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  As the women completed their preparations and runners arrived with last-minute requests for appearances, the maids prepared the entranceway for the maiko and geiko’s departure. They swept it thoroughly again, sprinkled it with water, and replaced the pile of salt next to the entry hall with a fresh one. In the early evening the maiko and geiko, resplendent in their magnificent attire, left for their appointments.

  The house quieted down after they left. The trainees and staff ate dinner. I practiced the dance I had learned that day, the koto piece I was working on, and my calligraphy. After I started school I also had to do my homework. Tomiko practiced the shamisen and singing. She still had to squeeze in courtesy calls to the ochaya, to pay respects to the older maiko and geiko who would be guiding her later on and to curry favor with the managers of the teahouses where she would be working.

  There were over 150 ochaya in Gion Kobu when I lived there. These elegant, beautifully appointed establishments were busy every night of the week, preparing and serving the constant round of private parties and dinners scheduled by their select roster of customers. A geiko might attend parties at as many as three or four different establishments in an evening, entailing a great deal of coming and going.

  In September of 1965 there was a party-line system installed in the Gion that linked all the okiya and ochaya. It had its own phones. They were beige and they were free. Often the house phone would ring while the apprentices were doing their homework. It was one of the maiko or geiko, calling from an ochaya, asking us to bring her something she needed for her next engagement, like a fresh pair of tabi socks or a maiohgi to replace one she had given away as a gift. No matter how sleepy they were, this was a very important part of their day. It was the only way they got to see how a working ochaya actually functioned. And it allowed the people in the ochaya and around Gion Kobu to become familiar with the faces of the Iwasaki apprentices.

  I went to sleep at a reasonable hour, but it was well after midnight by the time the geiko and maiko returned home from work. After changing out of their work clothes, the maiko and geiko might take a bath, have a snack, and relax for a while before going to bed. The two maids who slept in the genkan woke up one after the other to take care of the geiko as they drifted in. They never lay down to uninterrupted sleep until well after two o’clock in the morning.

  10

  DANCE CLASS WAS THE HIGH POINT of my day. I couldn’t wait to get there and always dragged on Kuniko’s sleeve to make her hurry.

  Walking into the studio was walking into another world. I was in love with the whispering of kimono sleeves, the lilting melodies of the strings, the formality, the grace, and the precision.

  The genkan was flanked by a wall of wooden cubbies. I liked one box in particular and hoped it was empty so that I could put my geta (traditional wooden sandals) there. It was on the second to the top row, a little to the left. I decided that was my place and was out of sorts when it wasn’t available.

  I walked upstairs to the rehearsal rooms and got ready for my lesson. I first took my maiohgi out of its case with my right hand and tucked it into the left side of my obi. With my hands positioned flat on my thighs, fingers pointed inwards, I glided soundlessly over to the fusuma (sliding door). The tube-like fit of the kimono dictates a distinctive way of walking, cultivated in all well-bred women, exaggerated in the dancer. Knees slightly bent, toes come off the ground in a silent pigeon-toed shuffle that prevents the front fold of the kimono from opening and indecorously revealing a glimpse of ankle or leg. The upper half of the body is held still.

  This is how we are taught to open a fusuma and enter the room.

  Sit down in front of the door resting buttocks on heels, bring the right hand up chest high, and place the fingertips of your open palm on the edge of the doorframe or in the hollow, if there is one. Push the door open a few inches, being careful not to let the hand cross the midline of the body. Bring the left hand up from the thigh and place it in front of the right. Continuing to rest the right hand lightly on the back of the left wrist, slide the door across the body, creating an opening just wide enough to pass through. Stand up and enter room. Pivot, and sit down facing the open door. Use the right fingertips to close the door to just left of midline, then, using the left hand supported by the right, close all the way. Stand up, pivot, and go to sit before the teacher. Take maiohgi out of obi with right hand and place it horizontally on the floor and bow.

  Placing the maiohgi between oneself and the teacher is a highly ritualistic act, indicating that one is leaving the ordinary world behind and is ready to enter the realm of the teacher’s expertise. By bowing, we declare that we are prepared to receive what the teacher is about to impart.

  Knowledge passes from dance teacher into the student through the process of mane, which is often translated as imitation, but learning to dance is more a process of total identification than one of simple copying. We repeat the movements of our teachers until we can duplicate them exactly, until, in a sense, we have absorbed the teacher’s mastery into ourselves. Artistic technique must be fully integrated into the cells of our bodies if we are to use it to express what is in our hearts, and this takes many years of practice.

  The Inoue School has hundreds of dances in its repertoire, from simple to more complex, but they are all composed of a fixed set of kata, or patterns of movements. We learn the dances before the patterns, as opposed to, say, ballet. And we learn the dances by watching. Once we have learned the patterns, however, the teacher will introduce a new dance as a series of kata.

  Kabuki, with which you may be familiar, uses an enormous repertoire of movements, postures, mannerisms, gestures, and facial expressions to portray the kaleidoscopic range of human emotion. The Inoue style, in contrast, condenses complex emotions into simple, delicate movements, punctuated with dramatic pauses.

  I had the great privilege of studying with the iemoto every day. After giving me verbal instructions, she played the shamisen and I performed the piece. She corrected me. I went off to practice on my own. When I could dance a piece to her satisfaction she gave me another. Thus we all learned at our own pace.

  There were three other instructors who taught in the iemoto’s studio, all of whom were accomplished students of hers. Their names were teacher Kazuko, teacher Masae, and teacher Kazue. We referred to the iemoto as “Big Mistress” and the others as “Little Mistress.” Mistress Kazuko was the granddaughter of Inoue Yachiyo III, the previous iemoto.

  Sometimes we had group lessons and sometimes I took a class with another teacher. I sat in the studios for hours at a time and watched intently as other dancers had their lessons. Kuniko had to tear me out of there when it was time to go home. And then I practiced for hours in the living room.

  The Inoue School is, without question, the most important institution in Gion Kobu and the iemoto, therefore, the most powerful person. Yet Inoue Yachiyo IV wielded her authority gently, and, although she was strict, I was never scared of her. The only time I ever felt intimidated was when I actually had to perform with her on stage.

  The iemoto was remarkably unattractive. She was very short, quite plump, and had a face like an orangutan. Yet she became exquisitely lovely when she danced. I remember thinking that this transformation, which I witnessed thousands of times, was an eloquent statement of the style’s ability to evoke and express beauty.

  The iemoto’s given name was Aiko Okamoto. She was born in Gion Kobu and began studying dance when she was four years old. Her first teacher soon recognized the child’s ability and brought her to Inoue headquarters. The previous iemoto, Inoue Yachiyo III, was suitably impressed with Aiko’s talent and invited her to join the main studio.

  There are two separate curricula in the school. One trains professional dancers (maiko and geiko) and the other trains professional dance teachers. There is another set of classes for women who want to study on an amateur basis. Aiko was recruited for the teacher division.

  She fulfilled her early promise and g
rew into a masterful dancer. At twenty-five, she married Kuroemon Katayama, Inoue Yachiyo III’s grandson. Kuroemon is the iemoto of the Kansai branch of the Kanze School of Noh theater. The couple had three sons and lived in the house on Shinmonzen Street where I had my lessons.

  In the mid-1940s Aiko was chosen to succeed Inoue Yachiyo III and given the name Inoue Yachiyo IV. (Mother Sakaguchi was on the board of regents that confirmed her selection.) She led the school until May of 2000, when she retired in favor of the current iemoto, her granddaughter, Inoue Yachiyo V.

  The Inoue School of Dance was founded by a woman named Sato Inoue around 1800. She was a lady-in-waiting in the inner apartments of the imperial palace, an instructor to the noble house of Konoe, who taught the various forms of dance practiced in court ritual.

  In 1869, when the imperial capital was moved to Tokyo, Kyoto was no longer the political center of Japan. However, it has continued to be the heart of the cultural and religious life of the country.

  The governor of the time, Nobuatsu Hase, and the counselor Masanao Makimura enlisted Jiroemon Sugiura, the ninth generation proprietor of Ichirikitei, the most famous ochaya in Gion Kobu, in his campaign to promote the city. Together they decided to make the dances of the Gion the centerpiece of the festivities and they approached the head of the Inoue School for advice and direction. Haruko Katayama, the third iemoto of the school, put together a dance program that featured the talented maiko and geiko who were her students.

  The performances were so successful that the governor, Sugiura, and Inoue decided to make them an annual event called the Miyako Odori. In Japanese this term means “dances of the capital” but outside Japan it is commonly referred to as the Cherry Dance, taking place as it does in the spring.

  Other karyukai have more than one school of dance, but Gion Kobu only has the Inoue School. The grand master of the Inoue School is the ultimate arbiter of taste within the community, as well as the dance itself. The maiko may be our most potent symbol, but it is the iemoto who decides what that symbol will be. Many of the other occupations in the Gion Kobu, from musical accompanist to fan maker to stage hand at the Kaburenjo theater, take their cues from the artistic direction of the head of the Inoue School. The iemoto is the only person who is allowed to make any changes to the standard repertoire of the school or choreograph new dances.

  It quickly became known throughout the area that I was taking lessons from the iemoto. A buzz of expectation began to form around me that kept growing until it peaked at the time of my debut ten years later.

  People talk to each other all the time in Gion Kobu. It is a bit like a small village where everyone knows everyone else’s business. I am by nature very discreet, and this is one of the things I found distasteful about living there. But the fact is, people were talking about me. I may have been only five years old but I was already establishing quite a reputation.

  I was making rapid progress in my dance lessons. It ordinarily takes a student a week to ten days to memorize a new dance, but it took me, on average, three. I was galloping through the repertoire. It’s true that I was very driven and practiced more than the other girls, but it did seem as if I was blessed with a good deal of natural ability. In any event, dancing was an apt vehicle for my determination and my pride. I still missed my parents terribly and the dance became an outlet for my pent-up emotional energy.

  I performed in public for the first time later that summer. The iemoto’s nonprofessional students put on an annual recital called the Bentenkai. A child is not considered a professional until she enters the Nyokoba, the special school where we train to be geiko, after she graduates from junior high school.

  The name of the piece was Shinobu Uri (“selling ferns”). There were six of us dancing and I was in the middle. At one point in the performance, all the other girls held their arms in a parallel position and I had mine pointed over my head in a triangle. From the wings, Big Mistress stage-whispered, “Keep it up, Mineko.” I thought she meant, “keep going,” so I continued, moving my arms into the next position. Meanwhile, all the other girls brought their arms up into triangles above their heads.

  When we left the stage, I immediately turned on the other girls. “Don’t you know that we are students of the iemoto! We are not supposed to make mistakes!”

  “What are you talking about, Mineko? You are the one who was wrong!”

  “Don’t try to blame me for your mistakes!” I shot back. It never crossed my mind that I was the one who had messed up.

  When we got backstage I overheard Big Mistress talking to Mother Sakaguchi in measured tones. “Please don’t be upset. There’s no need to punish anyone.” I assumed she was talking about the other girls.

  I looked around. Everyone had left.

  “Where did everybody go?”

  “They went home.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you made a mistake and then yelled at them.”

  “I didn’t make a mistake. They did.”

  “No, Mineko, you’re wrong. Now listen to me. Didn’t you hear Big Mistress talking to Mother Sakaguchi? Didn’t you hear her tell her not to scold you?”

  “No, YOU’RE WRONG. She was talking about the other girls. Not me. She wasn’t talking about me.”

  “Mineko! Stop being a stubborn little girl.” Kuniko never raised her voice. When she did I paid attention. “You did a very bad thing and you have to go apologize to Big Mistress. This is very important.”

  I was still sure I hadn’t done anything wrong, but I heeded the warning in Kuniko’s voice. I went to Big Mistress’s room simply to pay my respects and thank her for the performance.

  Before I could say anything, she said “Mineko, I don’t want you to worry about what happened. It’s really alright.”

  “You mean, umm…”

  “That thing. It’s not so important. Please just forget about it.”

  That’s when I got it. I had made a mistake. Her kindness only intensified my shame. I bowed and left the room.

  Kuniko came up behind me. “It’s okay, Mine-chan, as long as you understand and do better next time. Let’s put it behind us and go out to eat that custard.”

  Kuniko had promised to take us all out to Pruniet’s for custard pudding after the recital.

  “No. I don’t want it anymore.”

  Big Mistress, came up to us.

  “Mine-chan, haven’t you gone home yet?”

  “Big Mistress. I can’t go home.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Now, go on home.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Yes, yes. Didn’t you hear me? There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Yes.”

  Big Mistress’s word was absolute.

  “Then let’s go home,” Kuniko said.

  “Well, we have to go somewhere. Maybe we should go and visit Mother Sakaguchi for a while.”

  Mother Sakaguchi already knew I made a mistake. So that might be okay.

  I nodded.

  We slid open the door and called out “good afternoon.” Mother Sakaguchi came out to greet us.

  “How nice to see you. What a good job you did today, Mineko!”

  “No,” I mumbled. “I didn’t. I was terrible.”

  “You were? Why?”

  “I made a mistake.”

  “A mistake? Where? I didn’t see any mistakes. I thought you danced beautifully.”

  “Mother, can I stay here with you?”

  “Of course. But first you have to go home and tell Auntie Oima where you are so she doesn’t worry.”

  I dragged my feet the whole way.

  Auntie Oima was waiting for me in front of the brazier.

  Auntie Oima’s face lit up when she saw me. “You’ve been gone such a long time! Did you stop at Pruniet’s for a treat? Was it yummy?”

  Kuniko answered for me. “We stopped in at Mother Sakaguchi’s for a visit.”

  “How nice of you! I’m sure that made her very happy.”

  The kinder ev
eryone was to me, the worse I felt inside. I was furious at myself and filled with self-loathing.

  I headed into the closet.

  The next day Kuniko took me to the little shrine at the foot of Tatsumi Bridge where I always met up with the girls on the way to the studio. They were all there. I went up to each one and bowed. “I am sorry that I made a mistake yesterday. Please forgive me.”

  They were pretty nice about it.

  The day after any public performance we are required to pay a formal visit to our teacher to say thank you. Accordingly, we went straight to Big Mistress’s room when we got to the studio. I hid behind the other girls.

  After we bowed in unison and said our thanks, the iemoto complimented us on our performance the day before. “You did a lovely job. Please keep up the good work in the future. Practice hard!”

  “Thank you, Teacher,” everyone said. “We will.”

  Everyone except me, that is. I was pretending to be invisible.

  Big Mistress dismissed us and, just as I was about to heave a sigh of relief, she looked directly at me and said, “Mineko, now I don’t want you to worry about what happened yesterday.”

  I was flooded with shame again and ran out into the waiting arms of Kuniko.

  It may seem that Big Mistress was trying to comfort me. But she wasn’t. She wasn’t that kind of teacher. She was sending me a message, loud and clear. She was telling me that it was not permissible to make mistakes. Not if I wanted to become a great dancer.

  11

  ISTARTED ELEMENTARY SCHOOL when I was six, a year after I began dance lessons. Because the school was in Gion Kobu, many of the pupils came from families who were directly involved in the karyukai.

  Kuniko was busy helping Aba in the mornings so one of our two maids, either Kaachan or Suzu-chan, took me to school. (Chan is the universal diminutive in Japanese.) The school was two short blocks north of the Iwasaki okiya, off Hanamikoji.