For the next ten months, I would continue to see Mikio once or twice a month whenever the okiya was empty and I could find the time. Someone observing our relationship from the outside may have called me a courtesan, and perhaps it was something like that (although I believe a similar observation could be made about many wives, many of whom behave like courtesans with only one client). I let Mikio experience pleasure with me (though Mikio was quite sickly, so this never lasted long) and in return he would gift me treats, small gifts, and most importantly, knowledge. Originally, this transactional nature was what I wanted, though it grew beyond that.
As I reflect on my memories, now as a much older woman, I must admit I have complex feelings about so many things that happened to me, and that I saw happen to everyone around me. I can see myself now clearly for the child I was at 16 when I first met Mikio. But even so, I still view Mikio as my first love.
I have had many men in my life over the years, and I can say my time with Mikio was not the most exciting time with a man I ever experienced. It was also far from the worst; even then, I knew from the stories I heard from Pumpkin and other women I lived with just how cruel and violent men could be, and in time, I would learn for myself. Mikio, thankfully, was not such a man. I learned soon that he was a widow; his wife had died in while giving birth to their one son, who by that time a doctor who lived in Tokyo and rarely came to visit his father (during one night, Mikio would tell me that, unable to cope with the grief of losing his wife, he had been especially cruel to his son during his childhood). He mostly lived his life in isolation, and having me in his life had brought him an excitement he hadn't experienced in a long time.
As I mentioned, Mikio was quite sickly, so his "eel" never spent too much time finding my "cave," so to speak. But in the long hours we spent together, we talked about many many things: history, news, politics of the world, the arts, everything you can imagine. I didn't realize the depths of my ignorance until meeting Mikio, but he never made me feel lesser for it. The first couple of months I had to essentially learn how to read characters again, as I had barely learned anything in my village, and certainly wasn't receiving education as a maid. But I was a fast learner, especially with Mikio as a teacher. He had amassed a massive collection of scholarship in his apartment over the years, preferring to bury his feelings in reading, and let me read books and scrolls in his apartment (while letting his hands wander around inside my clothing, of course). He also let me take anything from his apartment that I wished, although my true wish would have been to take everything, and I think he may have let me if I asked. But I knew I couldn't arrive back to our okiya with a crate of books and scrolls; the last thing I wanted was for someone to become suspicious of me (no one paid attention now, but Mother and Hatsumomo both would have begun surveilling and tormenting me if they knew I was studying). Instead I took some small things here and there: a small book, poetry scroll, or a newspaper, or anything else that could fit in my robe, to sneak back with me and keep under the floor in my maid quarters. I would read and reread the material, prepared to discuss what I learned whenever I returned to see Mikio, which was never as frequently as I would have liked. But when we were together, we would spend hours talking, and this was invaluable to me.
When he first met me, I daresay I was as dull and uninteresting as any young girl with no experience in the world would be. But after five months I could hear how different I sounded, speaking on Kabuki, The Tales of Genji, or the emergence of the samurai during the Kumakura period. We also talked about places in Japan I had never been to and could only imagine; how glorious and exciting Tokyo was, and how he promised to take me one day, though he never did. I had finally discovered a liveliness within myself I had never known. I had been Chiyo, a sad, dead inside maid for so long that I was quiet during the first few nights we were together. But eventually I felt myself becoming more charming, learning to talk to Mikio about his life and moods, but with a sense of humor, or a witty comment. He liked this very much, and began to comment on it sometimes.
"Chiyo, I imagine there is no woman in Kyoto as smart and clever as you!" I didn't know if he really believed it, but it was gratifying to me all the same. He especially became friendly and over complimentary after sake, which I always declined, since it wouldn't do for me to return to the okiya tipsy. But he still taught me drinking games, and many other lewd things I supposed I would find useful one day. I had found relations between men and women embarrassing, as I was still so young. But eventually I started practicing how to use my words to seduce a man, and practiced on Mikio, leaving little notes with poetry behind whenever I left. It worked better than I imagined; one day he gave me a sealed letter as I was leaving, which I did not read until I returned to the okiya. In the letter was a mess of sweet nothings, at the end, closed with "Sakomoto Chiyo, I have loved no woman as have loved you."
Of course, it was not my plan to be Mikio's mistress for the rest of my life. Even when we spent our happiest moments together, my mind was never far from Gion and the world of geisha, the world I was so desperate to be part of. I couldn't become part of that world while carrying on with a bookshop owner. After almost one year of our affair, I had begun thinking of ways to politely end our meetings, now confident that I had learned and experienced enough to get by and hold my own. But fate intervened on my behalf in a tragic way. When I arrived at the bookshop to look for him again one night, I only found a distraught Hiroto. When I approached him and asked him what was wrong, he hesitated, clearly about to give me bad news.
"I'm sorry Chiyo, but Mikio passed away one week ago. I'm sure you knew he had been sick, and he had a sudden pneumonia that took him quite quickly. I wanted to send word to you, but didn't know where to send it."
My chest tightened, and my mouth opened to scream, but no sound came out. I had only asked once about his illness, after he had mentioned he had an ailment keeping his "eel" from working the way he wished. I wanted to know more, especially as I could see the sallow look on his face deepen the last couple of months we were together. But he never wished to speak of it. Instead he would simply say "Chiyo, you make me feel alive, and that is all I care about."
"He….cared about you so much," Hitoro continued. "He had been alone for many years, especially after his son left. But he was so vibrant after you came into his life, more than I had ever seen him."
I wanted to thank Hitoro for his words. But nothing could come out.
"He also told me how smart you are, Chiyo, and how much you love to learn. Please know you are always welcome here in this bookshop."
On my journey back to the okiya, even as I had told myself I had needed to end my time with him, I wept. He had shown me a new world of knowledge, and was one of very few adults who had shown me anything close to kindness. It was a transactional kindness, but even so, he had treated me better than he could have. And I knew then, and especially know now, this is all anyone can hope for.
Before returning to the okiya, I stopped at a temple to pray for Mikio's spirit.
My time with Mikio had reaffirmed my belief that it was possible for me to be a great geisha. I had learned so much in such a short time, and become more sophisticated than many women - and even men - I knew. But I was still no closer to being on the path to being a geisha than I was before. My debts were considerable, I was "old" for starting training, and few in Gion knew me (and of those who did, most of what they knew was about my disastrous attempt to run away, and a few even knew of the incident with Mameha's kimono).
My mind constantly went back to Mameha. I had felt an enormous level of guilt for what I had done, and imagined she hated me. But at the same time, somewhere along the line, I had realized that I needed her. The first path to becoming a great geisha was to have an already successful older sister mentoring you. Without that, even with training, you would almost certainly get nowhere. I'm certain Mother had imagined Hatsumomo might one day be mine, but such a thing would have never happened, even without my own mishaps. Mameha was a great geisha though, even greater than Hatsumomo, and with her help, perhaps I could become what I eventually convinced myself I was destined to be. But I'd need to convince her first - a tall task on its own, and one that likely had no chance of happening, as I had not seen her since that one awful time. I began looking for Mameha when I went out to run errands, hoping to bump into her. What I would have done had that opportunity actually arisen, I couldn't tell you, because I had no plan beyond that. But it didn't matter, because I never found her. Eventually, I began to lose hope that I'd ever see her.
And then finally, when I was 17-years-old, my chance finally arrived.