Geisha

by Mineko Iwasaki

  He proceeded to post a list on the wall. “Here are the other results. My regrets to those of you who didn’t make it.”

  I couldn’t believe it. I thought there had to be some kind of mistake. But there it was, in black-and-white.

  “This couldn’t be better,” Old Meanie was overjoyed. “Auntie Oima is going to be beside herself! Really, Mineko, I am so proud of you. What an accomplishment! Let’s celebrate before going home, shall we? Let’s invite your friends to join us. Where shall we go? Anything you want is okay. It’s on me.” She was almost babbling.

  We took the gang to Takarabune for steak. It took us forever to get there. Old Meanie must have bowed to every person we met along the way and declared: “Mineko came in first! Thank you so much!”

  She was thanking everybody because she believed, as do many Japanese, that it takes a village to raise a child. I was the product of a group effort rather than any given individual. And the group was Gion Kobu.

  The owners of the restaurant were old friends and they showered us with food and congratulations. Everyone was having a good time, but I wasn’t very happy. One of the girls asked me what was wrong.

  “Just shut up and eat your steak,” I said.

  It’s not that I was in a bad mood. There were so many thoughts and emotions running around inside my head. I was glad I passed the exam but felt badly for those who failed. I was worried sick about Auntie Oima. And I was thinking about my relationship to Old Meanie.

  I had been living in the Iwasaki okiya for ten years. Masako had adopted me into the family nearly five years ago. I was thinking about the fact that I had never allowed myself to call her “Mother.”

  One time after the adoption papers came through I was fooling around with a water pistol and, in a childish bid for attention, sprayed her. She came after me and said, “If you were my real child I’d give you a good spanking.” It was like a slap in the face. I thought I was her child. Kind of, anyway. I didn’t really belong to my own mother anymore. Whom did I belong to?

  When Masako was younger, Auntie Oima had suggested to her that she try to have a child. The karyukai functions to promote the independence of women and there is no stigma attached to being a single mother. As I mentioned earlier, it is easier to raise girls than boys in the karyukai but many women have raised sons there as well. Auntie Oima, of course, was hoping that Masako would produce a daughter, someone to carry on the family name, an atotori.

  But Masako refused to consider it. She had never completely gotten over the fact that she was illegitimate and didn’t want to put someone else in the same position. Also, she was physically debilitated from the tuberculosis. She wasn’t sure she was strong enough to bear a child.

  I decided when I was adopted that I would never call Old Meanie “Mother.” But now I wasn’t so sure. What about the last two days? About how hard she had worked for me? About how much she wanted me to succeed? A real mother could not have done more.

  Maybe the time has come to change my mind, I thought.

  When we finished the meal I took the plunge. I looked directly at her and said, “Mom, let’s go home.”

  The look of surprise that flashed across her face lasted only an instant but I’ll never forget it. “Yes, shall we?” she smiled. “Thank you all for coming. I’m so pleased you could join us.”

  We walked back to the Iwasaki okiya. “This has been one of the best days of my life,” she said.

  We rushed into Auntie Oima’s room to tell her the good news. I had the presence of mind to thank her for all her efforts on my behalf.

  Auntie Oima was thrilled, but tried to be cool, “I never had any doubt that you would pass. None at all. Now we have to plan your wardrobe. We’ll start tomorrow. Masako, we’ve got to call Eriman and Saito and a host of others. Let’s make a list. We have so much to do!”

  Auntie Oima was dying but didn’t miss a beat. This is what she had been living for. And she vowed that my debut would be spectacular. I was happy that she was happy, but had mixed emotions about becoming a maiko. I still didn’t think it was what I wanted to do. It’s true that I wanted to keep dancing. But I also wanted to go to high school.

  After the test, events started moving so quickly that I had little time to indulge in self-reflection. It was already December 15. Mother Sakaguchi, Auntie Oima, and Mama Masako decided that I would become a minarai, or apprentice maiko, on February 15 and make my formal debut, or misedashi, on March 26.

  The fact that I was becoming a maiko a year early meant that I would start classes at the Nyokoba before graduating from junior high school on March 15. And if I was to appear in next spring’s Miyako Odori I would have to be available for press engagements starting the following month.

  The Iwasaki okiya was abuzz with preparations for my coming out as well as the coming of the New Year. Our resources were stretched. Auntie Oima was bedridden and had to be cared for. The okiya had to be thoroughly cleaned from top to bottom. There was a constant stream of purveyors coming in to consult on various aspects of my wardrobe. Kun-chan, Aba, and Mama Masako had their hands full and I spent every free second with Auntie Oima. Tomiko came by frequently to assist in the madness. She was pregnant with the first of her two sons, but kindly helped in the arrangements for my coming out.

  I was aware that the time I was spending with Auntie Oima was precious. She made a point of telling me how pleased she was that I had decided to call Masako mother. “Mineko, I know that Masako is a difficult person but she is a very good one. She has such a pure heart that she sometimes comes across as too serious and straightforward. But you can always trust her. So please be good to her. She doesn’t have an evil bone in her body. Not like Yaeko.”

  I did my best to reassure her. “I understand, Auntie Oima. Please don’t worry about us. We’ll be fine. Here, let me give you a massage.”

  One is a minarai for only a short period, a month or two. Minarai means learning by observing. This is a chance for the soon-to-be maiko to gain firsthand experience of the ochaya. She wears a professional costume and attends nightly banquets. She observes the intricate nuances of behavior, etiquette, deportment, and conversational skill that she will soon have to demonstrate herself.

  The minarai is sponsored by an ochaya (her minaraijaya), though she is free to attend banquets at other venues. She dresses and reports to her ochaya every evening for work. The owner organizes her engagements. This is convenient because the owner, in his or her role of mentor, is on site to answer any questions that may arise. It is not uncommon for owner and minarai to form a bond that lasts for years.

  One of the first decisions my elders had to make when I passed the unexpected exam was which ochaya would be entrusted with my care. They had a number of options. Sakaguchi women customarily apprenticed at the Tomiyo, the Iwasaki’s at the Mankiku, and Yaeko had done her minarai at the Minomatsu. For some reason, my elders chose the Fusanoya for me. I’m sure the reason had something to do with Gion Kobu politics at the time.

  On January 9 the Kabukai issued a sealed document listing the names of the geiko who would appear in that year’s Miyako Odori. My name was among them. It was now official.

  I was informed that the photo shoot for the publicity brochure would take place on January 26. This meant the Iwasaki okiya had to prepare an authentic ensemble for me to wear by that date. The already heightened pace of the preparations became a whirlwind.

  On January 21 I returned from my dance lesson and went to share my day with Auntie Oima. As though she had been waiting for me to come home, she passed away as soon as I sat down next to her. Kun-chan was there too. We were so numb from shock that neither of us cried. I refused to believe that she was really gone.

  I remember Auntie Oima’s funeral in shades of black and white, like an old movie. It was a freezing-cold morning. Snow was falling. The ground was carpeted with white. Hundreds of mourners gathered in the Iwasaki okiya. They were all wearing somber, black mourning kimono.

  A cloth runner
led from the genkan to the altar room. The whole surface was covered with a 3-inch-high carpet of salt. It was a pathway of salt, pure white salt.

  Mama Masako sat at the head of the room. I sat next to her. Kuniko sat next to me. The casket was in front of the altar. The Buddhist priests sat in front of the casket, chanting sutras.

  After the funeral we accompanied the casket to the crematorium. We waited two hours while they cremated her. Then we picked up some of her charred bones with special chopsticks and placed them in an urn. The ashes were white. We carried the urn back to the Iwasaki okiya and placed it on the altar. The priests came again and we, the family, had a private service.

  The stark contrasts of the day seemed to reflect the intense clarity and dignity of Auntie Oima’s life.

  Mama Masako was now the proprietress of the Iwasaki okiya.

  We continued our preparations for my coming out. I had to get ready to participate in the planned photo shoot on January 26, which happened to be the seventh day after Auntie Oima’s death, the day of her first memorial service.

  That morning I went to a master hairdresser and had my hair done. Then Mother Sakaguchi came to the okiya to make up my neck and face. I sat before her, feeling regal and grown-up in my first formal hairstyle. She looked at me with an achingly tender expression of pride. In that instant I realized that Auntie Oima was dead. I burst out crying. Finally. The healing had begun. I cried two hours before Mother Sakaguchi could begin to apply my makeup and kept everybody waiting.

  Forty-nine days after her death we buried Auntie Oima’s urn in the Iwasaki gravesite at Otani cemetery.

  17

  THE AESTHETICS OF THE OCHAYA derive from the traditional Japanese tea ceremony, a demanding artistic discipline that is more correctly translated as “the way of tea.”

  Tea ceremonies are intricately scripted rituals that celebrate the simple act of enjoying a cup of tea with a small group of friends, a pleasant respite from the cares of the everyday world. It takes an extraordinary amount of artifice to create the ideal simplicity of the tea ceremony. The teahouse itself and every handcrafted object used in it are artworks that have been created with the utmost care. The host prepares bowls of tea for his guests in a series of minutely choreographed and endlessly practiced movements. Nothing is left to chance.

  So too at the ochaya. Everything possible is done to ensure that the guests have an exquisite experience. No detail is overlooked. An event at an ochaya is called an ozashiki. This loosely translates as “banquet,” or “dinner party,” and is also the name of the private room in which the event is held.

  An ozashiki is an occasion for a host and his or her guests to enjoy the very best in cuisine, relaxation, stimulating conversation, and refined entertainment that the ochaya can provide. An ozashiki lasts for a few hours, takes place in a totally private and pristine space, and, like the tea ceremony, ideally provides a break from daily affairs. The ochaya provides the setting, the maiko and geiko act as catalysts, but it is the sophistication of the guests that determines the tone of the evening.

  A person can only become a customer of an ochaya through personal referral. One can’t walk in off the street. New customers are introduced to the system by clients who already have a good standing in the karyukai. This leads to an inherent process of self-selection whereby any guest who has the wherewithal to host a banquet in an ochaya in Gion Kobu is, almost by definition, someone who is trustworthy, learned, and well-cultured. It is not uncommon for parents to bring their young adult children to banquets as part of their education. So a family may have a relationship with a certain ochaya that stretches back generations.

  A regular habitué of the Gion Kobu enters into a steady relationship with one ochaya. In certain cases a customer may patronize two establishments, one for business entertaining and the other for informal socializing, but most often utilizes one ochaya for both purposes.

  A strong bond of loyalty develops between an ochaya and its regular customers, many of whom host ozashiki at least once a week, if not more often. Similarly, customers develop real relationships with the geiko of whom they are most fond. We get to know our regular customers very well. Some of the dearest relationships of my life began in the ozashiki. My favorite customers were professionals who were expert in some field of knowledge. The most enjoyable ozashiki for me personally were those in which I learned something.

  There were some customers I liked so much that I always found time to attend their ozashiki, no matter how tightly my schedule was booked. And others I tried my best to avoid. The bottom line, though, is that the geiko has been hired to amuse the host of the ozashiki and his or her guests. She is there to make people feel good. When a geiko enters an ozashiki she is required to go over to whoever is seated in the place of honor and engage that person in conversation. No matter what she is feeling, her expression must declare: “I couldn’t wait to come right over and speak to you.” If her face says, “I can’t stand you,” she doesn’t deserve to be a geiko. It is her job to find something likable about everyone.

  Sometimes I had to be nice to people whom I found physically repulsive. This was the hardest because repulsion is a difficult reaction to conceal. But the customers had paid for my company. The least I could do was treat every one of them graciously. Sublimating one’s personal likes and dislikes under a veneer of gentility is one of the fundamental challenges of the profession.

  In the old days, customers tended to be aficionados of the arts and students of the shamisen or traditional art or Japanese dance. They had thus been trained to understand what they were seeing and were eager to engage in the sort of lively artistic dialogue at which maiko and geiko excel. These days, unfortunately, people of means may no longer have the time and interest to pursue such hobbies. However, the beauty and mastery of the maiko and geiko stand on their own and can be appreciated by anyone.

  Conversation at a banquet is wide-ranging, and geiko are presumed to be knowledgeable about current events and contemporary literature as well as thoroughly grounded in traditional art forms such as the tea ceremony, flower arranging, poetry, calligraphy, and painting. The first forty or fifty minutes of a banquet are normally devoted to a pleasant discussion of these topics.

  Serving women (naikai) serve the banquet, assisted by maids, though the geiko will pour sake. Needless to say, the cuisine must be excellent. Ochaya do not prepare their own food but rely on the many gourmet restaurants and catering services (shidashi) in the area to provide feasts commensurate with the host’s tastes and pocketbook.

  The fee for a banquet at an ochaya is not inexpensive. An ozashiki costs about $500 an hour. This includes the use of the room and the services of the ochaya staff. It does not include the food and drink that is ordered, nor the fees for the services of the geiko. A two-hour party with a full dinner for a few guests and three or four geiko in attendance can easily cost $2,000.

  The ochaya must meet the discriminating standards of customers from the top ranks of Japanese and international society. Historically based on the refined aesthetic of the tea ceremony, the ochaya embodies the best of traditional Japanese architecture and interior design. Each room must have a tatami floor and a tokonoma (alcove) replete with the appropriate monthly hanging scroll and a suitable arrangement of flowers in a suitable vase. These amenities are completely changed for each guest.

  At some point the geiko perform. There are basically two kinds of geiko, a tachikata and a jikata. A tachikata is a main performer. She is trained to dance and play an instrument other than the shamisen, such as the flute or hand drum. A jikata is an accompanist who is trained to play the shamisen and sing. Tachikata begin their training early and debut as maiko when they are in their early teens whereas jikata, who come out as ordinary geiko, tend to study for a shorter period of time and debut when they are older (such as my sister Tomiko).

  Physical beauty is a requirement to become a tachikata but not a jikata. Tachikata who do not develop into skillful dancers focu
s on becoming expert in the playing of their instrument.

  The Iwasaki okiya was known for its drumming, and I studied the tsutsumi hand drum from the time I was a child. Because of my fame as a dancer I was rarely asked to play the tsutsumi at ozashiki, but I played it in on stage every year during the Miyako Odori.

  During a banquet, a tachikata will dance. A jikata geiko will play the shamisen and sing. After the performance, conversation often turns to artistic matters. The geiko may tell an amusing story or lead the group in a drinking game.

  A geiko’s fee is calculated in units of time known as hanadai, or “flower charges,” usually calculated in fifteen-minute lengths, which are then billed to the client. In addition to the hanadai, customers also give the geiko cash tips (goshugi), which they place in small white envelopes and may tuck into her obi or sleeve. She is free to keep these for herself.

  At the end of the night, the ochaya calculates the hanadai for all the maiko and geiko who have attended banquets there that evening. They write the tallies down on slips of paper that they place in a box in the entryway of the ochaya. The next morning a representative of the kenban, or financial affairs office, makes the rounds of the ochaya to collect all the slips from the night before. These are tallied and reported to the Kabukai. The kenban is an independent organization that performs this service on behalf of the geiko association.

  The kenban checks with the okiya to make sure that the accounts agree, and, if no mistake has been made, calculates the distribution of income. It tells the ochaya how much is due it to pay taxes and monthly fees. It then specifies the amount that the ochaya is to pay the okiya.

  The ochaya, in turn, keeps its own accounts and bills its customers on a regular basis. This used to be done on a yearly basis but is now done once a month. After being paid, the ochaya then settles with the okiya.

  The okasan of the okiya notes the amount received in the geiko’s ledger, deducts fees and expenditures, and transfers the remainder to the geiko’s account.