he Baron, but the Chairman as well. Even the theater director from several 
nights earlier . . . he'd hardly so much as glanced at me. I won't say I'd felt worthy of the 


Baron's company earlier; but now I couldn't help realizing once again that I was nothing more 
than an ignorant girl from a fishing village. Hatsumomo, if she 
had her way, would keep me down so low, every man who visited Gion would remain forever 
out of my reach. For all I knew I might never see Baron Matsunaga again, and never come 
upon the Chairman. Wasn't it possible Mameha would realize the hopelessness of my cause 
and leave me to languish in the okiya like a little-worn kimono that had seemed so lovely in 
the shop? The Baron-who I was beginning to realize was something of a nervous man-
leaned over to scratch at a mark on the surface of Mameha's table, and made me think of my 
father on the last day I'd seen him, digging grime out of ruts in the wood with his fingernails. I 
wondered what he would think if he could see me kneeling here in Mameha's apartment, 
wearing a robe more expensive than anything he'd ever laid eyes on, with a baron across 
from me and one of the most famous geisha in all of Japan at my side. I was hardly worthy of 
these surroundings. And then I became aware of all the magnificent silk wrapped about my 
body, and had the feeling I might drown in beauty. At that moment, beauty itself struck me as 
a kind of painful melancholy. 

Chapter sixteen 

One afternoon as Mameha and I were strolling across the Shijo Avenue Bridge to pick up 
some new hair ornaments in the Pontocho district-for Mameha never liked the shops selling 
hair ornaments in Gion-she came to a stop suddenly. An old tugboat was puffing its way 
beneath the bridge; I thought Mameha was just concerned about the black fumes, but after a 
moment she turned to me with an expression I couldn't quite understand. 

"What is it, Mameha-san?" I asked. 

"I may as well tell you, because you'll only hear it from someone else," she said. "Your little 
friend Pumpkin has just won the apprentice's award. It's expected she'll win it a second time 
as well." 

Mameha was referring to an award for the apprentice who'd earned the most during the 
previous month. It may seem strange that such an award existed, but there's a very good 
reason. Encouraging apprentices to earn as much as possible helps shape them into the sort 
of geisha who will be most appreciated in Gion-that is to say, the ones who will earn a lot not 
only for themselves but for everyone else too. 

Several times Mameha had predicted that Pumpkin would struggle along for a few years and 
end up the sort of geisha with a few loyal customers-none of them wealthy-and little else. It 
was a sad picture, and I was pleased to learn that Pumpkin was doing better than that. But at the same 
time I felt anxiety prickling at my stomach. Pumpkin now seemed to be one of the most 
popular apprentices in Gion, while I remained one of the most obscure. When I began to 
wonder what it might mean for my future, the world around me honestly seemed to grow 
dark. 

The most astonishing thing about Pumpkin's success, as I stood there on the bridge thinking 
about it, was that she'd managed to surpass an exquisite young girl named Raiha, who'd 
won the award the past several months. Raiha's mother had been a renowned geisha, and 
her father was a member of one of Japan's most illustrious families, with almost limitless 
wealth. Whenever Raiha strolled past me, I felt as a simple smelt must feel when a silver 
salmon glides by. How had Pumpkin managed to outdo her? Hatsumomo had certainly 
pushed her from the very day of her debut, so much that she'd begun to lose weight lately 
and hardly looked herself. But regardless of how hard Pumpkin may have worked, could she 
really have grown more popular than Raiha? 


"Oh, now, really," said Mameha, "don't look so sad. You ought to be rejoicing!" 

"Yes, it's very selfish of me," I said. 

"That isn't what I mean. Hatsumomo and Pumpkin will both pay dearly for this apprentice's 
award. In five years, no one will remember who Pumpkin is." 

"It seems to me," I said, "that everyone will remember her as the girl who surpassed Raiha." 

"No one has surpassed Raiha. Pumpkin may have earned the most money last month, but 
Raiha is still the most popular apprentice in Gion. Come, I'll explain." 

Mameha led me to a tearoom in the Pontocho district and sat me down. 

In Gion, Mameha said, a very popular geisha can always make sure her younger sister earns 
more than anyone else-if she is willing to risk hurting her own reputation. The reason has to 
do with the way ohana, flower fees," are billed. In the old days, a hundred years or more ago, 
every time a geisha arrived at a party to entertain, the mistress of the teahouse lit a stick of 
one-hour incense-called one ohana, or "flower." The geisha's fees were based on how many 
sticks of incense had burned by the time she left. 

The cost of one ohana has always been fixed by the Gion Registry Office. While I was an 
apprentice, it was A3, which was about the cost of two bottles of liquor, perhaps. It may 
sound like a lot, but an unpopular geisha earning one ohana per hour has a grim life. 
Probably she spends most evenings sitting around the charcoal brazier waiting for an 
engagement; even when she's busy, she may earn no more than A10 in a night, which won't 
be enough even to pay back her debts. Considering all the wealth that flows into Gion, she's 
nothing more than an insect picking at the carcass-compared with Hatsumomo or Mameha, 
who are magnificent lionesses feasting at the kill, not only because they have engagements 
all night long every night, but because they charge a good deal more as well. In 
Hatsumomo's case, she charged one ohana every fifteen minutes, rather than one every 
hour. And in the case of Mameha . . . well, there was no one else in Gion quite like her: she 
charged one ohana every five minutes. 

Of course, no geisha keeps all her earnings, not even Mameha. The teahouse where she 
earned the fees takes a portion; then a much smaller portion goes to the geisha association; 
and a portion to her dresser; and right on down the line, including a fee she might pay to an 
okiya in exchange for keeping her account books and tracking her engagements. She 
probably keeps only a little more than half of what she earns. Still, it's an enormous sum 
when compared with the livelihood of an unpopular geisha, who every day sinks deeper and 
deeper into a pit. 

Here's how a geisha like Hatsumomo could make her younger sister seem more successful 
than she really was. 

To begin with, a popular geisha in Gion is welcome at nearly any party, and will drop in on 
many of them for only five minutes. Her customers will be happy to pay the fees, even 
though she's only saying hello. They know that the next time they visit Gion, she'll probably 
join them at the table for a while to give them the pleasure of her company. An apprentice, on 
the other hand, can't possibly get away with such behavior. Her role is to build relationships. 
Until she becomes a full-fledged geisha at the age of eighteen, she doesn't consider flitting 
from party to party. Instead she stays for an hour or more, and only then telephones her 
okiya to ask her older sister's whereabouts, so she can go to another teahouse and be 
introduced to a new round of guests. While her popular older sister might drop in on as 
many-as twenty parties during an evening, an apprentice probably attends no more than five. 


But this isn't what Hatsumomo was doing. She was taking Pumpkin with her everywhere she 
went. 

Until the age of sixteen, an apprentice geisha bills one-half ohana per hour. If Pumpkin 
stayed at a party only five minutes, the host was billed the same as if she'd stayed a full hour. 
On the other hand, no one expected Pumpkin to stay only five minutes. Probably the men 
didn't 
mind that Hatsumomo brought her younger sister for only a brief visit one night, or even two. 
But after a while they must have begun to wonder why she was too busy to stay longer; and 
why her younger sister didn't remain behind as she was expected to do. Pumpkin's earnings 
may have been high, you see-perhaps as high as three or four ohana every hour. But she 
was certain to pay for it with her reputation, and so was Hatsumomo. 

"Hatsumomo's behavior only shows us how desperate she is," Mameha concluded. "She'll do 
anything to make Pumpkin look good. And you know why, don't you?" 

"I'm not sure, Mameha-san." 

"She wants Pumpkin to look good so Mrs. Nitta will adopt her. If Pumpkin is made the 
daughter of the okiya, her future is assured, and so is Hatsumomo's. After all, Hatsumomo is 
Pumpkin's sister; Mrs. Nitta certainly wouldn't throw her out. Do you understand what I'm 
saying? If Pumpkin is adopted, you'll never be free of Hatsumomo . . . unless it's you who is 
thrown out." 

I felt as the waves of the ocean must feel when clouds have blocked the warmth of the sun. 

"I'd hoped to see you as a popular young apprentice before long," Mameha went on, "but 
Hatsumomo certainly has gotten in our way." 

"Yes, she has!" 

"Well, at least you're learning how to entertain men properly. You're lucky to have met the 
Baron. I may not have found a way around Hatsumomo just yet, but to tell the truth-" And 
here she stopped herself. 

"Ma'am?" I said. 

"Oh, never mind, Sayuri. I'd be a fool to share my thoughts with you." 

I was hurt to hear this. Mameha must have noticed my feelings at once, for she was quick to 
say, "You're living under the same roof as Hatsumomo, aren't you? Anything I say to you 
could get back to her." 

"I'm very sorry, Mameha-san, for whatever I've done to deserve your low opinion 