Memoirs of a Geisha by Arthur Golden Page B

continuous facade—which once again gave me the terrible feeling of being lost. I watched women in kimono rushing around in a great hurry on the little street. They looked very elegant to me; though, as I later learned, they were mostly maids.
    When we came to a halt before a doorway, Mr. Bekku instructed me to get out. He climbed out behind me, and then as if the day hadn’t been difficult enough, the worst thing of all happened. For when Satsu tried to get out as well, Mr. Bekku turned and pushed her back with his long arm.
    “Stay there,” he said to her. “You’re going elsewhere.”
    I looked at Satsu, and Satsu looked at me. It may have been the first time we’d ever completely understood each other’s feelings. But it lasted only a moment, for the next thing I knew my eyes had welled up with tears so much I could scarcely see. I felt myself being dragged backward by Mr. Bekku; I heard women’s voices and quite a bit of commotion. I was on the point of throwing myself onto the street when suddenly Satsu’s mouth fell open at something she saw in the doorway behind me.
    I was in a narrow entryway with an ancient-looking well on one side and a few plants on the other. Mr. Bekku had dragged me inside, and now he pulled me up onto my feet. There on the step of the entryway, just slipping her feet into her lacquered zori, stood an exquisitely beautiful woman wearing a kimono lovelier than anything I’d ever imagined. I’d been impressed with the kimono worn by the young bucktoothed geisha in Mr. Tanaka’s village of Senzuru; but this one was a water blue, with swirling lines in ivory to mimic the current in a stream. Glistening silver trout tumbled in the current, and the surface of the water was ringed with gold wherever the soft green leaves of a tree touched it. I had no doubt the gown was woven of pure silk, and so was the obi, embroidered in pale greens and yellows. And her clothing wasn’t the only extraordinary thing about her; her face was painted a kind of rich white, like the wall of a cloud when lit by the sun. Her hair, fashioned into lobes, gleamed as darkly as lacquer, and was decorated with ornaments carved out of amber, and with a bar from which tiny silver strips dangled, shimmering as she moved.
    This was my first glimpse of Hatsumomo. At the time, she was one of the most renowned geisha in the district of Gion; though of course I didn’t know any of this then. She was a petite woman; the top of her hairstyle reached no higher than Mr. Bekku’s shoulder. I was so startled by her appearance that I forgot my manners—not that I had developed very good manners yet—and stared directly at her face. She was smiling at me, though not in a kindly way. And then she said:
    “Mr. Bekku, could you take out the garbage later? I’d like to be on my way.”
    There was no garbage in the entryway; she was talking about me. Mr. Bekku said he thought Hatsumomo had enough room to pass.
    “You may not mind being so close to her,” said Hatsumomo. “But when I see filth on one side of the street, I cross to the other.”
    Suddenly an older woman, tall and knobby, like a bamboo pole, appeared in the doorway behind her.
    “I don’t know how anyone puts up with you, Hatsumomo-san,” said the woman. But she gestured for Mr. Bekku to pull me onto the street again, which he did. After this she stepped down into the entryway very awkwardly—for one of her hips jutted out and made it difficult for her to walk—and crossed to a tiny cabinet on the wall. She took from it something that looked to me like a piece of flint, along with a rectangular stone like the kind fishermen use to sharpen their knives, and then stood behind Hatsumomo and struck the flint against the stone, causing a little cluster of sparks to jump onto Hatsumomo’s back. I didn’t understand this at all; but you see, geisha are more superstitious even than fishermen. A geisha will never go out for the evening until someone has sparked a