Memoirs of a Geisha (50 page)

“He's lying in the snow. Isn't that cold enough?”

“Nobu-san!” I said. And I suppose this was enough of a reprimand, for Nobu let out a sigh and stepped down into the garden in his stocking feet to begin the task of bringing the Minister back to consciousness. While he was busy with this, I went to find a maid who could help, because I couldn't see how Nobu would get the Minister back up into the teahouse with only one arm. Afterward I fetched some dry socks for the two men and alerted a maid to tidy the garden after we'd left.

When I returned to the room, Nobu and the Minister were at the table again. You can imagine how the Minister looked—and smelled. I had to peel his wet socks off his feet with my own hands, but I kept my distance from him while doing it. As soon as I was done, he slumped back onto the mats and was unconscious again a moment later.

“Do you think he can hear us?” I whispered to Nobu.

“I don't think he hears us even when he's conscious,” Nobu said. “Did you ever meet a bigger fool in your life?”

“Nobu-san, quietly!” I whispered. “Do you think he actually enjoyed himself tonight? I mean, is this the sort of evening you had in mind?”

“It isn't a matter of what I had in mind. It's what he had in mind.”

“I hope that doesn't mean we'll be doing the same thing again next week.”

“If the Minister is pleased with the evening, I'm pleased with the evening.”

“Nobu-san, really! You certainly weren't pleased. You looked as miserable as I've ever seen you. Considering the Minister's condition, I think we can assume he isn't having the best night of his life either . . .”

“You can't assume anything, when it comes to the Minister.”

“I'm sure he'll have a better time if we can make the atmosphere more . . . festive somehow. Wouldn't you agree?”

“Bring a few more geisha next time, if you think it will help,” Nobu said. “We'll come back next weekend. Invite that older sister of yours.”

“Mameha's certainly clever, but the Minister is so exhausting to entertain. We need a geisha who's going to, I don't know, make a lot of noise! Distract everyone. You know, now that I think of it . . . it seems to me we need another guest as well, not just another geisha.”

“I can't see any reason for that.”

“If the Minister is busy drinking and sneaking looks at me, and you're busy growing increasingly fed up with him, we're not going to have a very festive evening,” I said. “To tell the truth, Nobu-san, perhaps you should bring the Chairman with you next time.”

You may wonder if I'd been plotting all along to bring the evening to this moment. It's certainly true that in coming back to Gion, I'd hoped more than anything else to find a way of spending time with the Chairman. It wasn't so much that I craved the chance to sit in the same room with him again, to lean in and whisper some comment and take in the scent of his skin. If those sorts of moments would be the only pleasure life offered me, I'd be better off shutting out that one brilliant source of light to let my eyes begin to adjust to the darkness. Perhaps it was true, as it now seemed, that my life was falling toward Nobu. I wasn't so foolish as to imagine I could change the course of my destiny. But neither could I give up the last traces of hope.

“I've considered bringing the Chairman,” Nobu replied. “The Minister is very impressed with him. But I don't know, Sayuri. I told you once already. He's a busy man.”

The Minister jerked on the mats as if someone had poked him, and then managed to pull himself up until he was sitting at the table. Nobu was so disgusted at the sight of his clothing that he sent me out to bring back a maid with a damp towel. After the maid had cleaned the Minister's jacket and left us alone again, Nobu said:

“Well, Minister, this certainly has been a wonderful evening! Next time we'll have even more fun, because instead of throwing up on just me, you might be able to throw up on the Chairman, and perhaps another geisha or two as well!”

I was very pleased to hear Nobu mention the Chairman, but I didn't dare react.

“I like this geisha,” said the Minister. “I don't want another one.”

“Her name is Sayuri, and you'd better call her that, or she won't agree to come. Now stand up, Minister. It's time for us to get you home.”

I walked them as far as the entryway, where I helped them into their coats and shoes and watched the two of them set out in the snow. The Minister was having such a hard time, he would have trudged right into the gate if Nobu hadn't taken him by the elbow to steer him.

*  *  *

Later the same night, I dropped in with Mameha on a party full of American officers. By the time we arrived, their translator was of no use to anyone because they'd made him drink so much; but the officers all recognized Mameha. I was a bit surprised when they began humming and waving their arms, signaling to her that they wanted her to put on a dance. I expected we would sit quietly and watch her, but the moment she began, several of the officers went up and started prancing around alongside. If you'd told me it would happen, I might have felt a little uncertain beforehand; but to see it . . . well, I burst out laughing and enjoyed myself more than I had in a long while. We ended up playing a game in which Mameha and I took turns on the shamisen while the American officers danced around the table. Whenever we stopped the music, they had to rush back to their places. The last to sit drank a penalty glass of sake.

In the middle of the party, I commented to Mameha how peculiar it was to see everyone having so much fun without speaking the same language—considering that I'd been at a party with Nobu and another Japanese man earlier that evening, and we'd had an awful time. She asked me a bit about the party.

“Three people can certainly be too few,” she said after I'd told her about it, “particularly if one of them is Nobu in a foul mood.”

“I suggested he bring the Chairman next time. And we need another geisha as well, don't you think? Someone loud and funny.”

“Yes,” said Mameha, “perhaps I'll stop by . . .”

I was puzzled at first to hear her say this. Because really, no one on earth would have described Mameha as “loud and funny.” I was about to tell her again what I meant, when all at once she seemed to recognize our misunderstanding and said, “Yes, I'm interested to stop by . . . but I suppose if you want someone loud and funny, you ought to speak to your old friend Pumpkin.”

Since returning to Gion, I'd encountered memories of Pumpkin everywhere. In fact, the very moment I'd stepped into the okiya for the first time, I'd remembered her there in the formal entrance hall on the day Gion had closed, when she'd given me a stiff farewell bow of the sort she was obliged to offer the adopted daughter. I'd gone on thinking of her again and again all during that week as we cleaned. At one point, while helping the maid wipe the dust from the woodwork, I pictured Pumpkin on the walkway right before me, practicing her shamisen. The empty space there seemed to hold a terrible sadness within it. Had it really been so many years since we were girls together? I suppose I might easily have put it all out of my mind, but I'd never quite learned to accept the disappointment of our friendship running dry. I blamed the terrible rivalry that Hatsumomo had forced upon us. My adoption was the final blow, of course, but still I couldn't help holding myself partly accountable. Pumpkin had shown me only kindness. I might have found some way to thank her for that.

Strangely, I hadn't thought of approaching Pumpkin until Mameha suggested it. I had no doubt our first encounter would be awkward, but I mulled it over the rest of that night and decided that maybe Pumpkin would appreciate being introduced into a more elegant circle, as a change from the soldiers' parties. Of course, I had another motive as well. Now that so many years had passed, perhaps we might begin to mend our friendship.

*  *  *

I knew almost nothing about Pumpkin's circumstances, except that she was back in Gion, so I went to speak with Auntie, who had received a letter from her several years earlier. It turned out that in the letter, Pumpkin had pleaded to be taken back into the okiya when it reopened, saying she would never find a place for herself otherwise. Auntie might have been willing to do it, but Mother had refused on the grounds that Pumpkin was a poor investment.

“She's living in a sad little okiya over in the Hanami-cho section,” Auntie told me. “But don't take pity on her and bring her back here for a visit. Mother won't want to see her. I think it's foolish for you to speak with her anyway.”

“I have to admit,” I said, “I've never felt right about what happened between Pumpkin and me . . .”

“Nothing happened between you. Pumpkin fell short and you succeeded. Anyway, she's doing very well these days. I hear the Americans can't get enough of her. She's crude, you know, in just the right sort of way for them.”

That very afternoon I crossed Shijo Avenue to the Hanami-cho section of Gion, and found the sad little okiya Auntie had told me about. If you remember Hatsumomo's friend Korin, and how her okiya had burned during the darkest years of the war . . . well, that fire had damaged the okiya next door as well, and this was where Pumpkin was now living. Its exterior walls were charred all along one side, and a part of the tiled roof that had burned away was crudely patched with wooden boards. I suppose in sections of Tokyo or Osaka, it might have been the most intact building in the neighborhood; but it stood out in the middle of Kyoto.

A young maid showed me into a reception room that smelled of wet ash, and came back later to serve me a cup of weak tea. I waited a long while before Pumpkin at last came and slid open the door. I could scarcely see her in the dark hallway outside, but just knowing she was there made me feel such warmth, I rose from the table to go and embrace her. She took a few steps into the room and then knelt and gave a bow as formal as if I'd been Mother. I was startled by this, and stopped where I stood.

“Really, Pumpkin . . . it's only me!” I said.

She wouldn't even look at me, but kept her eyes to the mats like a maid awaiting orders. I felt very disappointed and went back to my place at the table.

When we'd last seen each other in the final years of the war, Pumpkin's face had still been round and full just as in childhood, but with a more sorrowful look. She had changed a great deal in the years since. I didn't know it at the time, but after the closing of the lens factory where she'd worked, Pumpkin spent more than two years in Osaka as a prostitute. Her mouth seemed to have shrunken in size—perhaps because she held it taut, I don't know. And though she had the same broad face, her heavy cheeks had thinned, leaving her with a gaunt elegance that was astonishing to me. I don't mean to suggest Pumpkin had become a beauty to rival Hatsumomo or anything of the sort, but her face had a certain womanliness that had never been there before.

“I'm sure the years have been difficult, Pumpkin,” I said to her, “but you look quite lovely.”

Pumpkin didn't reply to this. She just inclined her head faintly to indicate she'd heard me. I congratulated her on her popularity and tried asking about her life since the war, but she remained so expressionless that I began to feel sorry I'd come.

Finally after an awkward silence, she spoke.

“Have you come here just to chat, Sayuri? Because I don't have anything to say that will interest you.”

“The truth is,” I said, “I saw Nobu Toshikazu recently, and . . . actually, Pumpkin, he'll be bringing a certain man to Gion from time to time. I thought perhaps you'd be kind enough to help us entertain him.”

“But of course, you've changed your mind now that you've seen me.”

“Why, no,” I said. “I don't know why you say that. Nobu Toshikazu and the Chairman—Iwamura Ken, I mean . . . Chairman Iwamura—would appreciate your company greatly. It's as simple as that.”

For a moment Pumpkin just knelt in silence, peering down at the mats. “I've stopped believing that anything in life is ‘as simple as that,' ” she said at last. “I know you think I'm stupid—”

“Pumpkin!”

“—but I think you probably have some other reason you're not going to tell me about.”

Pumpkin gave a little bow, which I thought very enigmatic. Either it was an apology for what she'd just said, or perhaps she was about to excuse herself.

“I suppose I do have another reason,” I said. “To tell the truth, I'd hoped that after all these years, perhaps you and I might be friends, as we once were. We've survived so many things together . . . including Hatsumomo! It seems only natural to me that we should see each other again.”

Pumpkin said nothing.

“Chairman Iwamura and Nobu will be entertaining the Minister again next Saturday at the Ichiriki Teahouse,” I told her. “If you'll join us, I'd be very pleased to see you there.”

I'd brought her a packet of tea as a gift, and now I untied it from its silk cloth and placed it on the table. As I rose to my feet, I tried to think of something kind to tell her before leaving, but she looked so puzzled, I thought it best just to go.

 

  chapter thirty-one

I
n the five or so years since I'd last seen the Chairman, I'd read from time to time in the newspapers about the difficulties he'd suffered—not only his disagreements with the military government in the final years of the war, but his struggle since then to keep the Occupation authorities from seizing his company. It wouldn't have surprised me if all these hardships had aged him a good deal. One photograph of him in the Yomiuri newspaper showed a strained look around his eyes from worry, like the neighbor of Mr. Arashino's who used to squint up at the sky so often, watching for bombers. In any case, as the weekend neared I had to remind myself that Nobu hadn't quite made up his mind that he would bring the Chairman. I could do nothing but hope.

On Saturday morning I awakened early and slid back the paper screen over my window to find a cold rain falling against the glass. In the little alleyway below, a young maid was just climbing to her feet again after slipping on the icy cobblestones. It was a drab, miserable day, and I was afraid even to read my almanac. By noon the temperature had dropped still further, and I could see my breath as I ate lunch in the reception room, with the sound of icy rain tapping against the window. Any number of parties that evening were canceled because the streets were too hazardous, and at nightfall Auntie telephoned the Ichiriki to be sure Iwamura Electric's party was still on. The mistress told us the telephone lines to Osaka were down, and she couldn't be sure. So I bathed and dressed, and walked over to the Ichiriki on the arm of Mr. Bekku, who wore a pair of rubber overshoes he'd borrowed from his younger brother, a dresser in the Pontocho district.

The Ichiriki was in chaos when I arrived. A water pipe had burst in the servants' quarters, and the maids were so busy, I couldn't get the attention of a single one. I showed myself down the hallway to the room where I'd entertained Nobu and the Minister the week before. I didn't really expect anyone to be there, considering that both Nobu and the Chairman would probably be traveling all the way from Osaka—and even Mameha had been out of town and might very well have had trouble returning. Before sliding open the door, I knelt a moment with my eyes closed and one hand on my stomach to calm my nerves. All at once it occurred to me that the hallway was much too quiet. I couldn't hear even a murmur from within the room. With a terrible feeling of disappointment I realized the room must be empty. I was about to stand and leave when I decided to slide open the door just in case; and when I did, there at the table, holding a magazine with both hands, sat the Chairman, looking at me over the top of his reading glasses. I was so startled to see him, I couldn't even speak. Finally I managed to say:

“My goodness, Chairman! Who has left you here all by yourself? The mistress will be very upset.”

“She's the one who left me,” he said, and slapped the magazine shut. “I've been wondering what happened to her.”

“You don't even have a thing to drink. Let me bring you some sake.”

“That's just what the mistress said. At this rate you'll never come back, and I'll have to go on reading this magazine all night. I'd much rather have your company.” And here he removed his reading glasses, and while stowing them in his pocket, took a long look at me through narrowed eyes.

The spacious room with its pale yellow walls of silk began to seem very small to me as I rose to join the Chairman, for I don't think any room would have been enough to contain all that I was feeling. To see him again after so long awakened something desperate inside me. I was surprised to find myself feeling sad, rather than joyful, as I would have imagined. At times I'd worried that the Chairman might have fallen headlong into old age during the war just as Auntie had done. Even from across the room, I'd noticed that the corners of his eyes were creased more sharply than I remembered them. The skin around his mouth, too, had begun to sag, though it seemed to me to give his strong jaw a kind of dignity. I stole a glimpse of him as I knelt at the table, and found that he was still watching me without expression. I was about to start a conversation, but the Chairman spoke first.

“You are still a lovely woman, Sayuri.”

“Why, Chairman,” I said, “I'll never believe another word you say. I had to spend a half hour at my makeup stand this evening to hide the sunken look of my cheeks.”

“I'm sure you've suffered worse hardships during the past several years than losing a bit of weight. I know I certainly have.”

“Chairman, if you don't mind my saying it . . . I've heard a little bit from Nobu-san about the difficulties your company is facing—”

“Yes, well, we needn't talk about that. Sometimes we get through adversity only by imagining what the world might be like if our dreams should ever come true.”

He gave me a sad smile that I found so beautiful, I lost myself staring at the perfect crescent of his lips.

“Here's a chance for you to use your charm and change the subject,” he said.

I hadn't even begun to reply before the door slid open and Mameha entered, with Pumpkin right behind her. I was surprised to see Pumpkin; I hadn't expected she would come. As for Mameha, she'd evidently just returned from Nagoya and had rushed to the Ichiriki thinking she was terribly late. The first thing she asked—after greeting the Chairman and thanking him for something he'd done for her the week before—was why Nobu and the Minister weren't present. The Chairman admitted he'd been wondering the same thing.

“What a peculiar day this has been,” Mameha said, talking almost to herself, it seemed. “The train sat just outside Kyoto Station for an hour, and we couldn't get off. Two young men finally jumped out through the window. I think one of them may have hurt himself. And then when I finally reached the Ichiriki a moment ago, there didn't seem to be anyone here. Poor Pumpkin was wandering the hallways lost! You've met Pumpkin, haven't you, Chairman?”

I hadn't really looked closely at Pumpkin until now, but she was wearing an extraordinary ash-gray kimono, which was spotted below the waist with brilliant gold dots that turned out to be embroidered fireflies, set against an image of mountains and water in the light of the moon. Neither mine nor Mameha's could compare with it. The Chairman seemed to find the robe as startling as I did, because he asked her to stand and model it for him. She stood very modestly and turned around once.

“I figured I couldn't set foot in a place like the Ichiriki in the sort of kimono I usually wear,” she said. “Most of the ones at my okiya aren't very glamorous, though the Americans can't seem to tell the difference.”

“If you hadn't been so frank with us, Pumpkin,” Mameha said, “we might have thought this was your usual attire.”

“Are you kidding me? I've never worn a robe this beautiful in my life. I borrowed it from an okiya down the street. You won't believe what they expect me to pay them, but I'll never have the money, so it doesn't make any difference, now does it?”

I could see that the Chairman was amused—because a geisha never spoke in front of a man about anything as crass as the cost of a kimono. Mameha turned to say something to him, but Pumpkin interrupted.

“I thought some big shot was going to be here tonight.”

“Maybe you were thinking of the Chairman,” Mameha said. “Don't you think he's a ‘big shot'?”

“He knows whether he's a big shot. He doesn't need me to tell him.”

The Chairman looked at Mameha and raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “Anyway, Sayuri told me about some other guy,” Pumpkin went on.

“Sato Noritaka, Pumpkin,” the Chairman said. “He's a new Deputy Minister of Finance.”

“Oh, I know that Sato guy. He looks just like a big pig.”

We all laughed at this. “Really, Pumpkin,” Mameha said, “the things that come out of your mouth!”

Just then the door slid open and Nobu and the Minister entered, both glowing red from the cold. Behind them was a maid carrying a tray with sake and snacks. Nobu stood hugging himself with his one arm and stamping his feet, but the Minister just clumped right past him to the table. He grunted at Pumpkin and jerked his head to one side, telling her to move so he could squeeze in beside me. Introductions were made, and then Pumpkin said: “Hey, Minister, I'll bet you don't remember me, but I know a lot about you.”

The Minister tossed into his mouth the cupful of sake I'd just poured for him, and looked at Pumpkin with what I took to be a scowl.

“What do you know?” said Mameha. “Tell us something.”

“I know the Minister has a younger sister who's married to the mayor of Tokyo,” Pumpkin said. “And I know he used to study karate, and broke his hand once.”

The Minister looked a bit surprised, which told me that these things must be true.

“Also, Minister, I know a girl you used to know,” Pumpkin went on. “Nao Itsuko. We worked in a factory outside Osaka together. You know what she told me? She said the two of you did ‘you-know-what' together a couple of times.”

I was afraid the Minister would be angry, but instead his expression softened until I began to see what I felt certain was a glimmer of pride.

“She was a pretty girl, she was, that Itsuko,” he said, looking at Nobu with a subdued smile.

“Why, Minister,” Nobu replied, “I'd never have guessed you had such a way with the ladies.” His words sounded very sincere, but I could see the barely concealed look of disgust on his face. The Chairman's eyes passed over mine; he seemed to find the whole encounter amusing.

A moment later the door slid open and three maids came into the room carrying dinner for the men. I was a bit hungry and had to avert my eyes from the sight of the yellow custard with gingko nuts, served in beautiful celadon cups. Later the maids came back with dishes of grilled tropical fish laid out on beds of pine needles. Nobu must have noticed how hungry I looked, for he insisted I taste it. Afterward the Chairman offered a bite to Mameha, and also to Pumpkin, who refused.

“I wouldn't touch that fish for anything,” Pumpkin said. “I don't even want to look at it.”

“What's wrong with it?” Mameha asked.

“If I tell you, you'll only laugh at me.”

“Tell us, Pumpkin,” Nobu said.

“Why should I tell you? It's a big, long story, and anyway nobody's going to believe it.”

“Big liar!” I said.

I wasn't actually calling Pumpkin a liar. Back before the closing of Gion, we used to play a game we called “big liar,” in which everyone had to tell two stories, only one of which was true. Afterward the other players tried to guess which was which; the ones who guessed wrong drank a penalty glass of sake.

“I'm not playing,” said Pumpkin.

“Just tell the fish story then,” said Mameha, “and you don't have to tell another.”

Pumpkin didn't look pleased at this; but after Mameha and I had glowered at her for a while, she began.

“Oh, all right. It's like this. I was born in Sapporo, and there was an old fisherman there who caught a weird-looking fish one day that was able to speak.”

Mameha and I looked at each other and burst out laughing.

“Laugh if you want to,” Pumpkin said, “but it's perfectly true.”

“Now, go on, Pumpkin. We're listening,” said the Chairman.

“Well, what happened was, this fisherman laid the fish out to clean it, and it began making noises that sounded just like a person talking, except the fisherman couldn't understand it. He called a bunch of other fishermen over, and they all listened for a while. Pretty soon the fish was nearly dead from being out of the water too long, so they decided to go ahead and kill it. But just then an old man made his way through the crowd and said he could understand every single word the fish was saying, because it was speaking in Russian.”

We all burst out laughing, and even the Minister made a few grunting noises. When we'd calmed down Pumpkin said, “I knew you wouldn't believe it, but it's perfectly true!”

“I want to know what the fish was saying,” said the Chairman.

“It was nearly dead, so it was kind of . . . whispering. And when the old man leaned down and put his ear to the fish's lips—”

“Fish don't have lips!” I said.

“All right, to the fish's . . . whatever you call those things,” Pumpkin went on. “To the edges of its mouth. And the fish said, ‘Tell them to go ahead and clean me. I have nothing to live for any longer. The fish over there who died a moment ago was my wife.' ”

“So fish get married!” said Mameha. “They have husbands and wives!”

“That was before the war,” I said. “Since the war, they can't afford to marry. They just swim around looking for work.”

“This happened way before the war,” said Pumpkin. “Way, way before the war. Even before my mother was born.”