Memoirs of a Geisha (12 page)

“Your sister is in a
jorou-ya
called Tatsuyo,” she told me, “in the district of Miyagawa-cho, just south of Gion.”

When she was done speaking, she gave me a little shove with her foot, and I stepped down out of her way.

 

  chapter seven

I
'd never heard the word
jorou-ya
before; so the very next evening, when Auntie dropped a sewing tray onto the floor of the entrance hall and asked my help in cleaning it up, I said to her:

“Auntie, what is a
jorou-ya?
”

Auntie didn't answer, but just went on reeling up a spool of thread.

“Auntie?” I said again.

“It's the sort of place Hatsumomo will end up, if she ever gets what she deserves,” she said.

She didn't seem inclined to say more, so I had no choice but to leave it at that.

My question certainly wasn't answered; but I did form the impression that Satsu might be suffering even more than I was. So I began thinking about how I might sneak to this place called Tatsuyo the very next time I had an opportunity. Unfortunately, part of my punishment for ruining Mameha's kimono was confinement in the okiya for fifty days. I was permitted to attend the school as long as Pumpkin accompanied me; but I was no longer permitted to run errands. I suppose I could have dashed out the door at any time, if I'd wanted to, but I knew better than to do something so foolish. To begin with, I wasn't sure how to find the Tatsuyo. And what was worse, the moment I was discovered missing, Mr. Bekku or someone would be sent to look for me. A young maid had run away from the okiya next door only a few months earlier, and they brought her back the following morning. They beat her so badly over the next few days that her wailing was horrible. Sometimes I had to put my fingers in my ears to shut it out.

I decided I had no choice but to wait until my fifty-day confinement was over. In the meantime, I put my efforts into finding ways to repay Hatsumomo and Granny for their cruelty. Hatsumomo I repaid by scraping up pigeon droppings whenever I was supposed to clean them from the stepping-stones in the courtyard and mixing them in with her face cream. The cream already contained unguent of nightingale droppings, as I've mentioned; so maybe it did her no harm, but it did give me satisfaction. Granny I repaid by wiping the toilet rag around on the inside of her sleeping robe; and I was very pleased to see her sniffing at it in puzzlement, though she never took it off. Soon I discovered that the cook had taken it upon herself to punish me further over the kimono incident—even though no one had asked her to—by cutting back on my twice-monthly portions of dried fish. I couldn't think of how to repay her for this until one day I saw her chasing a mouse down the corridor with a mallet. She hated mice worse than cats did, as it turned out. So I swept mouse droppings from under the foundation of the main house and scattered them here and there in the kitchen. I even took a chopstick one day and gouged a hole in the bottom of a canvas bag of rice, so she'd have to take everything out of all the cabinets and search for signs of rodents.

*  *  *

One evening as I was waiting up for Hatsumomo, I heard the telephone ring, and Yoko came out a moment later and went up the stairs. When she came back down, she was holding Hatsumomo's shamisen, disassembled in its lacquer carrying case.

“You'll have to take this to the Mizuki Teahouse,” she said to me. “Hatsumomo has lost a bet and has to play a song on a shamisen. I don't know what's gotten into her, but she won't use the one the teahouse has offered. I think she's just stalling, since she hasn't touched a shamisen in years.”

Yoko apparently didn't know I was confined to the okiya, which was no surprise, really. She was rarely permitted to leave the maid's room in case she should miss an important telephone call, and she wasn't involved in the life of the okiya in any way. I took the shamisen from her while she put on her kimono overcoat to leave for the night. And after she had explained to me where to find the Mizuki Teahouse, I slipped into my shoes in the entryway, tingling with nervousness that someone might stop me. The maids and Pumpkin—even the three older women—were all asleep, and Yoko would be gone in a matter of minutes. It seemed to me my chance to find my sister had come at last.

I heard thunder rumble overhead, and the air smelled of rain. So I hurried along the streets, past groups of men and geisha. Some of them gave me peculiar looks, because in those days we still had men and women in Gion who made their living as shamisen porters. They were often elderly; certainly none of them were children. It wouldn't surprise me if some of the people I passed thought I'd stolen that shamisen and was running away with it.

When I reached the Mizuki Teahouse, rain was beginning to fall; but the entrance was so elegant I was afraid to set foot in it. The walls beyond the little curtain that hung in the doorway were a soft orange hue, trimmed in dark wood. A path of polished stone led to a huge vase holding an arrangement of twisted branches from a maple tree with their brilliant red leaves of fall. At length I worked up my courage and brushed past the little curtain. Near the vase, a spacious entryway opened to one side, with a floor of coarsely polished granite. I remember being astounded that all the beauty I'd seen wasn't even the entryway to the teahouse, but only the path leading to the entryway. It was exquisitely lovely—as indeed it should have been; because although I didn't know it, I was seeing for the first time one of the most exclusive teahouses in all of Japan. And a teahouse isn't for tea, you see; it's the place where men go to be entertained by geisha.

The moment I stepped into the entryway, the door before me rolled open. A young maid kneeling on the raised floor inside gazed down at me; she must have heard my wooden shoes on the stone. She was dressed in a beautiful dark blue kimono with a simple pattern in gray. A year earlier I would have taken her to be the young mistress of such an extravagant place, but now after my months in Gion, I recognized at once that her kimono—though more beautiful than anything in Yoroido—was far too simple for a geisha or for the mistress of a teahouse. And of course, her hairstyle was plain as well. Still, she was far more elegant than I was, and looked down at me with contempt.

“Go to the back,” she said.

“Hatsumomo has asked that—”

“Go to the back!” she said again, and rolled the door shut without waiting for me to reply.

The rain was falling more heavily now, so I ran, rather than walked, down a narrow alley alongside the teahouse. The door at the back entrance rolled open as I arrived, and the same maid knelt there waiting for me. She didn't say a word but just took the shamisen case from my arms.

“Miss,” I said, “may I ask? . . . Can you tell me where the Miyagawa-cho district is?”

“Why do you want to go there?”

“I have to pick up something.”

She gave me a strange look, but then told me to walk along the river until I had passed the Minamiza Theater, and I would find myself in Miyagawa-cho.

I decided to stay under the eaves of the teahouse until the rain stopped. As I stood looking around, I discovered a wing of the building visible between the slats of the fence beside me. I put my eye to the fence and found myself looking across a beautiful garden at a window of glass. Inside a lovely tatami room, bathed in orange light, a party of men and geisha sat around a table scattered with sake cups and glasses of beer. Hatsumomo was there too, and a bleary-eyed old man who seemed to be in the middle of a story. Hatsumomo was amused about something, though evidently not by what the old man was saying. She kept glancing at another geisha with her back to me. I found myself remembering the last time I had peered into a teahouse, with Mr. Tanaka's little daughter, Kuniko, and began to feel that same sense of heaviness I'd felt so long ago at the graves of my father's first family—as if the earth were pulling me down toward it. A certain thought was swelling in my head, growing until I couldn't ignore it any longer. I wanted to turn away from it; but I was as powerless to stop that thought from taking over my mind as the wind is to stop itself from blowing. So I stepped back and sank onto the stone step of the entryway, with the door against my back, and began to cry. I couldn't stop thinking about Mr. Tanaka. He had taken me from my mother and father, sold me into slavery, sold my sister into something even worse. I had taken him for a kind man. I had thought he was so refined, so worldly. What a stupid child I had been! I would never go back to Yoroido, I decided. Or if I did go back, it would only be to tell Mr. Tanaka how much I hated him.

When at last I got to my feet and wiped my eyes on my wet robe, the rain had eased to a mist. The paving stones in the alley sparkled gold from the reflection of the lanterns. I made my way back through the Tominaga-cho section of Gion to the Minamiza Theater, with its enormous tiled roof that had made me think of a palace the day Mr. Bekku brought Satsu and me from the train station. The maid at the Mizuki Teahouse had told me to walk along the river past the Minamiza; but the road running along the river stopped at the theater. So I followed the street behind the Minamiza instead. After a few blocks I found myself in an area without streetlights and nearly empty of people. I didn't know it at the time, but the streets were empty mostly because of the Great Depression; in any other era Miyagawa-cho might have been busier even than Gion. That evening it seemed to me a very sad place—which indeed I think it has always been. The wooden facades looked like Gion, but the place had no trees, no lovely Shirakawa Stream, no beautiful entryways. The only illumination came from lightbulbs in the open doorways, where old women sat on stools, often with two or three women I took to be geisha on the street beside them. They wore kimono and hair ornaments similar to geisha, but their obi were tied in the front rather than the back. I'd never seen this before and didn't understand it, but it's the mark of a prostitute. A woman who must take her sash on and off all night can't be bothered with tying it behind her again and again.

With the help of one of these women, I found the Tatsuyo in a dead-end alley with only three other houses. All were marked with placards near their doors. I can't possibly describe how I felt when I saw the sign lettered “Tatsuyo,” but I will say that my body seemed to tingle everywhere, so much that I felt I might explode. In the doorway of the Tatsuyo sat an old woman on a stool, carrying on a conversation with a much younger woman on a stool across the alley—though really it was the old woman who did all the talking. She sat leaning back against the door frame with her gray robe sagging partway open and her feet stuck out in a pair of zori. These were zori woven coarsely from straw, of the sort you might have seen in Yoroido, and not at all like the beautifully lacquered zori Hatsumomo wore with her kimono. What was more, this old woman's feet were bare, rather than fitted with the smooth silk
tabi
. And yet she thrust them out with their uneven nails just as though she were proud of the way they looked and wanted to be sure you noticed them.

“Just another three weeks, you know, and I'm not coming back,” she was saying. “The mistress thinks I am, but I'm not. My son's wife is going to take good care of me, you know. She's not clever, but she works hard. Didn't you meet her?”

“If I did I don't remember,” the younger woman across the way said. “There's a little girl waiting to talk with you. Don't you see her?”

At this, the old woman looked at me for the first time. She didn't say anything, but she gave a nod of her head to tell me she was listening.

“Please, ma'am,” I said, “do you have a girl here named Satsu?”

“We don't have any Satsu,” she said.

I was too shocked to know what to say to this; but in any case, the old woman suddenly looked very alert, because a man was just walking past me toward the entrance. She stood partway and gave him several bows with her hands on her knees and told him, “Welcome!” When he'd entered, she put herself back down on the stool and stuck her feet out again.

“Why are you still here?” the old woman said to me. “I told you we don't have any Satsu.”

“Yes, you do,” said the younger woman across the way. “Your Yukiyo. Her name used to be Satsu, I remember.”

“That's as may be,” replied the old woman. “But we don't have any Satsu for this girl. I don't get myself into trouble for nothing.”

I didn't know what she meant by this, until the younger woman muttered that I didn't look as if I had even a single sen on me. And she was quite right. A sen—which was worth only one hundredth of a yen—was still commonly used in those days, though a single one wouldn't buy even an empty cup from a vendor. I'd never held a coin of any kind in my hand since coming to Kyoto. When running errands, I asked that the goods be charged to the Nitta okiya.

“If it's money you want,” I said, “Satsu will pay you.”

“Why should she pay to speak to the likes of you?”

“I'm her little sister.”

She beckoned me with her hand; and when I neared her, she took me by the arms and spun me around.