Pictures are posed for and small gifts of Canada left behind -- chocolates for Ms. Sugiura, maple syrup for our geiko and maiko entertainers. I promise to return tomorrow to drop off personal cards for Yuiko, Komomo and Teruhina. As we stand at the front archway waiting for our shoes, Teruhina stands close and looks up at me. "I hope to see you again," she says, pronouncing the English words carefully. Her serious tone may reflect the caution of someone repeating a memorized foreign phrase, or perhaps the formal presentation of a ritual farewell. Or perhaps her unlikely wish is sincere. Maybe she actually likes me.

Kyoto women suffer from a stigma among Japanese -- they are legendary for their supposed insincerity. There are humorous advertisements playing on the idea that a Kyoto woman's smile cannot be trusted -- and naturally a geiko, as a professional courtesan, must be the most insincere of all. Even Mr. Nagata confides to Kaori that he considers the pleasant companionship of his Ichiriki evenings to reflect nothing more than the painted-on gaiety of Gion 's social mercenaries.

And Kyoto is insular. In Japan they say that unless you can trace your Kyoto roots back at least three generations you will not truly belong, and in this too Gion is the wellspring from which the harsh reputation flows. The geiko world is like a permanent carnival. Years ago in a dingy pub, a couple of midway mechanics passing through my hometown bluntly explained to me the carnival philosophy. "There's only two kinds of people in the world," one said. "There's carneys -- that's us -- and there's marks. That's everybody else."

But so what? Yuiko and Teruhina told Kaori privately that they liked me. Who am I to doubt it? They're just 20 and 18, surely too young to be jaded, and probably don't see a lot of goofy foreigners in funky glasses sporting Bruce Lee watches and holographic Astro Boy wallets. I am choosing to believe.

Back on the street again, Mr. Nagata decides that our night should not yet end. He leads us around a corner and into a narrow alley lined by solid wooden fences, stopping at a small door cut into the high wooden wall. We step through, and it's a rabbit hole into Wonderland -- in a beautiful floodlit garden, a path leads past the long, tall windows of a secluded bar. This is the Fukushima ochaya. Like many of its competitors, Fukushima has been forced to find new revenue streams, and a drop-in bar (albeit an exclusive and hidden one) helps augment the more traditional geiko party business.

We enter and take a small table. Once again we are joined by the proprietor -- Mr. Nagata is a treasured customer wherever he goes. A maiko sitting at the bar is drawn to our table and poses for pictures. Kaori notes details that escape me -- this maiko's bright yellow kimono, she tells me, is not in the same league as Teruhina's. (Later, as we examine the photographs from Kaori's digital camera, she notes disapprovingly that this maiko leans against me provocatively. In my photos with Komomo and Teruhina, Kaori points out to me their sweet discretion -- they sit upright beside me, and yet their sleeves are gently touching mine.)

The young bartender drops by our table to chat, and I show her the digital photos we took at the Ichiriki. Kaori taps my arm urgently and gives me a warning look -- if I'm not careful I will get Mr. Nagata into trouble. The proprietor of the Fukushima, sitting close by, must not know where we've come from. Likewise, the mistress of the Ichiriki would not be pleased to discover our presence at the Fukushima. Mr. Nagata is, in effect, cheating on her.

Later, we walk out to the quiet streets of Gion and pile into another impeccable cab for the return home. Japanese taxis are a little pricey, but what the hell. The advantage of spending the cost of a used Honda on an evening's entertainment is that you stop sweating the small stuff. Offering heartfelt thanks, we part company with Mr. Nagata at our hotel, and he waves the driver on.

Kaori and I spend the next day exploring Kyoto. Late in the afternoon we arrive back at the Ichiriki on foot. I am carrying in my backpack the promised cards for Yuiko, Komomo and Teruhina. As I breeze into the courtyard to look for last evening's maitre d', I fail to notice that Kaori is hanging back reluctantly. Puzzled staff eye me as they hurry past with trays and laundry. Soon the man who guided us through the gate last night emerges. I proffer the cards and begin my explanation, but he merely shakes his head. "Geiko house," he says, motioning for me to leave. "Members only."

Can he have forgotten so soon? I offer my explanation once more in a stuttering English torrent. He is implacable, insistent that I leave at once. I turn to look for Kaori, but she has moved a little way down the street. "Help me," I call, but Kaori remains rooted on the pavement. "I can't go in," she says.

I stand on the sidewalk as bicycles and pedestrians amble past. The little Gion street is bright and clear in the sun. Inside the open gateway, the courtyard of the Ichiriki is shadowed beneath the trees.

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