Geisha

by Mineko Iwasaki

  We had plans to meet in Tokyo one evening so I checked into our suite when I got to town. I was arranging my cosmetics and toiletries on the vanity in the bathroom when the phone rang. It was Toshio.

  “I’m in the middle of a production meeting. It looks like its going to go on for hours. Would you mind making other plans for dinner? I’ll catch you later.”

  I called a good friend who lived nearby. She was free for dinner. We ate and then decided to go out and have some fun. We hit all the in-spots and discos in Roppongi. It had been a while since I’d cut loose and I had a great time.

  I got back to the hotel around three o’clock in the morning. One of Toshio’s attendants was sitting in the lobby when I walked in and he rushed forward to greet me.

  “Are you waiting for me?” I asked.

  “Yes, Miss, I…”

  “Is Toshio all right?”

  ‘Yes, yes, he’s fine. But he’s still in a meeting. He gave me the key and asked me to escort you safely to your room.”

  This didn’t make a whole lot of sense to me but I was too tired to care.

  We got in the elevator and he pushed the button for the eighth floor.

  “I’m sorry, but that’s the wrong floor. I’m staying on five.”

  “No, I don’t believe so. I was told you are staying on eight.”

  This is very odd, I thought as Toshio’s assistant unlocked the door to a room I had never seen before. It wasn’t a suite. I turned to say something to the assistant but he was hurriedly bowing his way out of the room. He said goodnight and shut the door behind him.

  I looked around. There were my bags, exactly where I had left them. And there were my toiletries, lined up in the same order on the vanity. I felt like I had fallen into the grip of a genie. Too tired to worry about what was going on, I took a bath and went to bed.

  Toshio called at 4 A.M. “The meeting should be over in a while, but I’m still here.”

  In other words, I wouldn’t be seeing him any time soon.

  “Why the room change?”

  “Oh that, well, you know, about that, I’ll tell you later. There are people here now…”

  He made it sound like he couldn’t talk in front of other people. But it didn’t ring true. It sounded like he was hiding something. The next morning I decided to find out what was going on. I told the man at the front desk, who knew me, that I had forgotten my key. He had a bellboy accompany me to the suite and open the door.

  No one was in the room but clearly someone had been. The bed was disheveled. There were used towels on the floor of the bathroom. I opened the closet. There was a fur coat hanging in it and a woman’s bag on the floor. Needless to say, they weren’t mine.

  Since this was supposed to be my room, I had no compunction about opening the bag. I looked inside, and there among the clothes was a stack of head shots of Toshio’s wife. The pictures were the kind one autographs for fans. Obviously, sometime after I went out last night, Toshio had my things moved so his wife could move in. I exploded. How could he! I didn’t care if she was his wife. This was our room! And I had been there first.

  I heard later that Toshio and his wife had to make a last-minute appearance on a TV show together. But still, when he found out that she was coming he should have booked another room, not have my things moved from one room to another.

  I shuddered with the realization of what this meant. Here was the truth. His wife came first. She was more important to him than I was. Why else had he gone to such lengths? If he had simply told me that his wife was coming, I would have checked out and gone to the New Otani hotel. I wouldn’t have checked into a room on the eighth floor of the Prince, where I stood a good chance of running into her.

  It was all too much. I called housekeeping and asked for a large pair of shears. I tore the fur coat off its hanger. I took the scissors and shredded it into little bits and pieces. Then I turned her bag upside down and dumped it on the bed. I scattered her photographs all over the pile and plunged the scissors into the center of the heap.

  Alright, Toshio. You’ve made your choice. Now live with it. Sayonara.

  I went up to the room on the eighth floor, packed my bags, and sauntered out the lobby door. I vowed never to return to that suite, or to that hotel, again. Toshio showed no reaction to what I had done. He continued to treat me as if nothing had happened, never mentioning the incident.

  I expected him to confront me about my wanton spree. In my fantasies, I made restitution for the coat and declared my independence. His refusal to bring it up meant we were locked in a weird holding pattern. I began steeling myself to end it outright.

  In May, Toshio invited me on a family trip to the Yugawara hot springs resort. We went with his parents, his brother (also a famous actor), and his brother’s girlfriend, an actress. It was not considered strange that I was traveling with this artistically accomplished group. His parents valued the cachet that I brought, as a geiko, to the party and were happy to include me in their circle. They approved of my relationship with their son and we were quite fond of each other.

  The resort had readied a seasonal “iris bath,” a traditional spring tonic to revitalize body and mind. Seeking solitude, I went into the bath alone and thought about what to do. What to say. How to get out of the situation gracefully. I finally reached a decision. I would say nothing. I would break it off simply by no longer being available.

  Toshio loved to drive. He had a gold Lincoln Continental and a hunter green Jaguar and he drove very fast. The next morning he drove me back to Tokyo and dropped me off at the inn where I was scheduled to stay. As soon as he was out of sight, I hailed a taxi and went instead to the New Otani. Toshio suspected something was off. He circled the block and came back to find me. But I was gone.

  I checked into the hotel and threw myself down on the bed. I lay there alone for hours, crying my eyes out. I was still trying to rationalize the relationship: Why can’t I let things just stay as they are? What difference does it make if he’s married? But the fact is it did matter. I refused to be second best any longer.

  When I had no more tears to shed I called a close friend. I was so well-known at that time that I could walk into sumo matches for free. As they say, “my face was my ticket.” I invited my friend to join me that evening. She wasn’t busy and agreed to go.

  We were seated in the “sand spray” seats in the first row, so called because they catch the sand the wrestlers fling off the stage. We had just gotten settled when who should come prancing in but the man himself. I got flustered and made a quick exit. I couldn’t bear to be around him. I returned home to Kyoto and, observing proper protocol, paid a call on the okasan of the ochaya who was acting as our go-between to inform her of our separation.

  Toshio refused to let the matter drop. He tried to see me but I declined. Even his mother got into the act. She came to the okiya a number of times to speak to Mama Masako and me. She beseeched me to reconsider. “He is brokenhearted about this, Mineko. Won’t you please change your mind?” The more she pleaded, the surer I was that I had done the right thing.

  At last they gave up and it was over. And so this is how it ended. This is how I killed the love of my life. In my heart “Toshio” was dead. He became, simply, Shintaro Katsu, the actor. Now that I was on my own I began to think about achieving real independence.

  I was thoroughly fed up with the system. I had followed the rules for all these years, but there was no way I could stay in the system and do what I wanted to do. The whole reason why the organization of Gion Kobu had been systematized in the first place was to ensure the dignity and financial independence of the women who worked there. Yet the strictures of the Inoue School kept us subservient to its authority. There was no room for any sort of autonomy.

  Not only are we not allowed to teach, we can’t even perform what and where we like. We have to get permission for everything, from our choice of repertoire to which accessories and props we are allowed to use. This arcane system has been in
place, unchanged, for over a hundred years. It contains no procedure for modification, no avenue for improvement or reform. Complaining or resisting is taboo. As noted, I had been trying to initiate changes in the system since I was fifteen. To no avail.

  Another major problem is that we performers are paid almost nothing for our public performances, even for the Miyako Odori, for all its popularity and capacity crowds. A select few (the teachers) are reported to make fortunes from the operation but those of us who actually appear on stage receive very little. This is after we have rehearsed for a solid month and worked selling tickets. (Selling tickets is part of our job. I often asked my best customers to buy blocks of them as giveaways to employees and clients. I used to sell 2,500 a season.)

  So we support the dance but it does not support us. And we are not mountaintop sages who can live by consuming mist.

  I was now twenty-six and facing responsibility for the continuation of the okiya. I began to understand the pressure that Auntie Oima had been under when she found me. I didn’t want to do it. Because of my status, I was besieged with younger maiko asking me to become their official Onesan. I gave them all the same answer:

  “The Nyokoba may be recognized by the Ministry of Education as a specialized school, but it will not give you a high school diploma. No matter how hard you apply yourself, you will end up where you started: with a junior high school education. You won’t have the academic credentials or qualifications to function in the outside world. Even if you do very well and receive a master certificate from the Inoue School you will not be able to support yourself. I’ve tried to change things for years but no one has listened. So, I’m sorry, but as long as things remain as they are I don’t feel comfortable taking on any younger sisters. However, if you’d like, I’d be happy to introduce you to another geiko who might be willing to act as your sponsor.”

  Without younger sisters there was no way for the business of the okiya to grow. The geiko with us were aging. Revenues were down. I didn’t want to ask any of my customers for additional patronage, though many offered. I had no desire to incur that level of debt or obligation because of the conflict it posed to the ideal of the independent businesswoman that had been instilled in me by all of my mentors. My options were limited. I had to find another way to make money.

  Around that time a friend of mine, who was working full-time as a geiko, opened her own nightclub on the side. There was little precedence for this sort of dual role in the Gion, and her innovative behavior was severely frowned upon, but I thought it was brilliant.

  I decided to try the same thing myself. I would renovate the okiya and turn part of it into a nightclub! Once the club was established I could use the income to support my family and I would be free to do what I wanted. Mama Masako could help out in the club when I needed her.

  But I was in for a big surprise. It turns out that we didn’t own the okiya! Unbeknownst to me, we had been renting it for all these years. And we couldn’t renovate something we didn’t own. I tried to talk to Mama Masako into buying the house, but my reasoning fell on deaf ears. Her solution to our problems was to hoard money, not to spend it. She had no concept of investing in the future. She thought renting was fine.

  I didn’t. So I went behind her back. I called the bank and, based on my earnings, was able to secure a mortgage and buy the property with my own money. But then I ran into another roadblock. The house was over a hundred years old so legally ineligible for renovation. Ordinance dictated that we would have to demolish it and start over. I was ready to go ahead but Mama Masako was completely opposed to the idea.

  I was determined not to give in. My load was too heavy. I was appearing in eleven different performance programs every year. I loved the dancing but it didn’t pay enough to support the okiya. The only way I could augment the family income was to increase the number of ozashiki I worked but I was already overwhelmed. And had been for years.

  I still wanted to construct a new building on the site of the okiya but realized that it was going to take some time to convince Mama Masako to go along with my plans. But, as always, I couldn’t wait. So I went out, located a space to rent, and found backers willing to invest in a club.

  I opened my own place in June of 1977. I named it Club Hollyhock. I had a partner who oversaw the operation when I wasn’t there. But every afternoon, before I went to work, I made sure that everything was in order. And every night, when my ozashiki were finished, I went to the club and stayed until closing.

  36

  OVER THE NEXT THREE YEARS I steered a steady course toward retirement. The nightclub was only a temporary measure. My real dream was to create a business that made women more beautiful. I wanted to own a beauty treatment clinic and I came up with a strategy to make it happen.

  First, I had to have a place. I had to convince Mama Masako to let me build a building. I thought it should have five stories. I would put the club on the first floor, a beauty treatment clinic and hair salon on the second, and divide the upper floors between our living quarters and rental tenants. This should give me enough income to support the household.

  Next, I had to sort out the future of all the geiko and employees who were under the care of the okiya. I would mediate engagements for the women who wanted to get married and help the others find new positions or start their own businesses.

  Then I could decide how and when to retire. The press was claiming I was the most successful geiko to come along in a hundred years. I wanted to capitalize on this momentum for good ends. My retirement would be a huge blow to the system. I was hoping that the shock of my defection and its repercussions would serve as a wake-up call to the conservative leadership that they had to change things. I wanted to make them recognize that the organization of the Gion Kobu was dangerously out of step with the times and that, if they didn’t institute reforms, the Gion Kobu would have no future.

  From where I was standing, the demise of the karyukai seemed inevitable. The organization was so moribund that it was strangling the very treasures it was mandated to preserve. The reality is that, even at that time, the number of okiya and ochaya in Gion Kobu was dwindling. The owners of the ochaya and the okiya were only focused on immediate gain; they lacked a collective vision for the future.

  I couldn’t sit by and watch Gion Kobu fade away into nothingness. Maybe there was still time for me to make a difference. I made a radical decision. I would retire before I turned thirty. I decided to look actively for ways to subsidize my income.

  Keizo Saji, the president of Suntory, happened to call me around that time.

  “Mineko, we are going to be filming a commercial for Suntory Old and I was wondering if you would coach the maiko on their movements? If you’re free, could you meet me at the Kyoyamoto restaurant at four tomorrow afternoon?”

  Mr. Saji was a great customer and I was more than happy to oblige.

  I wore a light blue early summer silk crepe kimono with a white heron pattern and a five-colored obi embossed with a gold watermark pattern.

  Two maiko were preparing for the shoot when I arrived, which was to take place in one of the private tatami rooms of the traditional-style restaurant. There was a bottle of Suntory Old Whiskey, a bucket of ice, a bottle of mineral water, an old-fashioned glass, a highball glass, and a swizzle stick on a low table by the window. I showed the younger women, step by step, the proper way to mix a drink and they copied each of my actions. The director asked me if I would mind filming a test.

  He had me walk down the long corridor of the restaurant, slowing my steps for the sake of the camera. The sun was sinking in the west and Yasaka Pagoda was glowing on the horizon. We shot this scene a number of times, and then they asked me to open the fusuma to the private room. They timed it perfectly so that the bell from Chionin Temple let out a resounding gong just as I was sliding open the panel.

  I sat down at the table and began to prepare a drink. Adlibbing, half in jest, I said to one of the actors, “Would you like it a little stronger
?” When the test was over and they started to film for real I excused myself and left.

  Some days later I was in my room getting dressed for the evening. The television was on. I heard the sound of a gong and the line, “Would you like it a little stronger?” I’ve heard that somewhere before, I thought, but I wasn’t really paying attention.

  Later that night I entered an ozashiki and one of my customers said, “I see you’ve changed your tune.”

  “About what?”

  “About being in commercials.”

  “No, I haven’t. Although Mr. Saji did ask me to give some advice to the models in one of his. It was fun.”

  “I think he pulled a fast one on you.”

  So it was me after all!

  That old coot, I laughed to myself. I’ve been hoodwinked! I thought it was strange that he bothered to come on to the shoot…

  But the fact is, it had been painless and I really didn’t mind. “Would you like it a little stronger?” became the catchphrase of the day. And the whole experience was unintentionally freeing. I decided it wouldn’t hurt to accept commercial offers and began to appear in photographs, TV commercials, advertisements, magazines, and on talk shows. I was glad for the additional income and, whenever possible, used the exposure to express my thoughts about the geiko system.

  I added the commercial work to my packed schedule and stayed on this treadmill until March 18, 1980, the day that Mother Sakaguchi died. Her death was a defining moment in my life. It felt like the brightest light in Gion Kobu had gone dark. Sadly, she was the last master of the musical tradition in which she had been trained. The form died with her.

  With Mother Sakaguchi gone, I completely lost heart. Any enthusiasm I still had for the Gion Kobu lifestyle evaporated. My body was already exhausted. Now my mind caught up. Mother Sakaguchi bequeathed me a magnificent chalcedony and onyx obi clasp. Whenever I looked at it I felt not only sad but also forlorn, like my staunchest ally had gone away and left me all alone.