Memoirs of a Geisha (31 page)

Mameha agreed and wiped off the makeup after the cook assured her she could find the spot. In a moment I felt the pressure of the knife again.

I've never been good at the sight of blood. You may recall how I fainted after cutting my lip the day I met Mr. Tanaka. So you can probably imagine how I felt when I twisted around and saw a rivulet of blood snaking down my leg onto a towel Mameha held against the inside of my thigh. I lapsed into such a state when I saw it that I have no memory at all of what happened next—of being helped into the rickshaw, or of anything at all about the ride, until we neared the hospital and Mameha rocked my head from side to side to get my attention.

“Now listen to me! I'm sure you've heard over and over that your job as an apprentice is to impress other geisha, since they're the ones who will help you in your career, and not to worry about what the men think. Well, forget about all that! It isn't going to work that way in your case. Your future depends on two men, as I've told you, and you're about to meet one of them. You
must
make the right impression. Are you listening to me?”

“Yes, ma'am, every word,” I muttered.

“When you're asked how you cut your leg, the answer is, you were trying to go to the bathroom in kimono, and you fell onto something sharp. You don't even know what it was, because you fainted. Make up all the details you want; just be sure to sound very childish. And act helpless when we go inside. Let me see you do it.”

Well, I laid my head back and let my eyes roll up into my head. I suppose that's how I was really feeling, but Mameha wasn't at all pleased.

“I didn't say act dead. I said act
helpless
. Like this . . .”

Mameha put on a dazed look, as if she couldn't make up her mind even where she should point her eyes, and kept her hand to her cheek as though she were feeling faint. She made me imitate that look until she was satisfied. I began my performance as the driver helped me to the entrance of the hospital. Mameha walked beside me, tugging my robe this way and that to be sure I still looked attractive.

We entered through the swinging wooden doors and asked for the hospital director; Mameha said he was expecting us. Finally a nurse showed us down a long hallway to a dusty room with a wooden table and a plain folding screen blocking the windows. While we waited, Mameha took off the towel she'd wrapped around my leg and threw it into a wastebasket.

“Remember, Sayuri,” she nearly hissed, “we want the Doctor to see you looking as innocent and as helpless as possible. Lie back and try to look weak.”

I had no difficulty at all with this. A moment later the door opened and in came Dr. Crab. Of course, his name wasn't really Dr. Crab, but if you'd seen him I'm sure the same name would have occurred to you, because he had his shoulders hunched up and his elbows sticking out so much, he couldn't have done a better imitation of a crab if he'd made a study of it. He even led with one shoulder when he walked, just like a crab moving along sideways. He had a mustache on his face, and was very pleased to see Mameha, though more with an expression of surprise in his eyes than with a smile.

Dr. Crab was a methodical and orderly man. When he closed the door, he turned the handle first so the latch wouldn't make noise, and then gave an extra press on the door to be sure it was shut. After this he took a case from his coat pocket and opened it very cautiously, as though he might spill something if he wasn't careful; but all it contained was another pair of glasses. When he'd exchanged the glasses he wore, he replaced the case in his pocket and then smoothed his coat with his hands. Finally he peered at me and gave a brisk little nod, whereupon Mameha said:

“I'm so sorry to trouble you, Doctor. But Sayuri has such a bright future before her, and now she's had the misfortune of cutting her leg! What with the possibility of scars, and infections and the like, well, I thought you were the only person to treat her.”

“Just so,” said Dr. Crab. “Now perhaps I might have a look at the injury?”

“I'm afraid Sayuri gets weak at the sight of blood, Doctor,” Mameha said. “It might be best if she simply turned away and let you examine the wound for yourself. It's on the back of her thigh.”

“I understand perfectly. Perhaps you'd be kind enough to ask that she lie on her stomach on the examination table?”

I couldn't understand why Dr. Crab didn't ask me himself; but to seem obedient, I waited until I'd heard the words from Mameha. Then the Doctor raised my robe almost to my hips, and brought over a cloth and some sort of smelly liquid, which he rubbed on my thigh before saying, “Sayuri-san, please be kind enough to tell me how the wound was inflicted.”

I took a deep, exaggerated breath, still doing my best to seem as weak as possible. “Well, I'm rather embarrassed,” I began, “but the truth is that I was . . . drinking a good deal of tea this afternoon—”

“Sayuri has just begun her apprenticeship,” Mameha said. “I was introducing her around Gion. Naturally, everyone wanted to invite her in for tea.”

“Yes, I can imagine,” the Doctor said.

“In any case,” I went on, “I suddenly felt that I had to . . . well, you know . . .”

“Drinking excessive amounts of tea can lead to a strong urge to relieve the bladder,” the Doctor said.

“Oh, thank you. And in fact . . . well, ‘strong urge' is an understatement, because I was afraid that in another moment everything would begin to look yellow to me, if you know what I mean . . .”

“Just tell the Doctor what happened, Sayuri,” said Mameha.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I just mean to say that I had to use the toilet very bad . . . so bad that when I finally reached it . . . well, I was struggling with my kimono, and I must have lost my balance. When I fell, my leg came against something sharp. I don't even know what it was. I think I must have fainted.”

“It's a wonder you didn't void your bladder when you lost consciousness,” said the Doctor.

All this time I'd been lying on my stomach, holding my face up off the examination table for fear of smudging my makeup, and talking while the Doctor looked at the back of my head. But when Dr. Crab made this last comment, I looked over my shoulder at Mameha as best I could. Happily, she was thinking faster than I was, because she said:

“What Sayuri means is that she lost her balance when she tried to stand once again from a squatting position.”

“I see,” the Doctor said. “The cut was made by a very sharp object. Perhaps you fell on broken glass or a strip of metal.”

“Yes, it certainly felt very sharp,” I said. “As sharp as a knife!”

Dr. Crab said nothing more, but washed the cut as though he wanted to see how much he could make it hurt, and then afterward used more of the smelly liquid to remove the blood that had dried all down my leg. Finally he told me the cut would need nothing more than cream and a bandage, and gave me instructions on caring for it over the next few days. With this, he rolled my robe down and put away his glasses as though he might break them if he handled them too roughly.

“I'm very sorry you've ruined such a fine kimono,” he said. “But I'm certainly happy at the chance to have met you. Mameha-san knows I'm always interested in new faces.”

“Oh, no, the pleasure is all mine, Doctor,” I said.

“Perhaps I'll see you one evening quite soon at the Ichiriki Teahouse.”

“To tell the truth, Doctor,” Mameha said, “Sayuri is a bit of a . . . special property, as I'm sure you can imagine. She already has more admirers than she can handle, so I've been keeping her away from the Ichiriki as much as I can. Perhaps we might visit you at the Shirae Teahouse instead?”

“Yes, I would prefer that myself,” Dr. Crab said. And then he went through the whole ritual of changing his glasses again so that he could look through a little book he took from his pocket. “I'll be there . . . let me see . . . two evenings from now. I do hope to see you.”

Mameha assured him we would stop by, and then we left.

*  *  *

In the rickshaw on our way back to Gion, Mameha told me I'd done very well.

“But, Mameha-san, I didn't do anything!”

“Oh? Then how do you account for what we saw on the Doctor's forehead?”

“I didn't see anything but the wooden table right in front of my face.”

“Let's just say that while the Doctor was cleaning the blood from your leg, his forehead was beaded with sweat as if we'd been in the heat of summer. But it wasn't even warm in the room, was it?”

“I don't think so.”

“Well, then!” Mameha said.

I really wasn't sure what she was talking about—or exactly what her purpose had been in taking me to meet the Doctor, for that matter. But I couldn't very well ask, because she'd already made it clear she wouldn't tell me her plan. Then just as the rickshaw driver was pulling us across the Shijo Avenue Bridge into Gion once again, Mameha interrupted herself in the middle of a story.

“You know, your eyes really are extraordinarily lovely in that kimono, Sayuri. The scarlets and yellows . . . they make your eyes shine almost silver! Oh, heavens, I can't believe I haven't thought of this idea sooner. Driver!” she called out. “We've gone too far. Stop here, please.”

“You told me Gion Tominaga-cho, ma'am. I can't drop the poles in the middle of a bridge.”

“You may either let us out here or finish crossing the bridge and then take us back over it again. Frankly, I don't see much point in that.”

The driver set down his poles where we were, and Mameha and I stepped out. A number of bicyclists rang their bells in anger as they passed, but Mameha didn't seem in the least concerned. I suppose she was so certain of her place in the world, she couldn't imagine anyone being troubled by a little matter like her blocking traffic. She took her time, holding up one coin after another from her silk change purse until she'd paid the exact fare, and then led me back across the bridge in the direction we'd come.

“We're going to Uchida Kosaburo's studio,” she announced. “He's a marvelous artist, and he's going to take a liking to your eyes, I'm sure of it. Sometimes he gets a little . . . distracted, you might say. And his studio is a mess. It may take him a while to notice your eyes, but just keep them pointed where he can see them.”

I followed Mameha through side streets until we came to a little alley. At the end stood a bright red Shinto gate, miniature in size, pressed tightly between two houses. Beyond the gate, we passed between several small pavilions to a flight of stone steps leading up through trees in their brilliant fall coloring. The air wafting from the dank little tunnel of the steps felt as cool as water, so that it seemed to me I was entering a different world altogether. I heard a swishing sound that reminded me of the tide washing the beach, but it turned out to be a man with his back to us, sweeping water from the top step with a broom whose bristles were the color of chocolate.

“Why, Uchida-san!” Mameha said. “Don't you have a maid to tidy up for you?”

The man at the top stood in full sunlight, so that when he turned to peer down at us, I doubt he saw anything more than a few shapes under the trees. I could see him well, however, and he was quite a peculiar-looking man. In one corner of his mouth was a giant mole like a piece of food, and his eyebrows were so bushy they looked like caterpillars that had crawled down out of his hair and gone to sleep there. Everything about him was in disarray, not only his gray hair, but his kimono, which looked as if he'd slept in it the night before.

“Who is that?” he said.

“Uchida-san! After all these years you still don't recognize my voice?”

“If you're trying to make me angry, whoever you are, you're off to a good start. I'm in no mood for interruptions! I'll throw this broom at you, if you don't tell me who you are.”

Uchida-san looked so angry I wouldn't have been surprised if he'd bit off the mole from the corner of his mouth and spat it at us. But Mameha just continued right up the stairs, and I followed her—though I was careful to stay behind so she would be the one struck by the broom.

“Is this how you greet visitors, Uchida-san?” Mameha said as she stepped up into the light.

Uchida squinted at her. “So it's you. Why can't you just say who you are like everyone else? Here, take this broom and sweep the steps. No one's coming into my house until I've lit incense. Another of my mice has died, and the place smells like a coffin.”

Mameha seemed amused at this and waited until Uchida had left before leaning the broom against a tree.

“Have you ever had a boil?” she whispered to me. “When Uchida's work goes badly, he gets into this terrible mood. You have to make him blow up, just like lancing a boil, so that he'll settle down again. If you don't give him something to get angry about, he'll start drinking and only get worse.”

“Does he keep pet mice?” I whispered. “He said another of his mice had died.”

“Heavens, no. He leaves his ink sticks out, and the mice come and eat them and then die from poisoning. I gave him a box to put his inks in, but he won't use it.”

Just then Uchida's door rolled partway open—for he'd given it a shove and gone right back inside. Mameha and I slipped out of our shoes. The interior was a single large room in the style of a farmhouse. I could see incense burning in a far corner, but it hadn't done any good yet, because the smell of dead mouse struck me with as much force as if someone had stuck clay up my nose. The room was even messier than Hatsumomo's at its worst. Everywhere were long brushes, some broken or gnawed, and big wooden boards with half-finished drawings in black-and-white. In the midst of it all was an unmade futon with ink stains on the sheets. I imagined that Uchida would have ink stains all over himself as well, and when I turned to find out, he said to me: