good. And you know why, don’t you?”

“I’m not sure, Mameha-san.”

“She wants Pumpkin to look good so Mrs. Nitta will adopt her. If Pumpkin is made the daughter of the okiya, her future is assured, and so is Hatsumomo’s. After all, Hatsumomo is Pumpkin’s sister; Mrs. Nitta certainly wouldn’t throw her out. Do you understand what I’m saying? If Pumpkin is adopted, you’ll never be free of Hatsumomo . . . unless it’s you who is thrown out.”

I felt as the waves of the ocean must feel when clouds have blocked the warmth of the sun.

“I’d hoped to see you as a popular young apprentice before long,” Mameha went on, “but Hatsumomo certainly has gotten in our way.”

“Yes, she has!”

“Well, at least you’re learning how to entertain men properly. You’re lucky to have met the Baron. I may not have found a way around Hatsumomo just yet, but to tell the truth—” And here she stopped herself.

“Ma’am?” I said.

“Oh, never mind, Sayuri. I’d be a fool to share my thoughts with you.”

I was hurt to hear this. Mameha must have noticed my feelings at once, for she was quick to say, “You’re living under the same roof as Hatsumomo, aren’t you? Anything I say to you could get back to her.”

“I’m very sorry, Mameha-san, for whatever I’ve done to deserve your low opinion of me,” I told her. “Can you really imagine I’ll run back to the okiya and tell anything to Hatsumomo?”

“I’m not worried about what you’ll do. Mice don’t get eaten because they run over to where the cat is sleeping and wake it up. You know perfectly well how resourceful Hatsumomo is. You’ll just have to trust me, Sayuri.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied; for really, there was nothing else I could say.

“I will tell you one thing,” Mameha said, leaning forward a bit, from what I took as excitement. “You and I will be going to an engagement together in the next two weeks at a place Hatsumomo will never find us.”

“May I ask where?”

“Certainly not! I won’t even tell you when. Just be prepared. You’ll find out everything you need to know when the proper time comes.”

*  *  *

When I returned to the okiya that afternoon, I hid myself upstairs to look through my almanac. A variety of days in the next two weeks stood out. One was the coming Wednesday, which was a favorable day for traveling westward; I thought perhaps Mameha planned to take me out of the city. Another was the following Monday, which also happened to be
tai-an
—the most auspicious day of the six-day Buddhist week. Finally, the Sunday after had a curious reading: “A balance of good and bad can open the door to destiny.” This one sounded most intriguing of all.

I heard nothing from Mameha on Wednesday. A few afternoons later she did summon me to her apartment—on a day my almanac said was unfavorable—but only to discuss a change in my tea ceremony class at the school. After this an entire week passed without a word from her. And then on Sunday around noon, I heard the door of the okiya roll open and put my shamisen down onto the walkway, where I’d been practicing for an hour or so, to rush to the front. I expected to see one of Mameha’s maids, but it was only a man from the druggist’s making a delivery of Chinese herbs for Auntie’s arthritis. After one of our elderly maids took the packet, I was about to return to my shamisen when I noticed the delivery man trying to get my attention. He was holding a piece of paper in one hand so that only I could see it. Our maid was about to roll the door shut, but he said to me, “I’m sorry to trouble you, miss, but would you mind throwing this away for me?” The maid thought it odd, but I took the paper and pretended to throw it away in the maids’ room. It was a note, unsigned, in Mameha’s hand.

“Ask Auntie’s permission to leave. Tell her I have work for you to do in my apartment and come here no later than one o’clock. Don’t let anyone else know where you’re going.”

I’m sure Mameha’s precautions were very sensible, but in any case, Mother was lunching with a friend, and Hatsumomo and Pumpkin had gone to an afternoon engagement already. No one remained in the okiya but Auntie and the maids. I went straight up to Auntie’s room to find her draping a heavy cotton blanket across her futon, preparing for a nap. She stood shivering in her sleeping robe while I spoke to her. The moment she heard that Mameha had summoned me, she didn’t even care to know the reason. She just gave a wave of her hand and crawled beneath the blanket to go to sleep.

*  *  *

Mameha was still attending a morning engagement when I arrived at her apartment, but her maid showed me into the dressing room to help me with my makeup, and afterward brought in the kimono ensemble Mameha had set out for me. I’d grown accustomed to wearing Mameha’s kimono, but in fact, it’s unusual for a geisha to lend out robes from her collection this way. Two friends in Gion might trade kimono for a night or two; but it’s rare for an older geisha to show such kindness to a young girl. And in fact, Mameha was going to a great deal of trouble on my behalf; she no longer wore these long-sleeved robes herself and had to retrieve them from storage. I often wondered if she expected to be repaid somehow.

The kimono she’d laid out for me that day was the loveliest yet—an orange silk with a silver waterfall pouring from the knee into a slate-blue ocean. The waterfall was split by brown cliffs, with knotted driftwood at the base embroidered in lacquered threads. I didn’t realize it, but the robe was well known in Gion; people who saw it probably thought of Mameha at once. In permitting me to wear it, I think she was rubbing some of her aura off onto me.

After Mr. Itchoda had tied the obi—a russet and brown highlighted with gold threads—I put the final touches on my makeup and the ornaments in my hair. I tucked the Chairman’s handkerchief—which I’d brought from the okiya as I often did—inside my obi, and stood before the mirror gaping at myself. Already it was amazing to me that Mameha had arranged for me to look so beautiful; but to top it off, when she returned to her apartment, she herself changed into a fairly plain kimono. It was a robe the color of a mountain potato, covered with soft gray hatchmarks, and her obi was a simple pattern of black diamonds on a background of deep blue. She had the understated brilliance of a pearl, as she always did; but when we walked down the street together, the women who bowed at Mameha were looking at me.