Site Presented By
Sunday, Nov 22, 2009
Komomo, visually the least prepossessing of the trio, makes up for her relatively plain appearance with skill and accomplishment. Her presence tonight probably has something to do with her English, which though limited is by far the best of the three girls'. More talents soon become evident.
Komomo, Yuiko and Teruhina leave the room briefly. Komomo soon returns with a shamisen. Taking it to the far side of the room, she kneels and waits. Now Yuiko and Teruhina reenter, each carrying a cone-shaped platter covered with pink flowers. As Komomo begins to pluck the shamisen and sing a quavering melody, they dance. Their song is called "Flower Umbrella," and they perform without expression. Emotion is conveyed through movement, not mugging.
The next song causes Kaori to sigh -- her mother sang it to her long ago. As Yuiko and Teruhina glide through a wistful pas de deux, Komomo sings of life in Gion -- pain and grief unseen beneath white makeup. "Gion, kanashiiya darari-no-obi-yo"; Gion, like a sad, drooping obi, trailing behind a maiko as she walks.
After loud applause from our small group, the performers return to their social roles at the table. Mr. Nagata is well past his first sake and looking quite at home. I am striving to converse with my exotic table-mates but frequently require translation by Kaori and Komomo, and in the general hubbub the system often breaks down -- I ask a question about go and get an answer about golf. Most of what is being discussed flows past me like water over a drowned corpse. (In fact, I later learn that entire parallel evenings are going on without my knowledge; for example, Kaori's valiant efforts to parry constant paternal questioning from Mr. Nagata about the exact nature of our relationship.)
Sake and conversation are central to the geiko's art. It has been said that a superb geiko will entertain through wit and charm while a lesser talent, if she's wise, will pour sake down a customer's throat until wit and charm become irrelevant. All of which makes me sorry for my new friends, since I represent a geiko's worst nightmare -- I speak no Japanese and don't drink. This could prove to be the Japanese equivalent of a sober St. Patrick's.
Still, we all struggle for common ground. I speak of my wonder at the breathtaking speed and energy of Tokyo, pointing out that the Japanese capital has a population equal to that of my entire nation. And since that nation is Canada, my geiko companions assure me of their sincere intention to visit Niagara Falls someday.
"I like the music of Alanis Morissette," Komomo informs me, displaying her ready knowledge of Canadian pop stars. "I once neglected my studies for an important exam so that I could see Bryan Adams in concert."
Yuiko and Teruhina also express their admiration for the Vancouver-raised rocker. And to my horrified amazement, I find myself talking about the night he sat at the table beside mine in an all-night restaurant. Well, damn it, I'm not faced with a lot of conversational options here.
But this nattering about celebrities is oddly fitting. In a way, the world of the Ichiriki is like the world of "Entertainment Tonight." The modern worship of fame has created an entire population that would swoon over the merest brush with Brad Pitt. And the aura and spectacle of this geiko world has left me eager to make any contact, forge any bond, with these women. Their job is to entertain and yet, conditioned by decades of desperate party chatter, I am incongruously worried that they'll get bored with me.
The conversation hiccups along carefully, through a combination of simple, direct statements and relayed translations. But so focused am I on bridging the linguistic divide, I soon realize I've failed to consider another gulf, wide as the Pacific -- these young women and I were born five U.S. presidents apart (Eisenhower for me; Reagan for them). Beneath its mesmerizing exterior, this encounter with living embodiments of Japanese history is basically a flirtation with near-teenage girls. One underscored by centuries of tradition and the weight of a nation's disappearing heritage, but nonetheless ...
Teruhina has moved to sit beside me now, poking through my reporter's notebook. Flipping to a back page, she draws a little heart. Then, touching her finger to her bright red lips, she transfers the scarlet smudge to redden the little ink heart on the page. "Secret," she tells me.
