Arthur Golden - Memoirs of a Geisha

My costume change went so quickly that I found myself with a few minutes to peek out at the audience. I followed the sound of occasional drumbeats to a narrow, darkened hallway running behind one of the two orchestra booths at the sides of the theater. A few other apprentices and geisha were already peering out through carved slits in the sliding doors. I joined them and managed to find the Chairman and Nobu sitting together-though it seemed to me the Chairman had given Nobu the better seat. Nobu was peering at the stage intently, but I was surprised to see that the Chairman seemed to be falling asleep. From the music I realized that it was the beginning of Mameha’s dance, and went to the end of the hallway where the slits in the doors gave a view of the stage.

I watched Mameha no more than a few minutes; and yet the impression her dance made on me has never been erased. Most dances of the Inoue School tell a story of one kind or another, and the story of this dance-called “A Courtier Returns to His Wife”-was based on a Chinese poem about a courtier who carries on a long affair with a lady in the Imperial palace. One night the courtier’s wife hides on the outskirts of the palace to find out where her husband has been spending his time. Finally, at dawn, she watches from the bushes as her husband takes leave of his mistress-but by this time she has fallen ill from the terrible cold and dies soon afterward.

For our spring dances, the story was changed to Japan instead of China; but otherwise, the tale was the same. Mameha played the wife who dies of cold and heartbreak, while the geisha Kanako played the role of her husband, the courtier. I watched the dance from the moment the courtier bids good-bye to his mistress. Already the setting was inspiringly beautiful, with the soft light of dawn and the slow rhythm of the shamisen music like a heartbeat in the background. The courtier performed a lovely dance of thanks to his mistress for their night together, and then moved toward the light of rising sun to capture its warmth for her. This was the moment when Mameha began to dance her lament of terrible sadness, hidden to one side of the stage out of view of the husband and mistress. Whether it was the beauty of Mameha’s dance or of the story, I cannot say; but I found myself feeling such sorrow as I watched her, I felt as if I myself had been the victim of that terrible betrayal. At the end of the dance, sunlight filled the stage. Mameha crossed to a grove of trees to dance her simple death scene. I cannot tell you what happened after that. I was too overcome to watch any further; and in any case, I had to return backstage to prepare for my own entrance.

While I waited in the wings, I had the peculiar feeling that the weight of the entire building was pressing down on me-because of course, sadness has always seemed to me an oddly heavy thing. A good dancer often wears her white, buttoned socks a size too small, so she can sense the seams in the wooden stage with her feet. But as I stood there trying to find the strength within myself to perform, I had the impression of so much weight upon me that I felt not only the seams in the stage, but even the fibers in the socks themselves. At last I heard the music of the drums and shamisen, and the whisking noise of the clothing as the other dancers moved quickly past me onto the stage; but it’s very hard for me to remember anything afterward. I’m sure I raised my arms with my folding fan closed and my knees bent-for this was the position in which I made my entrance. I heard no suggestion afterward that I’d missed my cue, but all I remember clearly is watching my own arms with amazement at the sureness and evenness with which they moved. I’d practiced this dance any number of times; I suppose that must have been enough. Because although my mind had shut down completely, I performed my role without any difficulty or nervousness.

At every performance for the rest of that month, I prepared for my entrance in the same way, by concentrating on “The Courtier Returns to His Wife,” until I could feel the sadness laying itself over me. We human beings have a remarkable way of growing accustomed to things; but when I pictured Mameha dancing her slow lament, hidden from the eyes of her husband and his mistress, I could no more have stopped myself from feeling that sadness than you could stop yourself from smelling an apple that has been cut open on the table before you.

One day in the final week of performances, Mameha and I stayed late in the dressing room, talking with another geisha. When we left the theater we expected to find no one outside-and indeed the crowd had gone. But as we reached the street, a driver in uniform stepped out of a car and opened the rear door. Mameha and I were on the point of walking right past when Nobu emerged.

“Why, Nobu-san,” Mameha said, “I was beginning to worry that you no longer cared for Sayuri’s company! Every day this past month, we’ve hoped to hear something from you…”

“Who are you to complain about being kept waiting? I’ve been outside this theater nearly an hour.”

“Have you just come from seeing the dances again?” Mameha said. “Sayuri is quite a star.”

“I haven’t just come from anything,” Nobu said. “I’ve come from the dances a full hour ago. Enough time has passed for me to make a phone call and send my driver downtown to pick something up for me.”

Nobu banged on the window of the car with his one hand, and startled the poor driver so badly his cap fell off. The driver rolled down the window and gave Nobu a tiny shopping bag in the Western style, made of what looked like silver foil. Nobu turned to me, and I gave him a deep bow and told him how happy I was to see him.

“You’re a very talented dancer, Sayuri. I don’t give gifts for no reason,” he said, though I don’t think this was in any way true. “Probably that’s why Mameha and others in Gion don’t like me as much as other men.”

“Nobu-san!” said Mameha. “Who has ever suggested such a thing?”

“I know perfectly well what you geisha like. So long as a man gives you presents you’ll put up with any sort of nonsense.”

Nobu held out the small package in his hand for me to take.

“Why, Nobu-san,” I said, “what nonsense is it that you are asking me to put up with?” I meant this as a joke, of course; but Nobu didn’t see it that way.

“Haven’t I just said I’m not like other men?” he growled. “Why don’t you geisha ever believe anything told to you? If you want this package, you’d better take it before I change my mind.”

I thanked Nobu and accepted the package, and he banged on the window of the car once again. The driver jumped out to hold the door for him.

We bowed until the car had turned the corner and then Mameha led me back into the garden of the Kaburenjo Theater, where we took a seat on a stone bench overlooking the carp pond and peered into the bag Nobu had given me. It contained only a tiny box, wrapped in gold-colored paper embossed with the name of a famous jewelry store and tied with a red ribbon. I opened it to find a simple jewel, a ruby as big as a peach pit. It was like a giant drop of blood sparkling in the sunlight over the pond. When I turned it in my fingers, the glimmer jumped from one face to another. I could feel each of the jumps in my chest.

“I can see how thrilled you are,” Mameha said, “and I’m very happy for you. But don’t enjoy it too much. You’ll have other jewels in your life, Sayuri-plenty of them, I should think. But you’ll never have this opportunity again. Take this ruby back to your okiya, and give it to Mother.”

To see this beautiful jewel, and the light that seeped out of it painting my hand pink, and to think of Mother with her sickly yellow eyes and their meat-colored rims… well, it seemed to me that giving this jewel to her would be like dressing up a badger in silk. But of course, I had to obey Mameha.