National Geographic Traveller UK 10.2019

The woman shules through the rain, her
oil-paper umbrella barely shielding her
elaborate hairstyle. The wood of her shoes
clacks against the pavement. She begins to
hum, the beautiful cacophony forcing me to
shake loose my mother’s hand and follow her
through the lantern-lit streets of Gion.
I’m led to a wooden teahouse with black
strips of fabric decorating the entrance. My
mother catches up to me and we seek shelter
under the baked-tile roof.
A powdered white face greets us
wordlessly and gestures to a private table.
I sit facing a painting of woven animal hair
depicting a nightingale: the messenger of
song stands proud and awaits the promise
of performance.

The aroma of the tea set before me is a

hard one to decipher — green tea with notes

of ylang ylang or possibly chrysanthemum.

I don’t know what etiquette to follow,

so I nod in thanks. The hollow twang of

a shamisen (a three-stringed instrument)

summons a geisha’s shadow — given away by

a single lantern — from behind a screen of

paper fans. I reach for my mother’s hand.

The beautiful woman clad in a brightly

coloured kimono steps forward and gracefully

sinks onto the layered tatami. She commands

an air of mystery and femininity. Raising a

billowing sleeve to her face, she parts her

sugared lips in silent lament, revealing ink in

her teeth, stark against the white of her nape.

I’m transixed. Perhaps she’s found a lover

and they’re forbidden from being together.

Perhaps her child has been snatched by the

Shinigami (death spirits).

Her hands are well versed in the art of

performance. They form shapes that whisper

of love and loss. She quickens the pace of the

story with a lutter of her fan and the entrance

of a high-pitched lute. Perhaps she’s running.

The staccato rhythm intensiies as she arches

her back and crosses her eyes.

The dancing girl is still as the shamisen

quiets. Two wooden boards clap, forcing her

onto her knees. She meets my gaze, red-and-

black-rimmed eyes proud and unwavering.

“The rain didn’t last very long,” my mother

comments as we slip on our shoes. “We

should hurry before it pours again.”

“Do you think she was reunited with her

lover in the end?” I ask, as we hurry past the

machiya (townhouses) and stop to admire the

beauty of Shirakawa Canal. A sot moonlight

glow bathes the white cherry blossoms as

they dance on the gentle water below.

“What lover?” my mother asks. “She was

playing a man nurturing the dream of living

in a better world.”

I glance up to study the willow trees. Their

branches low elusively through the wind as

if each one held its own story.

RUNNER-UP

JAPAN: THE GEISHA’S SHADOW

AN ENCOUNTER WITH A GEISHA IN THE OLD KYOTO DISTRICT OF
GION PROVOKES WONDER... AND MORE QUESTIONS THAN ANSWERS.
WORDS: CHLOE CHIOY

Japanese women
wearing yukatas

TRAVEL WRITING COMPETITION

October 2019 193