The Former Geisha

“Until I was 27, I worked as a geisha. Of course, now they have thought up other names for the profession, but the work remains the same. I served the rich tourists from Europe and America and sometimes I posed for pornographic magazines.”

“How did you come to join up with feminists? I know you have become one of the most active ones here.”

“Yes, I am. Well, one day my patience just came to an end. My beauty and youth weren’t enough for them. They kept on tormenting me and robbing me of other things, especially my health.”

Nobuko and I were sitting in a little hotel, where in place of glass the windows were glazed with wax-covered paper as in old Japan and the doors resembled moveable screens, painted all over in large flowers. Two mattresses lay on the floor for us. Nobuko put on emerald-colored kimono; another one, the color of sapphires, had been laid out for me.

“Each time had become a greater torture for me, especially when they videotaped me,” continued the young woman across from me, visibly disturbed. “They tied me up with thin chamois strips, which dug into my skin. They pricked me with a sharp samurai sword until I began to bleed. I remember that I moaned and pleaded with them to stop, but they insisted that they had to finish this sadistic film. They promised me a lot of money, but of course deceived me and only paid a small amount.”

Nobuko went to get the teapot from the low table which, in addition to the two mattresses, made up the entire furnishings of the room. She had a flowing way of walking; her marvelously shaped head sat decisively on her long neck. Nobuko was accompanying me from Tokyo. We had spent three hours on the Sinkan-sen train getting to Kyoto. After that we headed to the “Tintukurin” restaurant, because one of my Japanese friends had assured me that they served best tempura in Kyoto there. We declined the sake.

“They got me drunk on it for my whole life. I don’t want any more of it,” said Nobuko. “They used to give me sake before the photo sessions so I wouldn’t feel the pain so much. It’s a very strong hot Japanese vodka, you know.”

Nobuko spoke fluent English with the characteristic Tokyo accent – a soft intonation. Now, half lying on the mattresses which were spread with coverlets of the same color as kimonos, we drank green tea from black and gold teacups which just into the palms of our hands. Kyoto, the former capital of Japan, always strived to preserve an aura of antiquity. The quiet music of drums and fragile strings floated into our rooms in the “Yukata” as through the walls.

“So that’s how I left to join the feminists. I looked them up. I had heard about their movement a long time before, but I really didn’t think it would be possible for me. Then one day I read an article in one of their magazines about prostitution for tourists and I felt they would accept me as on of their own. From that day I prefer the company of women. I can’t look at my former tormentors.”

Before going to sleep, Nobuko and I went to the hotel baths. The Japanese have to be careful about using water and don’t build private showers in the hotel rooms. And the bath tubs in their homes aren’t like ours: they are square and deep; you sit instead of lying in them. We undressed. Suddenly, I saw on Nobuko’s beautiful body all kinds of scars, especially horrible on the chest. I could hardly restrain my feelings, shivering all over as Nobuko told her story, and when I saw her naked with the traces of these torments, I broke into tears and kissed her scars. She stroked me on the head and added, “It’s all right. Don’t upset yourself. Calm down. All that is over now.”