Memoirs of a Geisha (Vintage Contemporaries) by Arthur Golden

Author:Arthur Golden [Golden, Arthur]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: Fiction
ISBN: 9780375406782
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 1999-11-09T00:00:00+00:00

In the rickshaw on our way back to Gion, Mameha told me I’d done very well.

“But, Mameha-san, I didn’t do anything!”

“Oh? Then how do you account for what we saw on the Doctor’s forehead?”

“I didn’t see anything but the wooden table right in front of my face.”

“Let’s just say that while the Doctor was cleaning the blood from your leg, his forehead was beaded with sweat as if we’d been in the heat of summer. But it wasn’t even warm in the room, was it?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, then!” Mameha said.

I really wasn’t sure what she was talking about—or exactly what her purpose had been in taking me to meet the Doctor, for that matter. But I couldn’t very well ask, because she’d already made it clear she wouldn’t tell me her plan. Then just as the rickshaw driver was pulling us across the Shijo Avenue Bridge into Gion once again, Mameha interrupted herself in the middle of a story.

“You know, your eyes really are extraordinarily lovely in that kimono, Sayuri. The scarlets and yellows . . . they make your eyes shine almost silver! Oh, heavens, I can’t believe I haven’t thought of this idea sooner. Driver!” she called out. “We’ve gone too far. Stop here, please.”

“You told me Gion Tominaga-cho, ma’am. I can’t drop the poles in the middle of a bridge.”

“You may either let us out here or finish crossing the bridge and then take us back over it again. Frankly, I don’t see much point in that.”

The driver set down his poles where we were, and Mameha and I stepped out. A number of bicyclists rang their bells in anger as they passed, but Mameha didn’t seem in the least concerned. I suppose she was so certain of her place in the world, she couldn’t imagine anyone being troubled by a little matter like her blocking traffic. She took her time, holding up one coin after another from her silk change purse until she’d paid the exact fare, and then led me back across the bridge in the direction we’d come.

“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

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