Chosen Path

I believe that most people are victims of their fates. I have always chosen mine. Of course, we can only choose what we will do and who we will be. Our lives form along the interfaces between ourselves and the world, by which I mean that we may architect our own destinies, but we cannot choose the ground on which they must stand. Please know that I speak with all due humility in light of my own upbringing's privilege and luxury, but I have had my moments of choice. I have felt those times at which one decides to become a new person, to live in a new world. I remember them with unusual specificity. I have seen and heard and done things that threw the features of the world into stark relief, and in those fragile, fleeting moments of clarity, I have made choices.

I can remember the moment in which I made my first choice very clearly. He laughed. Mother was angry, but Father laughed. I cannot blame him. Even as a small child, I had come to them dozens of times to announce what I would be when I grew up, but that time, that one time, I meant it. It was not the sound of my own proclamation that cemented my certainty but that of Father's laughter. That was my moment of truth. By all objective measures, he was very successful. He was an honorable man, provided well for us and multiplied the family fortune. In that moment, I resented him not for all the advantages he had, advantages he would pass on to me, but for what he did with them, with all that opportunity: the same thing as everyone else. I would do something that he never could, something astounding, something beautiful, something that would burn an indelible scar into the memories of everyone who met me. I chose to become a living, breathing work of art.

It may seem odd that I should consider the mastery of traditional arts to be an act of rebelliousness. In a family like mine, the measures of success are all very clearly defined, and a geisha registers low on most of them. The profession is appropriately respected of course, but it is considered something that other people do. There is a separation. They dress it up as courtesy, but in the end, there will always be a separation between those who burn the incense and those who buy it. For me, that separation started as a vent.

The au pair thought I was asleep. In fact, I had removed the vent cover from the heating duct in my room and crawled in. My parents were hosting a party that night, and I wanted to see what it was like. I was able to move easily through the ducts; I was very young. Doing so silently took some care. When I finally reached a vent from which I could see into the parlor, where all the guests were, dinner had ended. There were two geisha and a maiko at the party. The apprentice was dancing.

All of them were beautiful. They all wore the traditional makeup, though the geisha would not have been required to do so. In hindsight, it must have been a very prestigious event. The two geisha played shamisen and drums while the maiko danced. She wore her obi in the dangling style and only wrapped her sleeves twice around her arms so they still hung very nearly to the floor. She moved slowly but elegantly, perfectly. Her every action, every motion, every shift of her embroidered silks interlocked with the music in a viscerally detailed explanation of the legend she performed. One of the geisha sang. I wish I could remember what dance it was, but I have thought of it so often that the memory has almost completely worn away.

At that time, I did not even know what they were. I told my parents I wanted to be a dancer like the painted lady at the party. Mother started by excoriating me for sneaking out of my room, but she eventually got around to her disapproval of my decision. When she said I would not be permitted to learn any such dances, Father cut her off, adding "unless you earn absolutely perfect marks in school." He didn't even look up from the morning paper while Mother glared at him.

Of course, perfect marks were very simple as a small child. As I got older, I came to think of school as a game, and I always run up the score. That was the price of my freedom to choose, and it seemed a small price to me. Not until many years later did I begin to appreciate the gravity and courage of Father's decision. It remains the only time I have ever seen him directly contradict Mother. She never forgave him for it, but she complied.

I went to the hanamachi every weekend, every day once I was old enough to ride the train alone. I was by far the youngest woman, the only child, there. Father must have pulled strings for me even to be allowed inside the teahouse. I studied for more than a year before Kazaharu-sensei accepted me as an apprentice. Even at that age, I could tell that her peers disapproved, but they didn't dare say so. She was and still is the best. She believed in me.

She was disappointed by my decision to attend university in America, but she did not disown me. She even allowed me to earn my erikae, my debut, before leaving. I was, truthfully, far better than all the other maiko, but Kazaharu-sensei required me to be perfect. I was perfect. I thought the decision to study abroad was my own, but in hindsight, it was Mother's. For years, she dropped very subtle hints suggesting that only the most brilliant women could learn to be successful in more than one culture. In hindsight, she was hoping that I would not debut and would never go back to the hanamachi. She played me like a shamisen. That was the first time I managed to avoid a major decision by choosing both paths.

I never used my trade name or rank in America, but I needed to practice. I started by performing at festivals and giving exhibitions on campus. Very quickly, I started receiving requests to perform at private events. Collecting the honoraria felt like a way of keeping score, and it was nice to have plenty of spending money without relying on my parents. By the time I started law school, I was able to pay my own tuition.

I chose law school mostly out of disappointment with my peers (perhaps I should call them my contemporaries) in business school. It was simply too easy. I prefer a challenge, and being admitted to the bar in two countries certainly is that. I did a lot of extracurricular reading on Japanese law. I even read the minutes of the Diet. Politics fascinated me. I could infer some of the intricacies from the Diet minutes. It looked like a very complex game to me. I enjoyed studying it.

I liked the man who was Prime Minister at the time. He seemed very sly. I could tell he was setting up economic reforms with very small measures that he snuck in carefully over years. He never took on the establishment directly. He was patient, and he was winning.

I agreed to a performance at a hotel in New York for a very generous fee, not knowing he would be there. I generally tried to avoid performing for people who might be able to tell I was a real geisha. The party was ancillary to a United Nations event, so there were many dignitaries there. I managed to avoid him for most of the night. When I finally did meet him, I liked him.

He looked like he was about my father's age. He had graying, almost shoulder-length hair that cascaded down around his face, the trustworthy face of a politician. He was immaculately dressed, of course, but he was also very polite in a very skillful way. He managed to speak to me with appropriate respect without acknowledging my rank, knowing that I had chosen not to perform under my trade name. He also seemed very kind and earnest. He asked permission to have his picture taken with me, and I agreed.

I spoke to his staff photographer to make sure the picture would be framed appropriately, leaving empty the position that belonged to his wife, who did not make the trip with him. I also asked him not to publish the photograph. He kept it on a credenza in his office. It took more than a year before someone recognized me and my parents found out. Mother had nothing nice to say. Father went to see the picture and agreed that it was tasteful. If he had known the rest, he might not have been so lenient.

It happened quickly, seamlessly. When I went to the powder room to neaten my regalia after my final dance, the Prime Minister's personal aide was there as if by coincidence. She was an older woman with gray hair up in a bun and a very conservative, black suit. She had the look of a grandmother who might either sneak you dumplings before dinner or wash your mouth out with soap for speaking disrespectfully.

"The Prime Minister was very impressed with your performance of the Furumachi Niigata Odori," she said, looking down into the sink as she washed her hands.

"I was very impressed with his amendment to Consent Resolution 37."

She spoke casually, politely, "I'm sure he would enjoy discussing CR-37 with you privately if you are interested in it."

The proposition was obvious, but for a fraction of a second, I hesitated, unable to believe such illicit trysts happened at all, much less with me. I thought briefly about his wife, the tabloids, my family. The way she spoke, it was clearly a commonplace occurrence, yet there had never been reports of infidelity in the media. Having only allowed myself the blink of an eye to decide, curiosity won the day. I answered, "I would certainly enjoy such a unique opportunity."

She set her purse on the counter to get out her compact and touch up her eyeshadow. Through her elongated face, one eye closed to apply makeup, she said "He will be giving a press briefing about it next Wednesday."

"Sadly, I have other commitments that day," I lied. I was uncertain what she intended until she sighed her minor disappointment and walked out. There was a room key on the counter where her purse had been. I palmed the key and tucked it into my obi as I left the powder room.

I did one more circuit around the party, mingling with guests before I went to the elevator. Not knowing the room number, I pushed the button for the top floor and waited for the doors to close before checking the key. I had the floor right. There was a Secret Service agent standing in the elevator lobby. He was ethnically Japanese but clearly an American. When he saw me, he said something into his sleeve instead of bowing.

The guard posted at the door, however, was definitely Japanese. He didn't bow because he didn't see me. I walked right in front of him and stood next to him to slide the key gently into the hotel room's lock. He couldn't see me because I wasn't there. No one entered the room, especially not a beautiful, young woman. I suddenly felt much more comfortable.

Adjusting the lighting in the bedroom was simple since angles didn't matter. The sitting room took some time. Ultimately, I had to rearrange all of the furniture, but it turned out fine. Reevaluating my own preparedness, I noticed that I wore uninspiring, white, cotton underwear. I wondered briefly what an over-sexualized woman should wear under her kimono, but the answer soon struck me with certainty: Chanel No. 5, of course. That settled, I sat and waited in the middle of the floor. It was a western-style room, no tatami mats, so that was the best I could do. One must learn to make do with the resources available to her.

He arrived hours later. As he opened the door, he looked tired, worn down, but as soon as he saw me, he became once again a perfect specimen of charm and decorum. He bowed and thanked me for the privilege of my company. He told me his name was Hiro, inviting me to speak familiarly with him by giving me a shortened version of his name. I had decided to give him my real name. "You may call me Yumi."

He paused and looked at me inquisitively. "Yumiko Itsumoto?" I admit I was so shocked he knew my name that my face may have shown my surprise. He quickly bowed low and said "I beg you to ignore my foolish ramblings, Geiko-sama." He addressed me by rank even though I hadn't worn the signet combs in my hair. I flatter myself to believe he inferred it from the quality of my performance since he was obviously surprised to learn who I was. He kept his eyes lowered respectfully as he rose from his bow and added, "My impertinence brings me great shame."

"I see no shame upon you, Hiro-san," I assured him with just a touch of formality, "I would be pleased for you to call me Yumi."

"Thank you Yumi-chan." He looked up at me, blinked, and smiled slightly. "You have your mother's eyes." He turned toward the wet bar and added, "and your father's audacity. Would you like a drink?"

When he looked back for my answer, I slowly blended formality into intimacy, leaving the honorific off his name as you would for a lover. "I would be pleased to drink with you, Hiro. You speak as if you know my parents." He turned back toward the bar and asked if they told me how they met. "At a cocktail party," I answered.

He sniffed and muttered, "hell of a cocktail party," while he dropped ice into two highball glasses. "I suppose that makes bourbon the order of the day." I did not know what he meant by that, but my answer to his offer of a drink suggested that I would have the same as he would. He returned from the bar with a small tray containing our drinks and four empty glasses. He sat down on the floor opposite me and arranged the empty glasses in a square on the carpet. Then he turned the tray upside down on top of them, making a small table so he could serve me formally. It was a nice touch, very polite.

"Cocktail parties," he said, raising his glass to make a casual toast in the American tradition. I raised mine formally in front of me with both hands, nodding assent to his toast, and tasted the liquor. He had initially sat cross-legged, but leaned aside and raised one leg to plant his foot on the ground. Then he propped his forearm, holding his drink, on top of his raised knee, transforming himself very quickly from the manicured statesman to an ordinary fellow at his ease. He proceeded to tell me the whole story.

"So Esau," my father's name, "had stolen a bottle of bourbon from the dean's office, and I knew this sophomore girl who was always looking for trouble. We snuck into her dorm room with the bottle, and within minutes we had five or six of them in there with us, all in their pajamas—this was in the middle of the night. It was beautiful. We're all pretty drunk pretty soon and having a great time. Esau has this one girl on his lap with a hand up her shirt, and she's a screamer. She starts squealing, and all the other girls are over there on top of them trying to shut her up because we're breaking all kinds of rules, of course. And I've got the bottle at that point, but all the girls are piled up on top of him, so I'm thinking 'what the hell?' right?"

"And that's when your mother walks in. And she's got curlers in her hair, and she's wearing this big, pink robe and matching slippers, some sort of gunk on her face, the whole bit." I laughed. Up to that point it felt like he was talking about someone else, surely not my uptight parents, but I could easily envision my mother as he described. I had seen her like that a few times.

"She doesn't curl her hair anymore," I said, too amused to consider the words before they came out of my mouth.

"Good," he assured me, "she shouldn't. She has a very elegant face, very classy. Anyhow, so we're smashed, and she's livid. She starts tearing into these girls like you wouldn't believe."

"I might."

He laughed hard at that. "You might. Now these girls know what's up, so every time she turns on a different one, anybody who thinks they can get away runs out of the room. Including, mind you, the two who live in it. Pretty soon it's just the three of us in there, and we've managed to stand up, but Esau is between me and the door, and he's just staring at her while she chews us out."

He made a face, tilting his head to the side, opening his mouth and crossing his eyes. "So I can't get around him—the room is tiny—and he's not going anywhere, and she just keeps yapping on and on. I don't know how she didn't run out of breath. Finally she gets to some rhetorical question like 'and what do you have to say for yourselves?' And in the split second she pauses, Esau says 'You're really pretty.' Zero hesitation, she slaps him hard."

Hiro became increasingly animated as he told the story, gesticulating and making faces and voices for the dialog. It was a joyful memory for him, and telling it made him feel young. He continued. "I can't help it. I bust out laughing. So she turns on me, and he reaches out to her and says 'Hey wait! What's you're phone number?' I wish I had a picture of the look on her face. She turns around to pick up the phone so she can beat us with it, and I push Esau out across the hall. Now, we're both totally plastered, and the only reason we don't fall down is that he's trying to go back in. But this room is at the end of the hall, and so we're up against the door to the stairs, and I'm trying to work the handle."

"She comes out holding the handset, dragging the phone behind her, and she swings it at him, but the cord isn't long enough! Whiff! And this is an old, heavy telephone, OK, this would have done some damage. She screams and yanks on it hard enough to rip the jack out of the wall, but by that time, I finally got the door open, so we proceed to fall down the stairs. When we get to the bottom, Esau yells 'Call me!' just before the door clicks shut."

"So yes, they met at a cocktail party," he quoted me, "I guess you could call it that."

I caught myself giggling, which is not something I do inadvertently. Mirroring his casual posture, I put one of my hands on the floor and slid my hips aside to sit on the floor rather than on my feet. "What else can you tell me about them?"

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"Esau!" Hiro stood and moved out from behind his desk. "How's it hanging?"

"Long and strong," Esau answered, "you?"

"Like a bull elephant." The two men, old friends, embraced. They had not seen each other in many years.

"I hear you saw Yumiko-chan in New York," Esau said.

Hiro's face lit with excitement. "I did! Check it out; I have a picture!" They walked to the credenza to look at the photograph. "She looks like her mother, doesn't she?" Esau smiled. "She acts like you, though."

Esau put on a frown and replied "How dare you talk about my daughter that way?" Both men dropped into defensive stances and pantomimed karate.

"Hey I've got to get to a meeting, but what are you doing Saturday night? We ought to pick up some chicks, get wasted and go skinny-dipping in the Miatomo River."

Esau clapped Hiro on the arm and said "sounds good." Then as he left the office pointed back at Hiro and added "hit me up."

That Saturday night, Hiro gave the keynote address to a convention of investment bankers. Esau took his wife to the symphony. The Miatomo River had been diverted 15 years prior for the construction of an office park.

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I returned from the bar with our refreshed drinks and set them on the small table he had set up. Then I knelt behind him and pulled his jacket back over his shoulders. He let me have it. I immediately dug my fingers deep into his shoulders, leaving him no chance to question or to object. He groaned as his head bowed and arms went slack. I spent several minutes on his shoulders before moving down his back, all the while working the back of his neck just enough to keep him silent.

I spoke to him of how much it meant to me to come to know my family better through his stories, of how he had given me a new appreciation for them. I told him of my own memories of them, of my decision to study traditional arts, of my mother's disgust and my father's support for it. With my hand on his neck I could feel him smile. I told him I had read the minutes of the Diet, and I described to him the ploys I had seen him use. He nodded silently. As I began to let him speak, he told me more of his strategies, subtleties I hadn't seen, contingencies that were still unfolding.