Arthur Golden - Memoirs of a Geisha

“We’re going to Uchida Kosaburo’s studio,” she announced. “He’s a marvelous artist, and he’s going to take a liking to your eyes, I’m sure of it. Sometimes he gets a little… distracted, you might say. And his studio is a mess. It may take him a while to notice your eyes, but just keep them pointed where he can see them.”

I followed Mameha through side streets until we came to a little alley. At the end stood a bright red Shinto gate, miniature in size, pressed tightly between two houses. Beyond the gate, we passed between several small pavilions to a flight of stone steps leading up through trees in their brilliant fall coloring. The air wafting from the dank little tunnel of the steps felt as cool as water, so that it seemed to me I was entering a different world altogether. I heard a swishing sound that reminded me of the tide washing the beach, but it turned out to be a man with his back to us, sweeping water from the top step with a broom whose bristles were the color of chocolate.

“Why, Uchida-san!” Mameha said. “Don’t you have a maid to tidy up for you?”

The man at the top stood in full sunlight, so that when he turned to peer down at us, I doubt he saw anything more than a few shapes under the trees. I could see him well, however, and he was quite a peculiar-looking man. In one corner of his mouth was a giant mole like a piece of food, and his eyebrows were so bushy they looked like caterpillars that had crawled down out of his hair and gone to sleep there. Everything about him was in disarray, not only his gray hair, but his kimono, which looked as if he’d slept in it the night before.

“Who is that?” he said.

“Uchida-san! After all these years you still don’t recognize my voice?”

“If you’re trying to make me angry, whoever you are, you’re off to a good start. I’m in no mood for interruptions! I’ll throw this broom at you, if you don’t tell me who you are.”

Uchida-san looked so angry I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d bit off the mole from the corner of his mouth and spat it at us. But Mameha just continued right up the stairs, and I followed her-though I was careful to stay behind so she would be the one struck by the broom.

“Is this how you greet visitors, Uchida-san?” Mameha said as she stepped up into the light.

Uchida squinted at her. “So it’s you. Why can’t you just say who you are like everyone else? Here, take this broom and sweep the steps. No one’s coming into my house until I’ve lit incense. Another of my mice has died, and the place smells like a coffin.”

Mameha seemed amused at this and waited until Uchida had left before leaning the broom against a tree.

“Have you ever had a boil?” she whispered to me. “When Uchida’s work goes badly, he gets into this terrible mood. You have to make him blow up, just like lancing a boil, so that he’ll settle down again. If you don’t give him something to get angry about, he’ll start drinking and only get worse.”

“Does he keep pet mice?” I whispered. “He said another of his mice had died.”

“Heavens, no. He leaves his ink sticks out, and the mice come and eat them and then die from poisoning. I gave him a box to put his inks in, but he won’t use it.”

Just then Uchida’s door rolled partway open-for he’d given it a shove and gone right back inside. Mameha and I slipped out of our shoes. The interior was a single large room in the style of a farmhouse. I could see incense burning in a far corner, but it hadn’t done any good yet, because the smell of dead mouse struck me with as much force as if someone had stuck clay up my nose. The room was even messier than Hatsumomo’s at its worst. Everywhere were long brushes, some broken or gnawed, and big wooden boards with half-finished drawings in black-and-white. In the midst of it all was an unmade futon with ink stains on the sheets. I imagined that Uchida would have ink stains all over himself as well, and when I turned to find out, he said to me:

“What are you looking at?”

“Uchida-san, may I present my younger sister, Sayuri,” Mameha said. “She’s come with me all the way from Gion for the honor of meeting you.”

All the way from Gion wasn’t really very far; but in any case, I knelt on the mats and went through the ritual of bowing and begging Uchida’s favor, although I wasn’t convinced he’d heard a word of what Mameha had told him.

“I was having a fine day until lunchtime,” he said, “and then look what happened!” Uchida crossed the room and held up a board. Fastened onto it with pins was a sketch of a woman from the back, looking to one side and holding an umbrella-except that a cat had evidently stepped in ink and walked across it, leaving perfectly formed paw prints. The cat himself was curled up asleep at the moment in a pile of dirty clothes.

“I brought him in here for the mice and look!” he went on. “I’ve a mind to throw him out.”

“Oh, but the paw prints are lovely,” said Mameha. “I think they improve the picture. What do you think, Sayuri?”

I wasn’t inclined to say anything, because Uchida was looking very upset at Mameha’s comment. But in a moment I understood that she was trying to “lance the boil,” as she’d put it. So I put on my most enthusiastic voice and said:

“I’m surprised at how attractive the paw prints are! I think the cat may be something of an artist.”

“I know why you don’t like him,” said Mameha. “You’re jealous of his talent.”

“Jealous, am I?” Uchida said. “That cat’s no artist. He’s a demon if he’s anything!”

“Forgive me, Uchida-san,” Mameha replied. “It’s just as you say. But tell me, are you planning to throw the picture away? Because if so, I’d be pleased to have it. Wouldn’t it look charming in my apartment, Sayuri?”

When Uchida heard this, he tore the picture from the board and said, “You like it, do you? All right, I’ll make you two presents of it!” And then he tore it into two pieces and gave them to her, saying, “Here’s one! And here’s the other! Now get out!”

“I so wish you hadn’t done that,” Mameha said. “I think it was the most beautiful thing you’ve ever produced.”

“Get out!”

“Oh, Uchida-san, I can’t possibly! I wouldn’t be a friend if I didn’t straighten your place a bit before leaving.”

At this, Uchida himself stormed out of the house, leaving the door wide open behind him. We watched him kick the broom Mameha had left leaning against the tree and then nearly slip and fall as he started down the wet steps. We spent the next half hour straightening up the studio, until Uchida came back in a much improved mood, just as Mameha had predicted. He still wasn’t what I would call cheerful; and in fact, he had a habit of chewing constantly at the mole in the corner of his mouth, which gave him the look of being worried. I think he felt embarrassed at his earlier behavior, because he never looked directly at either of us. Soon it became apparent that he wasn’t going to notice my eyes at all, and so Mameha said to him:

“Don’t you think Sayuri is just the prettiest thing? Have you even bothered to look at her?”

It was an act of desperation, I thought, but Uchida only flicked his eyes at me like brushing a crumb from a table. Mameha seemed very disappointed. The afternoon light was already beginning to fade, so we both rose to leave. She gave the most abbreviated bow in saying good-bye. When we stepped outside, I couldn’t help stopping a moment to take in the sunset, which painted the sky behind the distant hills in rusts and pinks as striking as the loveliest kimono-even more so, because no matter how magnificent a kimono is, your hands will never glow orange in its light. But in that sunset my hands seemed to have been dipped in some sort of iridescence. I raised them up and gazed at them for a long moment.