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Monday, Nov 9, 2009
Instantly, Oishi Kuranosuke and Asano's other samurai were adrift. They had become ronin -- in effect, freelance samurai. Everyone waited for Oishi Kuranosuke's inevitable revenge on the hated Kira.
And Oishi Kuranosuke said -- don't hold your breath. Telling anyone who'd listen that he had no interest in anything but the good life, Oishi holed up at the Ichiriki, partying like it was 1799. While the Ichiriki's exclusivity kept Oishi safely out of sight from any of Kira's mercenaries, the unemployed warrior proceeded to play Hef with a string of Gion's loveliest.
When almost two years had passed and his enemies had long since relaxed, Oishi Kuranosuke put down the sake bottle and gathered his 46 remaining warriors around him. On a winter morning in December 1702, the 47 ronin attacked the castle of Kira Kouzukenosuke and overwhelmed the defenders without losing a man. They found their hated rival hiding in an outhouse. Soon Kira's severed head adorned the grave of Lord Asano.
Impressed at their loyalty, the shogun granted a reward. Rather than ignominious execution, he allowed the ronin to commit seppuku as honored warriors (only the youngest was spared). A truly Japanese happy ending. The 47 ronin passed into legend -- and with them, the Ichiriki.
On this early May evening in Kyoto, Kaori and I are to meet Mr. Nagata at the Ichiriki. Our cab pulls up in front of the hotel and, as with all Japanese taxis, the back door swings open unaided. It's one of those freakish little pieces of everyday Japanese technology, like umbrella laminators. More clues that you're not in Manhattan anymore: The cab is as spotless as Grandma's living room; the driver wears white gloves and a peaked cap; there is no tipping.
We drive away, turn off the main thoroughfare and crawl through the narrow streets of Gion. The sight of two women in kimonos excites me, but I am a raw rookie -- they are just bar hostesses. The shops look modern and the street like any Japanese nightclub district, until we cross Shijo-Dori and suddenly the architectural styles recede centuries in an instant. Immediately we stop in front of a large wooden building with red walls and a sloping tile roof. A man in traditional dress greets us and leads the way through the gate into an outer courtyard. There is scarcely time to pause for a moment's disbelief at the ease with which we have penetrated an invisible barrier -- the one separating modern Japan and its companion, guidebook Japan, from an ancient world that still carries on alongside, like Brigadoon made visible.
Smiling and bowing in the entrance, an older woman in a kimono bids us trade our shoes for sandals and, eyeing my 6-foot-2 frame, points to the archway by way of warning. Chips in the wood indicate the long history of tall people who forgot to duck. Down red-paneled halls we go until we are shown into a spare Japanese room lined with tatami and furnished only by a low central table with a red lacquer surface. Mr. Nagata stands to greet us.
He is a small, balding figure in a well-tailored blue suit, a fit-looking man in his 60s with an ever-present smile and an intent gaze that suggests your every reaction will be instructive for him. (Kaori believes he looks like a Japanese Danny DeVito. It's a bit of a stretch, but OK.) We sit with our legs in the well beneath the skirted table, and Kaori translates my profuse thanks to Mr. Nagata for the opportunity he has given us. We have brought omiyage, the gifts of greeting and/or gratitude that Japanese friends exchange at every opportunity. We have brought chocolates from Vancouver, British Columbia, and a large bottle of Kanazawa-style sake. But before we can present them the door opens. Our first geiko has arrived.
No matter how many photos and documentaries I've seen, it's impossible to be prepared for this moment. Or perhaps it is precisely the many photos, books and documentaries I have absorbed that increase the sense of wonder and import, yet still leave me unready for the magnificent presence that joins me now. She backs into the room, turns and smiles, a red lipstick slash on a shocking white background topped by an elaborate coif of jet-black hair. Finally she kneels to bow and says "okoshiyasu," a welcome peculiar to Kyoto.
Her name is Yuiko. Just 20 years old, she graduated from the ranks of the young maiko only a year ago -- her white collar indicates that she is now a geiko. Green and pink flowers decorate her kimono of bright yellow silk, secured by an obi of burgundy with a white bamboo design. When she turns, pink flesh is visible at the back of her neck where the white makeup suddenly stops. I had heard of this sly technique, intended as an alluring hint of the naked skin beneath the careful makeup. Having spent some time on the Web examining enough female anatomy to pass a gynecological exam, I had been skeptical. And yet the effect of that pink patch is exactly as advertised -- a powerful reminder that beneath this awesome finery is the body of a young woman.
Yuiko is followed shortly by two new arrivals. Like a tiger and its keeper, they present a striking contrast -- Komomo, a modest-looking young geiko without makeup or elaborate hair, dressed in a subtle pink kimono and black obi; and Teruhina, as brilliant as her companion is discreet, clad in shimmering green with white, purple and gold flowers, her red and white obi trailing behind, an elaborate hairpiece of long white flowers and dangling silver bars swaying as she turns and laughs.
Teruhina is a maiko. Like all geiko and maiko, she belongs to an okiya. An okiya is more or less a geiko stable, run by a "mother" who trains and outfits her charges and manages their affairs (and of course takes the money they earn). The Ichiriki has no exclusive claim on Yuiko, Teruhina or any of Gion's star performers -- they might turn up at any ochaya, so long as the guests ask for them and agree to pay their rates. More popular geiko and maiko can charge higher fees. That may seem only natural but, Kaori points out to me, it represents a contrast with traditional Japanese corporate culture. Too often Japanese companies are gerontocracies where seniority, regardless of ability, inevitably means prominence. By contrast, Gion is a ruthless meritocracy. Charm or die.
