Geisha

by Mineko Iwasaki

  This transparent system of accounting means that we know which geiko did the most business on any given day. It is always clear who is Number One.

  February 15 was a big day. I began rehearsals for the Miyako Odori, started full-time classes at the Nyokoba (I took the last month of junior high school off) and began my apprenticeship as a minarai at the Fusanoya ochaya, which lasted for about a month.

  Mother Sakaguchi came to the okiya to oversee the process of getting me dressed and to do my makeup herself.

  It was quite a production.

  A maiko in full costume closely approximates the Japanese ideal of feminine beauty.

  She has the classic looks of a Heian princess, as though she might have stepped out of an eleventh-century scroll painting. Her face is a perfect oval. Her skin is white and flawless, her hair black as a raven’s wing. Her brows are half moons, her mouth a delicate rosebud. Her neck is long and sensuous, her figure gently rounded.

  I went to the hairdresser and had my hair done up in the wareshinobu style, the first hairstyle a maiko wears. The hair is swept up and sculpted into a mass on the top of the head that is secured by red silk bands (kanoko) front and back and decorated with kanzashi, the stick pin ornaments so distinctive of the karyukai look. It is said that this simple, elegant style showcases the curve of the young girl’s neck and the freshness of her features to their best advantage.

  After finishing at the hairdressers, I went to the barbershop to have my face shaved, a common practice among Japanese women. My face was shaved for the first time by my father after he gave me my first haircut, on the day I turned one year old. I have had it done once a month since then.

  After becoming a maiko, I went to the hairdressers once every five days. To preserve the shape of the hairstyle, I slept on a rectangular lacquered wooden pillow topped with a narrow cushion. At first the pillow kept me awake but I soon got used to it. Other girls found it more difficult. The okiya had a trick to keep us from removing the pillow during the night. The maids would sprinkle rice bran around the pillow. If a girl removed the pillow, bits of bran stuck like glue to the pomade in her hair and the next morning she had to make an unhappy trip back to the hairdressers.

  I wore two hairpins tipped with silk plum blossoms (because it was February) on the sides of the back of the bun, a pair of silver flutters (bira) on the sides in front, an orange blossom pin (tachibana) on top, and a long pin tipped with balls of red coral (akadama) and jade, inserted horizontally through the base.

  Mother Sakaguchi applied the maiko’s distinctive white makeup to my face and neck. This makeup has an interesting history. Originally it was worn by male aristocrats when they had an audience with the emperor. In premodern times the emperor, considered a sacred presence, received his subjects while hidden from their sight by a thin scrim. The audience chamber was lit by candlelight. The white makeup reflected whatever light there was, making it easier for the emperor to distinguish who was who.

  Dancers and actors later took up the practice. Not only does the white makeup look well on stage, but it also echoes the value placed on light skin. In olden days the makeup contained zinc, which was very bad for the skin. But this is no longer the case.

  Mother Sakaguchi next brushed pink powder on my cheeks and eyebrows. She put a spot of red lipstick on my lower lip. (A year later I began to wear lipstick on my upper lip as well.) Then it was time to get dressed.

  The kimono that a maiko wears is called a hikizuri. It differs from an ordinary kimono in that it has long sleeves and a wide train, and is worn slung low on the back of the neck. The hem of the train is weighted and fans out behind in a lovely arc. The hikizuri is secured with a particularly long obi (over 20 feet long) that is tied in back with both ends dangling down. A minarai’s kimono is similar to that of a maiko, but neither the train nor the obi is as long; the dangling portion of the obi is half the length of the maiko’s.

  My kimono was made out of figured satin in variegated turquoise. The heavy hem of the train was dyed in shades of burnt orange, against which floated a drift of pine needles, maple leaves, cherry blossoms and chrysanthemum petals. My obi was made of black damask decorated with swallowtail butterflies. I wore a matching obi clasp of a swallowtail butterfly fashioned out of silver.

  I carried the traditional handbag called a kago, which has a basketweave base topped by a drawstring pouch of colorful tie dyed silk, shibori, which is made by tying silk into a myriad of minute knots with thread before it is dyed. The result is a stunning dappled effect. Kyoto is famous for this technique. It is the one that was practiced by my mother.

  The shibori of my handbag was pale peach and sported a design of cabbage butterflies. It held my dancing fan (decorated with the three red diamonds of the Konoe family [close advisers to the emperor] painted on a gold background), a red-and-white hand towel decorated in a matching pattern, a boxwood comb, and various other accessories. All of these were encased in covers made from the same silk as the bag, and all of them were monogrammed.

  At last I was dressed and ready to go. I stepped down into my okobo and the maid slid open the front door. I was about to step over the lintel when I stopped in surprise. The street was mobbed with people, packed shoulder to shoulder. There was no way I was going out into that.

  I turned around in confusion.

  “Kun-chan, I don’t know what’s going on but there are a million people in the street. Can I wait until they’ve gone?”

  “Don’t be silly, Mineko. They are here to see you.”

  I knew that people were looking forward to my debut as a maiko but had no idea of the degree. Many people had been anticipating this moment for years.

  Voices called from the outside:

  “Come out, Mineko! Let us see how beautiful you are!”

  “I can’t face all those people. I’ll just wait until the crowd thins.”

  “Mineko, these people are not going anywhere. Ignore them if you must, but it is high time to get going. You can’t be late on your first day.”

  I still refused. I didn’t want all those people looking at me. Kuniko was getting frustrated. The walker from the Fusanoya was waiting outside to escort me. She was getting annoyed. Kuniko was trying to placate her and get me moving at the same time.

  Finally, she read me the riot act. “You have to do it for Auntie Oima. This is what she always wanted. Don’t you dare disappoint her.”

  I knew she was right. I had no choice.

  I turned again toward the door. I took a deep breath and thought, Okay Dad. Mom. Okay Auntie Oima. Here I go! I let out a soft determined grunt and lifted my foot over the threshold.

  Another bridge. Another passage.

  The crowd burst out into a deafening round of applause. People called out words of congratulations and praise but I was too mortified to hear them. I kept my face down, eyes hidden, all the way to the Fusanoya. The whole route was clogged with well-wishers and it was quite late by the time we wended our way through them. I didn’t see them, but I am sure my parents were there.

  The master (otosan, or father) of the ochaya immediately scolded me for being late. “There is no excuse for such tardiness, young lady, especially on your first day. It shows a lack of dedication and focus. You are a minarai now. Act like one.”

  It was clear that he was taking his responsibilities toward me seriously.

  “Yes, sir,” I answered crisply.

  “And stop using standard Japanese. Speak our language. Say hei instead of hae.”

  “Hae, please forgive me.”

  “You mean ‘hei, eraisunmahen.’ Don’t stop working on this until you sound like a proper geiko.”

  “Hae.”

  If you remember, this is the same criticism I received from Big Mistress when I was five. It took years until I was truly fluent in the mellifluous, poetically vague, and, for me, difficult, idiom of the district. Now it is hard for me to speak anything else.

  The okasan of the Fusanoya was more encouraging. “Do
n’t worry dear. It may take a while, but I am sure you will master it in no time. Just do your best.”

  I responded well to her kindness. She became a guiding light, a pilot who helped me navigate the treacherous waters that lay ahead.

  18

  THAT NIGHT I ATTENDED my first ozashiki. The guest of honor was a gentleman from the West. The translator explained to him that I was an apprentice maiko and that this was my first appearance in public at a banquet.

  The guest turned to ask me a question and I did my best to answer him in my schoolgirl English.

  “Do you ever go to see American movies?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Do you know the names of any American actors?”

  “I know James Dean.”

  “What about directors?”

  “I know the name of one director. His name is Elia Kazan.”

  “Why, thank you. That’s me. I’m Elia Kazan.”

  “No, you’re kidding! Really? I had no idea,” I exclaimed in Japanese. The theme song from East of Eden was popular at the time. Everybody was humming it. This seemed like an auspicious beginning to my career.

  But a cloud soon loomed on the horizon. The translator told Mr. Kazan that I was planning on being a dancer and he asked if he could see me dance. This wasn’t normally done (since I hadn’t yet made my formal debut) but I agreed and sent for an accompanist (jikata).

  She and I met in the next room to prepare.

  “What number do you want me to play?” she whispered.

  I drew an absolute blank.

  “Oh, umm,” I fumbled.

  “How about Gionkouta[‘the ballad of the Gion’]?”

  “I don’t know that one.”

  “Well, what about The Seasons in Kyoto?”

  “I haven’t learned that one yet.”

  “Akebono [‘dawn’]?”

  “Don’t know that one either.”

  “You’re Fumichiyo’s daughter aren’t you? You must be able to dance something.”

  We were supposed to keep our voices down but hers kept getting louder and louder. I was afraid the guests would overhear.

  “This is my first banquet, so I don’t know what to do. Please decide for me.”

  “You mean you haven’t started to learn the maiko dances yet?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, in that case we’ll have to work with what we have. What are you learning right now?”

  I recited a list. “Shakkyou [a story about a lion and her cubs], Matsuzukushi [a story about a pine tree], Shisha [the story of a contest among four companions of the emperor riding in four oxcarts], Nanoha [the story of the butterfly and the cole blossom]…” None of these dances are in the standard maiko repertoire.

  “I don’t have my book with me today, and I’m not sure if I remember how to play any of those by heart. Do you know Imperial Horse Cart?”

  “Yes, I do. Let’s try that one.”

  I didn’t have a lot of confidence in her ability to remember the song, and, in fact, she did make a few mistakes. I was a wreck, but the guests didn’t appear to know the difference. They seemed delighted with the performance. I was exhausted.

  My second day’s journey into the world as a geiko wasn’t as difficult as the first. I was able to hold my head a little higher and arrived at the Fusanoya on time.

  The ochaya had accepted a reservation for me to attend a dinner at the Tsuruya restaurant in Okazaki. Geiko do not entertain only at ochaya, but also perform at private dinners in exclusive restaurants, hotel ballrooms, and the like. The okasan of the Fusanoya accompanied me to the event.

  It is customary for the most junior geiko to enter a banquet room first. The okasan of the Fusanoya told me what to do. “Open the door, carry in the earthenware sake bottle, and bow to the guests.”

  As soon as I opened the door, my attention flew to the magnificent display of dolls that was set on a platform next to the far wall. These miniatures of the Imperial Court are part of the Girls Day celebration that takes place in the early spring. Without thinking, I made a beeline for the dolls, walking right in front of the ten guests. “These are so beautiful,” I gushed.

  The Fusanoya okasan became rattled and reprimanded me in a hoarse whisper, “Mineko! Serve the guests!”

  “Oops. Of course.” The flask wasn’t in my hand. I looked around and there it was, sitting forlornly by the door, where I had left it. Luckily the guests were charmed rather than offended by my ineptitude. I hear that some of the people who were there that day still chuckle about it.

  I got dressed and went to the Fusanoya every afternoon. When I wasn’t otherwise engaged I ate dinner with okasan and otosan and their daughter Chi-chan in the living room of the ochaya. We played cards until it was time for me to return to the okiya at ten.

  One night we received a call from the okasan of the ochaya Tomiyo asking me to come over. When I got there the okasan ushered me into a banquet room. It had a stage and on the stage there were at least fifteen maiko lined up next to each other. I was asked to join them. I felt shy and tried to conceal myself in the shadow of a pillar.

  There were ten people sitting in the middle of the room. One of them said, “Excuse me, you there by the pillar. Come forward. Sit down. Now stand. Turn to the side.” I had no idea what this was all about but I did as I was told.

  “Great,” he said. “She’s perfect. I’m going to use her as the model for this year’s poster.”

  The man was the president of the Kimono Dealers Association. He had the power to decide who was going to be chosen as the model for their annual poster. These large images, 3 feet by 9 feet, are hung in every kimono and accessory store throughout Japan. Being chosen for this honor is every young maiko’s dream.

  The model for that year’s poster had already been chosen so I didn’t know what he was talking about.

  I went back to the Fusanoya.

  “Mother, I have to model for some photograph.”

  “Which one?”

  “I’m not sure. Something.”

  “Mine-chan, I think we need to have a little talk. Father tells me that you’ve been chosen to be the centerfold in the Miyako Odori program. That’s a big deal, you know. And now you’ve been picked for something else. I don’t want to put a damper on all this good news, but I’m worried that people are going to be jealous of you. I want you to be careful. Girls can be very mean.”

  “Then let one of them do it, if it’s such a big deal. I don’t care.”

  “I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way.”

  “But I don’t want them to be mean to me.”

  “I know, Mineko. There isn’t much you can do to avoid it, but I want you to be aware of the envy you are arousing. I don’t want you to be surprised.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I wish I could explain.”

  “I hate complications like this. I like everything to be clear and simple.”

  If only I had known.

  The okasan’s words were a gentle portent of the excruciating torment that I was destined to suffer for the next five years.

  It started the next morning when I got to class. Everyone ignored me. I mean everyone.

  It turns out that the president of the Kimono Dealers Association nixed the maiko he had picked earlier in favor of me. People were infuriated by what they saw as my premature vault into a top position. I wasn’t even a maiko yet. I was still a minarai. Even girls who I thought were my friends wouldn’t talk to me. I was hurt and angry. I hadn’t done anything wrong!

  But as I soon learned, it didn’t matter. Like many all-female societies, the Gion Kobu is fraught with intrigue, backstabbing, and vicious competitive relationships. The rigidity of the system may have caused me years of frustration, but the years of rivalry caused me true sadness.

  I still didn’t understand why someone would want to hurt somebody else. Especially if that person hadn’t done anything to make the other person feel bad. I tried to be pragmatic a
nd come up with a plan. I worked on it for days. I tried to imagine every angle.

  What might these mean girls do? And how would I respond? If someone was about to grab my foot, should I lift it so high that they couldn’t reach it?

  I came up with a few ideas. Instead of giving in to their jealousy and minimizing my skills, I decided to become the best dancer that I could possibly be. I would try to transform jealousy into admiration. Then they would want to become like me and be my friend. I vowed to study even harder! To practice longer hours! I wouldn’t give up until I was Number One!

  I simply had to make everybody like me.

  Okay, now, if I wanted everyone to like me, the first thing I had to do was identify my weaknesses and correct them.

  I was serious about this in the way that only an adolescent can be.

  My days and nights were full of activity, but I stole whatever time I could for my intellectual housekeeping. I sat by myself in the dark of the closet or the silence of the altar room and pondered. I talked to Auntie Oima.

  Here are some of the faults I came up with:

  I have a short temper.

  When I’m faced with a difficult decision I often do the opposite of what I want to do.

  I’m too quick. I want to finish everything right away.

  I have no patience.

  And a partial list of my solutions:

  I have to remain calm.

  I have to remain steadfast.

  I have to maintain a kind and gentle expression on my face like Auntie Oima.

  I have to smile more.

  I have to be professional. That means I have to attend more ozashiki than anyone else. I must never refuse a reservation. I have to take my job seriously and do it well.

  I have to be Number One.

  Basically, this became my creed.

  I was fifteen.

  19

  MAMA MASAKO REALLY CAME into her own when she started managing the okiya. Handling the everyday details of the business gave her great satisfaction: keeping the ledgers, arranging the schedules, counting the money. She was amazingly well organized and ran the okiya like an efficient machine.