After three months with the index finger he said, “What about three fingers?”
Then, “What about five fingers?”
And later, “What about your whole palm?”
Then one night he got serious. “Mineko, I think I’m falling in love with you.”
I was too inexperienced to know the difference between flirting and the real thing. I thought he was just joking around.
“Oh please, Toshio-san, how can that be? Aren’t you married? I’m not interested in married men. Besides, if you’re married you are already in love!”
“That’s not necessarily true, Mineko. Love and marriage don’t always go together.”
“Well, I wouldn’t know. But you shouldn’t fool around like this, even joking. Your wife would feel terrible if she heard and I’m sure you would never want to hurt her. Or your children. Your first responsibility is to make them happy.”
The only adult male I had ever known was my father. All my ideas about love and responsibility came from him.
“Mineko, I didn’t want this to happen. It just did.”
“Well, there is nothing we can do about it so you better forget about the whole thing right now.”
“And how do you propose I do that?”
“I have no idea. It’s not my problem. But I’m sure you’ll do just fine. Anyway, you aren’t what I’m looking for. I’m looking for a grand passion, someone who will sweep me off my feet and teach me all about love. And then I’m going to become a really great dancer.”
“So what is he like, this grand passion of yours?”
“I’m not sure because I haven’t found him yet. But I know a few things about him. He is not married. He knows a lot about art so that I can talk to him about what I’m doing. He will never try to make me stop dancing. And he is very smart, because I have so many questions. I think he is a professional of some sort.”
I blurted out my whole laundry list of requirements. I clearly had in mind someone as sophisticated as my father or Dr. Tanigawa.
Toshio-san looked crestfallen.
“But what about me?”
“What about you?”
“Do I have a chance?”
“It doesn’t sound like it, does it?”
“So, you’re saying you don’t like me very much. Is that it?”
“Sure I like you. But I’m talking about something else. I’m talking about the love of my life.”
“What if I got divorced?”
“That’s no answer. I don’t want to hurt anybody.”
“But my wife and I are not in love with each other.”
“Then why did you get married?”
“She was in love with somebody else. I saw it as a challenge and decided to steal her away from him.”
Now I was getting annoyed.
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“I know. You see why I want a divorce.”
“What about your children? I could never love anyone who treated his children like that.”
Toshio was twice as old as I was. But the more we talked the more I felt like I was the adult.
“I don’t think we should talk about this any more. We’re just going around in circles. This discussion is over.”
“I’m sorry, Mineko, but I’m not willing to give up. I am going to keep trying.”
I decided to throw down a challenge of my own. I figured if I played completely hard to get he would tire of the game and forget about me.
“If you really love me then I want you to prove it. Remember the poet Onono Komachi? How she made Officer Fukakusa visit her for one hundred nights before she would give him her hand? Well, I want you to visit Gion Kobu every night for the next three years. Every night. Without exception. Most of the time I won’t attend your ozashiki but I will always check on whether or not you came. If you complete this task we can talk again.”
I never thought in a million years that he was actually going to do it.
But he did. He came to Gion Kobu every single night for the next three years, even on major holidays like New Year’s Day. And he always requested that I make an appearance at his ozashiki. This I did once or twice a week. During these years we developed a very civilized friendship. I danced. He played the shamisen. We talked mostly about art.
Toshio was a very talented man. His upbringing gave him a firm grounding in the aesthetic principles that I was trying to master. It turned out he was a kind and lively teacher, and, once he started to take me seriously, a perfect gentleman. He never again went beyond the boundaries of propriety and I no longer felt any sexual threat in his presence. In fact, he became one of my favorite customers.
Meanwhile, I was slowly and surely falling under his spell. Eventually I recognized that I was feeling something for him I had never felt for anyone else. I wasn’t sure what it was, but I had the sneaking suspicion that it was sexual attraction. It was attraction. I felt attracted to him. This is what people were talking about.
This is where we were when he asked my friend to deliver the bouquet of cosmos to my bedside. It was his sweet way of continuing to honor his promise to visit me every day.
When I realized the flowers were from Toshio I was filled with emotion. I didn’t know if this was love. But it was definitely something. I got a tight feeling in my chest whenever I thought about him, and I thought about him all the time. It made me feel shy and awkward. I wanted to talk to him about what was going on but I had no idea what to say. I think that the little door in my heart was beginning to crack open. And I was fighting it every step of the way.
After ten days I felt well enough to dance again. I still couldn’t speak, but Mama announced that I was available to entertain and called the dresser.
I made up a bunch of note cards on which I wrote short phrases such as “How nice to see you,” “It’s been a long time,” “Thank you, I’m fine,” “I’d love to dance,” “Everything is working except my voice.” I got through ten days of ozashiki using the cards. It was fun, actually. The cards and my pantomime added an extra element of whimsy to the ozashiki that the guests seemed to enjoy.
It took those ten days for the pain in my throat to go away. At last I was able to swallow without discomfort. My kidney came back from its vacation and began to function properly again. I was better.
The most disturbing aftereffect of the ordeal was how much weight I had lost. I was down to 86 pounds. As noted, the full maiko ensemble weighs 30 to 40 pounds, so you can imagine how difficult it was for me to move around and dance when I was in costume. But I was so happy to be up and around that I persevered, and ate as much as I could. If I couldn’t carry the weight of the kimono I couldn’t work.
Even though I was weak, I managed to accomplish quite a bit during this period because there was so much going on. I appeared a number of times on the stage at Exposition Plaza. I was in a movie, one that was directed by Kon Ichikawa (and written by Zenzo Matsuyama, one of my very first customers). The movie played in Kyoto at the government Monopoly Theater but I was so busy that I never got to see it.
29
IN THE EARLY 1970S Japan was emerging onto the international stage as an economic power. This change was reflected in the nature of my work. As a representative of traditional Japanese culture, I was fortunate to meet and interact with leaders from all over the world. I’ll never forget one encounter that jolted my notion of our insularity.
I was invited to an ozashiki at the restaurant Kyoyamato. The hosts were the Japanese ambassador to Saudi Arabia and his wife and the guests of honor were the Arabian minister of oil, Mr. Yamani, and his number four wife. Mrs. Yamani was wearing the largest diamond I had ever seen. It was huge. She told me it was 30 carats. No one in the room could keep their eyes off it. Our hostess was wearing a small diamond on her finger, and I noticed her turn the ring around so that the stone was hidden in her palm, as though she was ashamed by its size. This bothered me. In Japanese, I spoke right up.
“Mada
m, your hospitality today, lavish as it may be, is still characterized by the humble aesthetic ideals of the tea ceremony. Please don’t hide the beauty of your diamond. There is no reason to hide its brilliance from our guests, whose greatest asset is their oil. And, for all we know, Mrs. Yamani’s stone might be a hunk of crystal. In either event, it isn’t as radiant as yours.”
Without missing a beat, Mr. Yamani laughed and said, “How clever of you to recognize crystal when you see it.”
He spoke Japanese! I was impressed. His riposte showed not only that he grasped the deeper meaning of what I was saying (in a language that most Japanese believed was practically impossible for foreigners to understand) but that he was savvy enough to respond with quick wit and good humor. What a sharp mind! I felt like I had crossed swords with a master.
I never did find out whether or not that diamond was real.
The Osaka Expo was over on September 30, 1970. I was now free to celebrate the next rite of passage and turn my collar from maiko to geiko. It was time to become an adult.
I asked Mama Masako: “I hear it takes a lot of money to prepare for an erikae. All the new kimono and things. What can I do to help?”
“You? Why, nothing. The business has it covered, so just leave it up to me.”
“But all my customers have been asking me how much I want them to give me for my erikae and I’ve been telling them at least $3,000. Was that wrong of me? I’m sorry.”
“No, Mineko, it’s okay. Your regular clients will expect to contribute something. That’s part of the tradition and it makes them feel good. Plus, they can brag about it to their friends. So don’t worry. As Auntie Oima used to say, ‘You can’t have too much money.’ Though, I must say, you are not letting them off cheap.”
I have no idea how I came up with that figure. These things just popped out of my mouth. “Then I guess I’ll leave it alone and see what happens.”
According to Mama, my customers contributed a small fortune to my erikae. I never heard the details.
On October 1, I had my hairstyle changed into the sakko, which a maiko wears for the final month of her career. Then, at midnight on November 1, Mama Masako and Kuniko cut off the tie binding my topknot. My days as a maiko were over.
Most girls experience this cutting with much nostalgia and emotion, but I went through it coolly. I ended my career as a maiko with as much ambivalence as I had begun it, but for different reasons. I still loved being a dancer. But I was discontented with the old-fashioned and conservative ways in which the whole geiko system was organized. I had been outspoken in my views since I was a teenager, and had gone repeatedly to the Kabukai to complain. So far no one was taking my concerns seriously. Maybe now that I was becoming an adult they would listen.
I took the day off to prepare for my erikae. It was a cold day. Mama Masako and I were sitting around the brazier putting the finishing touches on my new ensemble.
“Mama?”
“Yes?”
“Umm, never mind.”
“Never mind what? What were you going to say?”
“No, forget about it. I was just thinking.”
“About what? Don’t leave me hanging. It’s annoying.”
I wasn’t trying to irritate her. I just couldn’t get the words out.
“I’m not sure if you are the right person to talk to.”
“But I’m your mother.”
“I know, and I really respect you when it comes to anything about work, but this is different. I don’t know if I should talk about it.”
“Mineko, I am Fumichiyo Iwasaki. You can ask me anything.”
“But all of the men you get involved with look like dried up old squid. And then they break up with you and you hang on to the lamppost in front of the grocery store and cry. It’s so embarrassing. And everybody in the neighborhood sees you and says, ‘Poor Fumichiyo has been dumped again.’”
This was all true. Mama Masako was forty-seven and still hadn’t settled into a steady relationship. Nothing had changed. She was still constantly falling in love, and still alienating her lovers with her acerbic tongue. And she did cling to the lamppost and cry. I’ve got lots of witnesses.
“That’s not a very nice thing to say. I guess I’m not the only one around here who has a nasty streak. But enough about me. What’s going on with you?”
“I was just wondering what it feels like when you fall in love.”
Her hands stopped working and her body came to attention.
“Why, Mineko? Have you found somebody?”
“Maybe.”
“Really? Who is he?”
“It hurts too much to talk about it.”
“It will stop hurting if you talk about it.”
“It hurts just to think of his face.”
“This sounds serious.”
“Do you think so?”
“I’d like to meet him. Why don’t you introduce us?”
“No way. First of all, you are a terrible judge of men. And, secondly, you might try to steal him from me.”
“Mineko, I’m not Yaeko. I promise you, I would never get involved with one of your boyfriends.”
“But you always make yourself look so beautiful whenever you are going to meet some man. If I do introduce you, would you agree to meet him looking like yourself?”
“Yes, my dear, of course. If it makes you happy, I’ll go in everyday clothes.”
“In that case, I’ll see what I can do.”
We finished making the preparations for my transition from maiko to geiko.
I had my erikae on November 2, 1970, my twenty-first birthday.
The first kimono I wore as a geiko was a formal crested one made of black silk, embellished with a pattern of tie-dyed and embroidered seashells. My obi was white silk damask with a geometric pattern figured in red, blue, and gold.
We commissioned two more kimono for me to wear during the initial period. One was made of yellow silk embellished with phoenixes embroidered in gold leaf thread. The obi was rusty vermilion brocade patterned with peonies. The other was made of muted green silk, with an embroidered pattern of pine and imperial carts worked in gold. The obi was black brocade with a chrysanthemum pattern.
The collars sewn onto my nagajuban were now white, signifying that I had left behind the childlike qualities of a maiko. I was grown-up. It was time to take responsibility for my life.
Around the time of my erikae Dr. Tanigawa approached me with a very exciting proposition. Kunihito Shimonaka, the president of Heibon Publishing, wanted to devote an entire edition of his magazine The Sun to the history and traditions of Gion Kobu. Dr. Tanigawa recommended to Mr. Shimonaka that I work on the project. I readily agreed to participate, as did a number of my friends.
We worked under the editorial supervision of Takeshi Yasuda and before long I felt like a bona fide journalist. We met as a team once a month and the project took a full year to complete. The special edition was published as the June issue and came out in May of 1972 and sold out immediately. It was reprinted any number of times.
The project gave me an enormous sense of accomplishment and satisfaction. I began to see that there might be a life for me outside the silken confines of Gion Kobu. But I was working as hard as a geiko as I had as a maiko, maintaining a full schedule of nightly ozashiki and regular public performances on top of the other work.
One evening I was called to the Tomiyo ochaya. Mr. Motoyama, president of the fashion concern Sun Motoyama, was hosting an ozashiki for Aldo Gucci, the Italian fashion designer.
I dressed with particular care that evening. The body of my kimono was black silk crepe. The hem bore an exquisite scene of cranes huddling in their nest. My obi was the dusk red of salt shallows, dyed with a pattern of maple trees.
While I was sitting next to Mr. Gucci he accidentally spilled soy sauce on my kimono. I knew he felt terrible, so I tried to think of a quick way to make him feel better. I turned to him and, as though it were not an odd request, asked, “Mr. Gucc
i, it is such an honor for me to meet you. May I be so bold as to ask for your autograph?”
He agreed and reached for a pen.
“Could you sign my kimono? Here, on the lining of my sleeve?”
Mr. Gucci signed the red silk with a flourish of black ink. Since the kimono was effectively ruined it made no difference to me if he defaced it further. The important thing was that he felt good about our interaction.
I still have that kimono. I had always hoped to give it to him one day but, unfortunately, never had the opportunity to meet him again.
A geiko’s kimono is a work of art and I would never wear a kimono that wasn’t absolutely perfect. All the kimono worn by maiko and geiko are one of a kind. Many of them are given names, like paintings, and are treasured as such. This is why I have such a vivid memory of everything I ever wore.
When I was in active service I commissioned a new kimono every week and would rarely wear any kimono more than four or five times. I have no idea how many kimono I actually owned during my career, but I imagine it was over three hundred. And each one, not including the enormously expensive robes commissioned for special occasions, cost between $5,000 and $7,000.
Kimono were my passion and I took an active role in their design and conception. My greatest pleasure was to meet with the venerable Mr. Iida at Takashimaya, or Mr. Saito at Gofukya, or the skilled staff of Eriman and Ichizo, to talk about my ideas for new patterns and color combinations.
Once I appeared in a new outfit, it was invariably copied by other geiko, and I gave my worn kimono away freely to older and younger sisters whenever they asked. We are trained from childhood to remember kimono the way one might remember any work of art. So we always knew when someone was wearing a kimono that had previously been owned by someone else. This was an important signifier of one’s position within the hierarchy.
All of this may seem extravagant, but, in fact, is the linchpin of a much larger enterprise.
The kimono business is one of the most important industries in Kyoto. I may have been in a position to order more kimono than other geiko, but all of us needed a constant supply. Imagine how many kimono the maiko and geiko of Gion Kobu and the other four karyukai collectively order every year? The livelihoods of thousands of artisans, from the dyers of Yuzen silk to the designers of hair ornaments, depend on these orders. The customers who frequent Gion Kobu may not buy kimono themselves, but a large percentage of the money they leave behind goes to the direct support of these craftspeople. In this way, I always felt we were a vital force in keeping these traditional industries alive.
Geisha Page 20
