I left the house at 8:10 in time to reach the Nyokoba by 8:20, so I would be there before Big Mistress arrived at around 8:30. That gave ten minutes to set out her teaching things and prepare a cup of tea for her arrival. I wasn’t just being polite or ingratiating myself. I tried to have everything ready for her so that I could get the first lesson.
I had to take two dance lessons a day, the first from Big Mistress and the second from one of the little mistresses. If I didn’t get an early lesson with Big Mistress, it was difficult to find time for everything else. Besides the other dance lesson, I had to fit in music, tea ceremony, and Noh dance. And I also had to leave enough time to pay the obligatory calls before returning to the okiya for lunch.
These visits were part of my job. At that time there were about 150 ochaya in Gion Kobu, and though I primarily appeared at ten or so, I regularly did business with forty or fifty of them. Every day I tried to visit as many places as possible. I thanked the owners of the ochaya I had been to the night before and double-checked the arrangements for the coming evening. I couldn’t abide any downtime when I was working, and on the rare occasions when I had a few minutes open I would try to book the time myself.
Lunch was at 12:30. While we were eating, Mama Masako and Aunt Taji detailed the evening’s appointments and told us what they knew about the customers we would be entertaining.
Each day was different. Sometimes I’d have to be ready to go out at three, other days not until five or six. Some days I had to dress for a photo shoot in the morning (I’d wear my costume to school) or travel to an event in a distant city. But even when I had to go out of town, I tried to return to Kyoto in time to work that evening.
I felt compelled to work as much as humanly possible. It was the only way I was going to become Number One. I was in and out of the house so often that the family nicknamed me “the homing pigeon.” Each night I entertained at as many ozashiki as time would allow. I didn’t get home until one or two in the morning. My schedule was in total violation of the Child Labor Laws, but I wanted to work and didn’t care.
When I finally got home, I changed into casual kimono, took off my makeup, and rehearsed the previous morning’s dance lesson again so I didn’t forget it. Then I enjoyed a nice hot bath and read for a while to unwind. I rarely went to sleep before 3 A.M.
It was difficult to maintain this pace on three hours of sleep a night but I managed somehow. I thought it was unseemly for a maiko to be seen napping in public so I never slept when I was dressed in costume, even when traveling on a plane or the bullet train. That was one of the hard parts.
One day I was attending a kimono fashion show at a department store. I wasn’t dressed as a maiko, so was able to let down my guard that extra little bit. I was so exhausted that I fell sound asleep on my feet. But I didn’t close my eyes. They were wide open.
21
IHAVE ALWAYS REGRETTED the fact that I had to stop my academic schooling when I was fifteen. I didn’t understand why the Nyokoba taught no academic subjects. I was most disturbed that the school didn’t teach us English or French. We were being prepared to entertain world leaders but not being given the tools to communicate with them. It seemed completely irrational.
Soon after becoming a maiko I went to the Kabukai and lodged a complaint about the lack of foreign language education. I was told to get a tutor, which I did, but they clearly weren’t getting the point. However, being a novice member of the karyukai did provide me with an unusual education, one that I can’t imagine having had anywhere else. I met all kinds of brilliant and accomplished people, some of whom became my trusted friends.
Meanwhile, my geographical boundaries did not expand as quickly as my intellectual horizons. I rarely ventured out of the neighborhood. Mama Masako was as protective of me as Auntie Oima had been. Gion Kobu lies east of the Kamo River, Kyoto’s central artery. Downtown Kyoto, the commercial hub of the city, lies on the other side. I was not allowed to cross the river by myself until I was eighteen or to venture outside the district without a chaperone.
My customers were my tickets to the outside world. They were my real teachers. One night, I was summoned to an ozashiki at the ochaya Tomiyo that was being hosted by one of its regular patrons, the Noh drama costume designer Kayoh Wakamatsu. Mr. Wakamatsu was known as an aficionado of geiko and our world.
I readied myself for my entrance. I placed the flask of sake on its tray, slid open the door, and said, “Ookini,” which actually means “thank you.” We use it like “excuse me.” There was quite a party going on. Seven or eight of my onesan were already in the room with him.
One of them said, “You slid open the door incorrectly.”
“I’m sorry,” I replied.
I slid the door closed and tried again.
No one complained.
I said “ookini” again and entered the room.
“You entered the room incorrectly.”
And then, “The way you’re holding the tray is all wrong.”
And then, “That’s not the right way to hold the sake flask.”
I was getting frustrated but tried to keep my composure. I went back out into the hall to try again.
The okasan of the Tomiyo pulled me aside:
“Mine-chan, what’s going on?”
“My onesan are kindly offering me instructions on how to do everything correctly,” I answered.
I knew they were really being cruel. I just wanted to see how far things would go before the guest or okasan intervened.
“Oh please,” she said. “They’re just teasing you. Go on in there and don’t pay them any mind.”
This time no one said a word.
Mr. Wakamatsu asked me, nicely, to bring him a large writing brush, an ink stick, and an ink stone. I went to do as he asked. He asked me to prepare the ink. I ground the stick against the stone and carefully added the right amount of water. When the ink was the right consistency, I dipped the brush and handed it to him.
He asked the ringleader of the bunch, Miss S., to stand up in front of him.
Miss S. was wearing a white kimono decorated in a pine motif. Mr. Wakamatsu lifted the brush and looked her in the face. “You have all treated Mineko disgracefully but I’m holding you personally responsible.”
He proceeded to slash the brush across the front of her kimono, leaving thick black strokes in its wake.
“Go away, all of you. I never want to see any of you again. Please leave!”
The geiko shuffled out of the room en masse.
The okasan heard the commotion and came running.
“Wa-san [his nickname], what in the world happened?”
“I will not put up with this kind of nastiness. Please don’t book any of that bunch for me again.”
“Of course, Wa-san. Whatever you wish.”
This experience left a strong impression on me. It made me both sad and happy. I was sad that my onesan would treat me like that. I was worried that I had more of this kind of thing ahead of me. But I was encouraged by Wa-san’s kindness. It made me feel like I was not alone. And he had not only noticed my discomfort, but had gone out of his way to act on my behalf. Wa-san was an incredibly nice man. The next day he sent Miss S. three kimono and brocade obi in care of the ochaya. These actions endeared me to him forever. He became one of my favorite customers (gohiiki) and I became one of his favorite maiko.
A while later I was talking to two of the other girls who were also frequent companions of his.
“Wa-san is so good to the three of us, why don’t we do something for him? Maybe we should get him a present.”
“That’s a nice idea. But what should we get him?”
“Hmmm,” We all thought hard. And then I smiled. “I’ve got it!”
“What?”
“Let’s do the Beatles.”
They stared at me blankly.
“What’s a beatle?”
“You’ll see. Just trust me on this one, okay?”
The next day, after clas
s, the three of us got in a taxi and I directed the driver to a store on the corner of Higashioji Nijo. My friends started giggling as soon as we pulled up to the shop. It was a wig store. Wa-san was completely bald, so I thought a wig would make a great present. We chose a blonde one, laughing the whole time we picked it out. We couldn’t figure out where he’d stick the pin.
He soon called us to an ozashiki. We bore the present excitedly into the room and placed it in front of him. We bowed formally, and I had one of my friends make a little speech.
“Wa-san, thank you so much for all your kindness. We have brought you something to express our gratitude. Please accept it as a token of our affection and esteem.”
“Oh my! You shouldn’t have!”
He unwrapped the big hairy mass. At first he had no idea what it was but it fell into shape when he held it up in the air. He put the wig on his head and, grinning, asked, “Well, what do you think?”
“It looks great!” we all chorused back. “Really great!”
We handed him a mirror.
One of Wa-san’s guests arrived in the midst of the hubbub.
“What’s going on?” he asked. “It’s awfully lively in here this evening.”
“Welcome, Mr. O.,” said Wa-san. “Come in and join the party.”
“How do I look?” Wa-san asked. We looked over at Mr. O. His toupée was missing! None of us could resist staring at his head. Mr. O. put his hand to his scalp, instinctively covered his head with the newspaper he was carrying, and ran hurriedly down the stairs. He came back twenty minutes later. “That was a surprise,” he said. “I dropped it in the entrance of the Miyako Hotel.” His toupée was back, but it was on crooked.
The following evening Wa-san booked me again. His wife and children were with him. His wife was effusive. “Thank you so much for the splendid present you gave my husband. He hasn’t been in such a good mood in years,” Mrs. Wakamatsu told me cheerfully. “I’d love to have you over to the house sometime in return. Why don’t you come by some evening to catch fireflies?”
I was embarrassed that our little gift caused such a big reaction.
One of the misconceptions about the karyukai is that it caters solely to men. This simply isn’t true. Women host ozashiki too, and often attend them as guests.
It is true that the majority of our customers are men, but we often get to know their families. My clients often brought their wives and children to visit me in the ochaya and to watch me perform on stage. Wives seemed to like the Miyako Odori, in particular, and often invited me to their homes on special occasions like New Year’s Day. A husband might be presiding over a stuffy ozashiki of business executives in one room while his wife and her girlfriends were laughing it up in another. I would finish up with the gentlemen as soon as decorum allowed and happily glide down the hall to join the ladies.
It wasn’t uncommon for me to know someone’s entire family. Sometimes customers booked ozashiki for family reunions, especially around the New Year. Or a grandfather might host an ozashiki for his newborn grandchild and, while the proud parents were enjoying themselves, we geiko would vie to hold the baby. At times we joked that the ochaya were like high-class “family restaurants.”
As I have noted before, the culture of the karyukai fosters long-term relationships that are based on confidence and trust. The bond that is forged over time between an ochaya, a regular customer, and his or her favorite geiko can be very strong.
What is said and done in the privacy of an ozashiki may be divorced from the reality of the outside world, but the relationships that develop within it are very real. I was so young when I started that, over the years, I developed very close relationships with many of my regular customers and their families.
I have a good memory for dates, and became famous for remembering my clients’ birthdays, their wives’ birthdays, and their wedding anniversaries. At one point I retained this information for over one hundred of my best customers. I always had a stash of little presents handy so I could give my male customers something to bring home to their wives if perchance they had forgotten an important date.
22
BEFORE I TELL YOU ABOUT SOME of the difficult experiences I had as a maiko, I’d like to tell you about some of the wonderful ones. I met many great people along the way, but there are two men who stand out above the rest.
First and foremost is the distinguished philosopher and aesthetician Dr. Tetsuzo Tanigawa. Soon after my debut, I had the good fortune to attend an ozashiki at which Dr. Tanigawa was a guest.
“It’s been over fifty years since I visited Gion Kobu,” Dr. Tanigawa greeted me by way of introduction.
I thought he was joking. He didn’t look old enough for that to be true. But as I chatted with him and his host, the president of a big publishing company, I realized that Dr. Tanigawa had to be well into his seventies.
I had no idea what an important man Dr. Tanigawa was when I first met him. It was clear that he was very erudite, but he wasn’t a snob. He had an open manner that invited conversation. I asked him a question about something. He listened to my question with genuine interest and thought for a few moments before speaking. His answer was clear, pointed, and precise. I eagerly asked him something else. Again, he gave me a serious, considered answer. I loved this.
It was almost time for my next appointment but I didn’t want to go. I slipped out of the room for a moment and told the okasan to please say that I wasn’t feeling well and cancel my other appointments, something I had never done before.
I went back into the ozashiki and we continued our conversation. When Dr. Tanigawa rose to leave, I told him how much I enjoyed meeting him and that I hoped I would have the opportunity to see him again someday.
“I’ve enjoyed our conversation very much,” he answered, “and think you are a delightful young woman. Please consider me a fan. I have to attend a series of monthly symposia here in the city, and will try to visit you again. Think up some more questions for me!”
“That’ll be easy. Please come again, as soon as you can.”
“I’ll plan on it. But for now, let me bid you farewell.”
Dr. Tanigawa used the English word “fan,” a word very much in vogue at the time. Though he used the word generically, I actually had a large number of fan clubs, even among maiko and geiko in other karyukai in Kyoto and geisha throughout the country. (Maiko only exist in Kyoto.)
Dr. Tanigawa was true to his word and returned to the ochaya some time later.
During this next conversation I asked him questions about himself. He was forthcoming in his answers and I learned quite a bit about his long and impressive career.
It turns out that Dr. Tanigawa was one year older than my father. Over the years he had taught aesthetics and philosophy at universities throughout Japan, including the Kyoto Art University where my father had gone to school. In addition, Dr. Tanigawa had served as the director of the National Museum of Nara, the National Museum of Kyoto, and the National Museum of Tokyo. No wonder he knew so much about everything! He was also a member of the elite Japan Art Academy and the father of the poet Shuntaro Tanigawa, who was so famous that even I knew who he was.
I asked Dr. Tanigawa about his academic background. He told me that he had decided to go to Kyoto instead of Tokyo University in order to study with the great philosopher Kitaro Nishida. He loved Kyoto and Gion Kobu, and knew them well because of his days as a student here.
Whenever I knew Dr. Tanigawa was coming, I refused all other engagements so that I could devote myself fully to being in his company. We formed a friendship that was to continue until his death in the early 1990s. I didn’t think of my appointments with him as business transactions. I felt more like I was taking classes with my favorite professor.
I peppered him mercilessly with questions. He continued to answer me seriously, always clearly and to the point. Dr. Tanigawa taught me how to think. He never foisted his own opinions on me but, rather, encouraged me to reason things out for myself.
We talked endlessly about art and aesthetics. Being an artist, I wanted to train myself to recognize beauty in all its forms.
“How do I look at a piece of art?” I asked.
“You have only to see what you see and feel what you feel,” was his honest and succinct answer.
“Is beauty only in the eye of the beholder?”
“No, Mineko, beauty is universal. There is an absolute principle in this world that underlies the appearance and disappearance of all phenomena. That is what we call karma. It is constant and immutable, and gives rise to universal values like beauty and morality.”
This teaching became the core concept of my personal philosophy.
One evening Dr. Tanigawa was dining with the president of another publishing company, and this gentleman started a conversation about aesthetics, using a lot of difficult words. He asked Dr. Tanigawa, “How can I evaluate a piece of art so that other people will think I am a professional?”
“What a shameful question,” I thought.
Dr. Tanigawa amazed me by giving him the exact answer he had given me. “You have only to see what you see and feel what you feel.”
I couldn’t believe it. Here I was, this barely educated fifteen-year-old girl, and Dr. Tanigawa was giving the president of a big company the same advice he had given me.
I was very moved. “He is a truly authentic person,” I thought.
Dr. Tanigawa taught me how to find the truth by looking inside myself. I think this is the greatest gift that anyone has ever given me. I loved him dearly.
In March of 1987 Dr. Tanigawa came out with a new book entitled Doubts at 90. I went to the Okura Hotel in Tokyo to attend a publication party with one hundred of Dr. Tanigawa’s closest friends. I was honored to be included among them.
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