“Not in Kyoto.” Bob Bloogee sighed.
By the time they arrived at Osaka International Airport, Annie was exhausted from excitement, and from the endless flight, despite all the comforts that the private plane provided. She was grateful to Mr. Wanabe, Uncle Bob’s “man in Kyoto,” when he ushered them through customs and had a Rolls-Royce waiting for them, but the ride to Kyoto was still long and tiresome.
The Tawaraya Ryokan, the traditional inn, came as a revelation. Mrs. Sato, the owner, met them at the gate, bowing low to Mr. Wanabe, then to all of them. Her family, he explained, had owned the Tawaraya for eleven generations. There were only nineteen rooms, and each was austerely magnificent as well as incredibly expensive.
Annie’s exquisite room was matted with tatami and had a wall of glass that opened to a wooden veranda strewn with cushions. There was very little furniture, a beautiful antique chest, a dark, low lacquer table, and a gilt screen with painted irises. The emptiness was set off by the beautiful vase in the wall niche, the tokonoma, filled with blooming quince, and the garden was a fabulous green, the mossy stone lantern already lit with a flickering light. There was a mesmerizing tranquillity to the place.
A knock on the door interrupted her trance of admiration.
“Hey, someone stole your bed, too,” Brenda exclaimed as she walked into the room.
“Oh, Brenda, there are no beds. The maids will lay out a futon on the floor for us.”
“I knew that. Boy, you must think I’m really ignorant. Look, they gave me a free kimono.” Brenda help up a cotton robe.
“No, kimonos are much more formal, that’s just a yukata. It’s to wear to the bath. Shall we?” Annie invited, slipping into hers.
“What? Take a bath together?”
“Everyone does.”
“Forget about it!” Brenda laughed. “What do you think I am, some kind of pervert?”
Dinner at the inn was magnificent. Even Brenda loved it, though she was unimpressed with the last course-plain white rice. Then Bob, Elise, and Brenda were ready for bed—“or futon, we should say,” Brenda reminded them.
Annie, though exhausted, was too excited to try to sleep. “Do you think it would be safe to take a little walk?”
“Safe as houses,” Uncle Bob assured her. “There’s no street crime here, and you won’t get lost because Kyoto is laid out on a grid, like New York.”
Annie ventured out, a little hesitantly at first. But the night was soft, the moon was out, and every view intrigued her. Buddhist temples knelt beside Shinto shrines crowded next to teahouses and bars.
Private houses seemed each to be protected behind a wooden gate.
Cobblestones glistened wetly under her feet. It seemed so exotic, so Asian, yet she felt so deeply at home.
She got as far as the bridge that spanned the Kamo River, the boundary of the Pontocko district, where the famous geisha reigned. Annie stood on the bridge and watched the reflection of lighted windows and lanterns on the water. Why haven’t I come here before? she asked herself. I have always been fascinated by Japan. Why did I wait so long? Why is my stay so short?
She was swept, all at once, with a sense of recognition. She should stay in this place. Here, it seemed, there was order, beauty, and peace. Buddhism, bonsai, and kimono. She felt so “right” here. She had to return to Japan.
At that moment, almost as a gift to reward her for her new promise, a woman in full traditional dress appeared at a gate, her kimono glowing in the moonlight. By her long sleeves and elaborate hairdo Annie recognized her as a maiko, a geisha in training. The young girl glided by her, silent as the river below. What a strange and wonderful place, Annie thought. And in this moment of peace, she thought, I can write.
She knew that now. And with this awareness, satisfied and at peace, she returned to the inn and her futon.
They spent the next day sight-seeing and shopping. The Imperial Palace, a teahouse for lunch, and then buying pearls in the afternoon.
“And now, ladies, I think it’s time to get down to business. Tonight we meet Tanaki,” Bob Bloogee reminded them. “He’s holding a banquet for us.”
“Black tie?” Elise asked.
Uncle Bob smiled. “Well, formal Japanese style. It will be a geisha dinner. Mr. Tanaki has sponsored many.”
Annie’s eyes glowed.
That night they readied themselves for Gion, the oldest and most revered geisha district in Japan. Annie dressed carefully, in a subdued dark blue suit. Ready early, she joined Brenda, who was still dressing.
“So, are they prostitutes or what?” Brenda asked as she struggled into a black dress.
“Certainly not,” Annie told her. “They’re artists. That’s what geisha means. They’re dancers and musicians, and they’re professional conversationalists.”
“Yeah, yeah. Just like actress-slash-models back in New York,” Brenda said cynically.
“No, Brenda. It’s an incredible honor to be invited to Gion.
Foreigners rarely get to go, and women almost never. An evening will cost over a thousand dollars a geisha. They were the geisha of the imperial court.”
“Right. Tell me they only plunked their guitars for the princes of the blood.”
“Samisens, not guitars. No, they did grant the pillow privilege, but only if they wanted to. They were the first working women of Japan, Brenda.”
“Working girls, it sounds like.”
“They set up a kind of union back in the sixteenth century. They were the only women of substance who didn’t have to marry. Andthey never had pimps. They had—still have—sisterhoods, with older geisha sponsoring young ones.”
“Well, I say they sing like cats and wear too much makeup. Anyway, what makes you such an expert?” Brenda asked.
“I don’t know. I’ve always been drawn to what the Japanese call the water business. Geisha managed to pull off a lot of things without ever being either too pushy or sordid.”
“Still, women here are really downtrodden,” Elise said as she joined them. “Uncle Bob told me he’s never met Tanaki’s wife. That all businessmen entertain without their wives, that younger men go to bar girls and that older businessmen have geisha to help with their entertaining What a country !” “Oh, I don’t know. At least here there is a convention that people observe. Men don’t just walk out on women.
And women do rule in the home. Most Japanese men hand over their paychecks to their wives,” Annie reminded them.
Elise shrugged. since she’d never had financial problems, it didn’t seem like much to her, Annie supposed. “Well, let’s get going. Uncle Bob and Tanaki await us.”’ Gion was a reserved-looking group of streets where discreet gates obscured lovely gardens. There were no neon lights, no signs of bars. The teahouse opened from its courtyard to a large room. Mr. Tanaki, his assistant Mr. Atawa, and several other men were already assembled. Bob Bloogee was led to the seat of honor, the okonoma at his back. Annie knelt beside Mr. Wanabe on one side and Mr. Atawa on the other. But it was Tanaki who drew her attention.
He was old—perhaps in his early seventies, perhaps older. It was hard to tell. But he had what the Japanese call iki—the Asian equivalent of chic. His suit, a dark blue silk, was perfectly cut, as was his hair, a thick white thatch. His French cuffs were immaculate, the gold links that held them incised with a family crest or sign of some kind.
On his left pinky he wore a small signet ring.
Perhaps he felt her eyes on him, for he looked up at her then. His own, deep brown, hooded, appraised her for a moment.
Why, he’s sexy, she thought with surprise, and had no more time to think as the banquet began. It started with the maiko and geisha filing in, the maiko resplendent in brightly colored kimono and obi, the geisha’s more reserved, more subtle.
Smoothly, they moved to a place behind each guest and began to pour from the sake bottle each carried.
Annie looked over to Elise. Drinking, even to excess, was expected at a banquet such as this. But Elise deftly turned her tiny sake cup upside down on the table. The geisha looked at her for only a moment, then smiled and bowed her head. Annie sighed.
Next came the first course, always a raw dish, to be followed, Annie knew, by a vinegared, a boiled, a roasted, a baked, and so on. “Do you care for our food?” Mr. Atawa asked in perfect Oxford-accented English.
“Very much.” Unlike the others, who seemed at a loss with one another, they talked about his job as a translator and assistant to Mr. Tanaki and of the performance soon to come.
”The maiko will retire and one of the geisha will dance while others play. Then Okiko, a very famous geisha, will sing kouta. Those are our ballads. Like haiku, bUt a bit longer. Do you think you’ll care for them?”
Annie was sure she would, especially with Mr. Atawa’s deft simultaneoUs translation. One was about a geisha’s loyalty, another about leaving Kyoto. They were short, and Brenda rolled her eyes at the dissonance. bUt Annie found the Iyrics breathtaking and evocative.
As Mr. Atawa translated, Annie’s eyes shone. She looked across the table to see Mr. Tanaki once again watching her. She looked away and blushed.
What a strange country, she thought. Where courtesans are immortalized, even worshiped, but wives must remain anonymous. Where loyalty is an absolute, but men such as Tanaki split their time between family and geisha. She shook her head in wonder and looked up to see Mr. Tanaki’s eyes on her again.
The following morning they were ushered into Tanaki’s office, which was large but sparsely furnished—a shoji screen divided the space into a traditional Japanese area and a westernized one with a rosewood desk, an antique leather-topped table, and eight chairs. Both Mr. Atawa and Mr. Tanaki rose and bowed as they came in.
Mr. Wanabe presented the gifts they had brought, traditional for any visit, and Tanaki ceremonially presented his offerings.
“Please thank Mr. Tanaki for the wonderful opportunity to share the banquet last night,” Annie requested of Mr. Atawa.
Tanaki asked something of Atawa. “Did you enjoy the music?” he translated.
“Yes, particularly the kouta by Izumi,” Annie said. Tanaki bowed.
They moved to the chairs, though Annie wished they could have sat Japanese style. She felt Tanaki would be more comfortable that way, and after all, everything depended on his temperature.
After some pleasantries, Bob Bloogee cleared his throat. “Mr. Tanaki.
We come with some newS. It seems that Maibeibi is being hunted. You have become a Wall Street target.”
Mr. Atawa looked shocked for a moment, then translated. Tanaki shook his head and murmured.
”Many are hunted, few are brought down.”
“Well, in this case, there is cause for concern. Mr. Gil Griffin of Federated Funds Douglas Witter has bought up blocks of stock, some bank holdings, and those of pension funds. He’s promised very good returns
…
Atawa was translating simultaneously, then he turned to them.
“Mr. Tanaki believes the majority shareholders will stand with him.
If not, he is no longer necessary here.”
“That’s a gamble we prefer you not take, Mr. Tanaki,” Elise said. “We have reason to dislike Mr. Griffin and his methods. We think your interest would best be served, as would ours, if you take more active steps.”
Tanaki spoke to Atawa sharply. Mr. Wanabe cleared his throat. Annie watched the silk curtain descend. She knew the decision was made.
“Let me outline the proposition we have,” Elise continued, oblivious.
She told them how Bloogee Industries was willing to buy the money-losing Maibeibi Shipyards right now, scotching Gil’s cash-raising plan, and how Bloogee would then sell the Portland Cement Works, which Maibeibi could use in their huge development project in Oregon.
Annie watched as Tanaki simply waited. It was all over. He had made his decision. Just as the geisha were being replaced by bar hostesses, traditions were ending. In the global economy that had followed Japan’s economic miracle, there was no room for emotional decisions.
Annie sighed. Her eyes wandered around the room. Little of the man was visible in this office. There were a few plaques, a picture of Tanaki with Gerald Ford taken on that president’s trip to Japan. And next to it was a picture of Tanaki and his family. A wife, quite a bit younger than he, but still middleaged. Three daughters in their twenties. And a son. A son. Annie looked more closely. Staring at her from the silver frame was the unmistakable face of a Japanese teenager with Down’s syndrome.
After she had shown him her wallet-sized picture of Sylvie, Tanaki had stopped the meeting and taken her out onto the terrace. He left Atawa behind, with directions to take the others to tour the moss garden.
Then they stood in silence for what seemed like a long time. Then he turned to her. “You are unusual woman. Most unusual. I am right?”
Tanaki spoke elegant, if accented, English.
Annie, completely surprised, nodded, then shook her head. ‘I don’t know.”’ “You know,” he told her, and then smiled, but his eyes stayed sad. “How old is your girl?”
“Almost eighteen. And your son?”
”Hiroshi is fifteen.”
Annie wondered if the boy was a disappointment to his father. After all, it was the son who was expected to carry on the family and the business. But somehow in this extraordinary encounter with this extraordinary man, she thought not.
“He is an old soul, Hiroshi,” Tanaki said. Then he was silent for a while. He turned, at last, back to Annie. “You are married?”
“Notanymore.”
“Your husband is dead?”
“No. No. He … he left.”
“Ah. American men. Very weak. I watch them. They have no sense of family, of what is …” He paused, searching for the English word.
“They look only at today, like children. Today’s woman.
Today’s profits. Today’s investment. And when woman, profit, investment, is older, it is over. They are not fathers. They were not good fathers to Detroit.” He shook his head. “And Japanese men are following. They will be like Gil Griffin in ten years.”
Annie nodded, shocked by such openness from the man, a stranger and a Japanese. “You know Gil Griffin, then?”
“I know many Gil Griffins,” he said. “Let us talk of more important things. You like Kyoto?”