I FIND GREAT IRONY in my choice of profession.

A first-class geiko is constantly in the glare of spotlights while I spent much of my childhood hiding in a darkened closet. A first-class geiko uses all the skills at her command to please her audience, to make every person she comes in contact with feel wonderful, while I prefer solitary pursuits. A first-class geiko is an exquisite willow tree who bends to the service of others while I have always been stubborn and contrary by nature, and very, very proud.

While a first-class geiko is a master of creating an atmosphere of relaxation and amusement, I don't particularly enjoy being with other people.

A star geiko is never, ever alone and I always wanted to be by myself.

Odd, isn't it? It's almost as if I was deliberately choosing the most difficult path for myself, one that would force me to face and overcome my personal obstacles.

In fact, if I hadn't entered the karyukai, I think I would have become a Buddhist nun. Or a policewoman.

It is difficult to explain why I made the decision to enter the karyukai when I was such a little girl.

Why would a small child who adores her parents decide by herself to leave them? Yet I was the one who chose to enter this profession and this workplace, thus betraying my parents.

Let me tell you how it happened, and maybe the reasons will become more transparent in the telling.

Looking back on my life, I can see now that the only time I was ever truly happy was when I lived with my parents. I was secure and free, and even though I was very young, I was left alone and allowed to do exactly as I pleased. After I left home when I was five, I was never really alone again and spent all my time trying to please other people. All my subsequent joys and triumphs were marred by ambivalence and a dark, even tragic, counterpoint that became part of me.

My parents were very much in love. They were an interesting match. My father came from a family of ancient aristocrats and feudal lords who had fallen on hard times. My mother came from a family of pirates turned physicians who were very rich. My father was tall and lean. He was sharp-witted, active and outgoing. He was also very strict. My mother was the opposite. She was short and plump, with a lovely round face and an ample bosom. Where my father was hard my mother was soft. However, they were both explainers, comforters, peacemakers. His name was Shigezo Tanakaminamoto (Tanakaminamoto no Shigezo in classical Japanese format) and hers was Chie Akamatsu.

Our lineage was founded by Fujiwara no Kamatari, a man who became a nobleman during his lifetime.

The Tanakaminamoto line has been in existence for fifty-two generations.

The Fujiwara family of aristocrats historically held the position of regent to the emperor. During the reign of Emperor Saga, Fujiwara no Motomi was awarded the rank of daitoku (the highest rank of court minister as established by Shotoku Taishi). He died in 782. His daughter, Princess Tanaka, married Emperor Saga and gave birth to a prince named Sumeru, who was eighth in the line of imperial succession. As a retainer of the emperor, he was given the name Tanakaminamoto and became an independent aristocrat.

Minamoto is a name that, to this day, only aristocrats are entitled to use. The family went on to hold various high positions, including court geomancer and official in charge of shrines and temples. The Tanakaminamotos served the imperial order for over a thousand years.

Great changes took place in Japan in the middle of the nineteenth century. The military dictatorship that had ruled the country for 650 years was overthrown and Emperor Meiji was installed as the head of the government. The feudal system was dismantled and Japan began to develop into a modern nation-state. Led by the emperor, the aristocrats and intellectuals began a lively debate about the future of the country.

At that time, my great-grandfather, Tanakaminamoto no Sukeyoshi, was also ready for a change. He was tired of the endless factional infighting of the aristocracy and wanted to rid himself of the onerous duties his position demanded. The emperor decided to move the imperial capital from Kyoto, where it had been for over a millennium, to Tokyo. My family's roots ran deep in their home soil. My great-grandfather didn't want to leave. As head of the family, he made the momentous decision to give back his title and join the ranks of the commoners.

The emperor pressed him to remain in the peerage but he proudly declared that he was a man of the people. The emperor insisted that he at least retain his name, which he agreed to do. In daily life the family now uses the shortened form of Tanaka.

Though noble in sentiment, my great-grandfather's decision was disastrous for the family's finances. Giving up his title, of course, meant forfeiting the property that went along with it. The family's estates had covered a vast area of northeastern Kyoto, from Tanaka shrine in the south to Ichijoji Temple in the north, an area thousands of acres in size.

My great-grandfather and his descendants never recovered from the loss. They were never able to gain a foothold in the modern economy that was propelling the country, and languished in genteel poverty, living off their savings and thriving on their outmoded sense of inherent superiority. Some of them became quite expert in the ceramic arts.

My mother is a member of the Akamatsu family. In olden times, they were legendary pirates who buccaneered the trade routes around the Inland Sea and out toward Korea and China. They amassed quite an ill-gotten fortune that they managed to parlay into legitimate wealth by the time my mother came along. The Akamatsu family never served any Daimyo, but themselves had the power and property to govern Western Japan. The family was awarded the name Akamatsu by Emperor Gotoba (1180-1239).

While adventuring about in foreign commodities the family gained much knowledge about medicinal herbs and their preparation. They became healers, and eventually rose to become house physicians to the Ikeda clan, the feudal barons of Okayama. My mother inherited the ability to heal from her ancestors and passed her knowledge and skill on to my father.

My mother and father were both artists. My father graduated from art school and became a professional painter of textiles for high-end kimono and an appraiser of fine porcelain.

My mother loved kimono. One day, while visiting a kimono shop, she happened to run into my father, who fell in love with her on the spot. He pursued her quite relentlessly. Their class differences were such that my mother felt a relationship was impossible. He asked her to marry him three times and she refused. In the end my father got her pregnant with my eldest sister. This forced her hand and they had to get married.

At the time my father was very successful and making a lot of money. His creations brought the highest prices and he was bringing home a good income every month. But he was giving most of this to his parents, who had little other source of funds. My grandparents lived with their extended family in an enormous home in the Tanaka section of town that was manned by a large staff of servants. By the 1930s the family had gone through most of its savings. Some of the men had tried their hand at constable and civil servant work, but nobody was able to hold on to a job for very long. They simply had no tradition of working for a living. My father was supporting the entire household.

So, even though my father wasn't the oldest son, my grandparents insisted that he and my mother live with them when they got married. Basically, they needed the money.

It was not a happy situation. My grandmother, whose name was Tamiko, was an overbearingly flamboyant character who was autocratic and short-tempered, the exact opposite of my gentle, docile mother. My mother was the one who had been raised like a princess. But my grandmother treated her like she was one of the help. She was abusive to her from the start and berated her constantly for her common background. There were some notorious criminals within the Akamatsu lineage and my grandmother acted like my mother's line was polluted. She didn't think my mother was good enough for her son.

Grandmother Tamiko's hobby was fencing, and she was a master at wielding the naginata, or Japanese halberd. My mother's quietness drove my grandmother crazy and she started to taunt her by threatening her openly with the curved lance of her weapon. She'd chase her around the house. It was bizarre and very scary. One time my grandmother went too far. She repeatedly slashed through my mother's obi (kimono sash), severing it from her body. That was the final straw.

My parents already had three children at the time, two girls and a boy. The girls' names were Yaeko and Kikuko. Yaeko was ten and Kikuko was eight. My father was in a quandary because he didn't have enough money to support his parents as well as an independent household. He was discussing his troubles with one of his business associates, a kimono fabric dealer. He talked to my father about the karyukai and suggested that he might try, at least once, to speak to an owner of one of the establishments.

My father met with the owner of the geiko okiya, Iwasaki, of Gion Kobu, one of the best geiko houses in Japan, and one from Pontocho, another of the geiko districts in Kyoto. My father found positions for both Yaeko and Kikuko and was given contract money for their apprenticeships. They would be trained in the traditional arts, etiquette, and decorum and fully supported in their careers. After they became full-fledged geiko they would become independent, all debts would be cancelled, and all the money they earned would be their own. As agent and manager of their careers, the okiya would continue to receive a percentage of their income.

My father's decision drew the family into a compact with the karyukai that was to affect all of our lives for many years to come. My sisters were devastated at having to leave the safe haven of my grandparents' house. Yaeko never got over her feelings of being abandoned. She remains angry and bitter to this day.

My parents moved with my eldest brother to a house in Yamashina, a suburb of Kyoto. In the ensuing years my mother bore eight more children. In 1939, financially strapped as always, they sent another one of their daughters, my sister Kuniko, to the Iwasaki okiya as an assistant to the owner.

I was born in 1949, when my father was fifty-three and my mother was forty-four. I was the last of my parents' children, born on November 2, a Scorpio in the Year of the Ox. My parents named me Masako.

As far as I knew, there were only ten of us in the immediate family. I had four older brothers (Seiichiro, Ryozo, Kozo, and Fumio) and three older sisters (Yoshiko, Tomiko, and Yukiko). I wasn't aware of the other three girls.

Our house was spacious and rambling. It was located on the far side of a canal. The house was situated on a large piece of land and there were no others next to ours. It was surrounded by woods and bamboo groves and backed up onto a mountain. One approached the house on a concrete footbridge over the canal. There was a pond in front of the house bordered by a stand of cosmos. Beyond that was a front yard with fig and pepper trees. Behind the house was a big backyard that had a coop full of chickens, a fish pond stocked with carp, a pen for our dog Koro, and my mother's vegetable garden.

The downstairs of the house had a parlor, an altar room, a living room, a room with a hearth for dining, a kitchen, two backrooms, and my father's studio and the bath. There were two more rooms upstairs over the kitchen. The other kids all slept upstairs. I slept with my parents downstairs.

I remember one incident with glee. It was during the rainy season. There was a large round pond in front of our house. The hydrangea bush next to the pond was in bloom, the bright blue in harmony with the green of the trees.

It was a perfectly still day. Suddenly, big drops of rain began to plop down. I quickly gathered up my toys from under the pepper tree and ran inside the house. I put my things down on a shelf next to the mahogany chest.

Right after everyone got home it started to pour. The rain was coming down in buckets. In what seemed like minutes, the pond began to overflow its banks and the water started flooding into the house. We all rushed around in a frenzy taking up the tatami (straw matting). I found the whole thing very amusing.

After we rescued all of the tatami that we could, we each got two pieces of strawberry candy that had a picture of a strawberry on the wrapper. We were all running around the house and eating the candy. A few of the tatami mats were floating on the water. My parents got on them and started using them like rafts, propelling themselves from room to room. They were having more fun than anybody else.

The next day my father gathered us together and said, "Alright everyone. We've got to clean up the house, inside and out. Seiichiro, you take a crew and work on the back bluff, Ryozo, you take a crew out to the bamboo grove, Kozo, you take a crew to clean the tatami, and Fumio, take your baby sister Masako and get instructions from your mother. Understand? Go out there and do a good job!"

"And you, Dad, what are you going to do?" We all wanted to know.

"Someone has to stay here and man the castle," he said.

His battle cry energized us but there was one problem. All we had to eat the night before was that strawberry candy and we had been too hungry to sleep. We were famished. All of our food had been lost in the flood.

When we complained to my father he said: "An army can't fight on an empty stomach. So you'd better go out and scour for provisions. Bring them back to the castle and prepare for a siege."

After receiving their orders, my older brothers and sisters went out and came back with rice and firewood. At that moment, I was very glad to have brothers and sisters, and grateful for the riceball I was given to eat.

Everybody stayed home from school that day and slept like there was no tomorrow.

Another day, I went to feed the chickens and retrieve the eggs as usual. The mother hen was named Nikki. She became angry and chased me back into the house, where she caught up with me and bit my leg. My father got furious and caught the hen.

He picked her up and said, "I'm going to kill you for this." He wrung her neck right then and there and hung her dead body under the eaves of the house by her neck. (Usually he hung them by their feet.) He left her there until everyone got home from school.

When they saw her they all thought "Yummy! We're having chicken-in-the-pot tonight." But my father said to them sternly. "Take a good look at this and learn something from it. This dumb beast took a bite out of our precious Masako. It ended up dead as a result. Remember. It is never okay to hurt other people or cause them pain. I will not permit it. Understand?" We all pretended that we did.

That night we had chicken-in-the-pot made from the unfortunate Nikki. I couldn't eat it.

My father said, "Masako, you have to forgive Nikki. Most of the time she was a good chicken. You should eat so that Nikki can attain Buddhahood."

"But my tummy hurts. Why don't you and Mommy help Nikki become Buddha, instead." Then I said a little prayer.

"That's a good idea. Let's do what Masako says and all eat the chicken so that it can attain Buddhahood."

Everyone said a prayer for the bird, dug in and thoroughly enjoyed helping Nikki become a Buddha.

Another time, in a rare show of conviviality, I was playing together with everyone else. We went up onto the mountain on the right side of our house. We dug a big hole and took everything out of the kitchen, all the pots and pans and dishes, and dumped them into the hole.

We were playing near my brother's secret fort. We were having a great time when my older brother dared me to climb a pine tree that was right there.

The branch broke and I fell into the pond in front of our house. My father's studio faced the pond. He heard the big splash when I fell. He must have been surprised but he didn't overreact. He looked at me and asked calmly, "What are you doing?"

"I'm in the pond," I said.

"It's too cold to be in the pond. What if you catch a cold? I think you'd better get out of there."

"I'll get out in a couple of minutes."

At that point my mother showed up and took charge. "Stop teasing her," she said. "Get out of there this instant!"

My father reluctantly picked me up out of the pond and summarily deposited me in the bathtub.

This should have been the end of it, but then my mother went into the kitchen to make dinner. Everything was gone. She called out to my father, who was taking a bath with me.

"Dear, I'm afraid there's a problem. I won't be able to make dinner. What should I do?"

"What in the world are you talking about? Why can't you make dinner?"

"Because there's nothing's here. All our things are missing!"

I overheard this conversation and figured I'd better alert everybody to her discovery so I started to head out the door. My father grabbed me by the collar and held me fast.

Pretty soon everybody came home. (It would have been better if they hadn't.) My father prepared to mete out his customary punishment in which he lined them up and hit each one over the head with a bamboo sword. I usually stood by his side while he did it (thinking, "I bet that hurts"). But not this time. That day he yelled at me: "You too, Masako. You're part of this." I started whimpering as he lined me up with the others. I remember saying "Daddy" but he ignored me. "This is also your doing." He didn't hit me as hard as he hit the others but it was still a great shock. He had never hit me before.

We didn't get any dinner. My brothers and sisters cried while they took their baths. Then we were sent to sleep. My brother complained he was so hungry that he floated in the bathtub like a balloon.

My parents' involvement in aesthetic pursuits meant that our house was full of beautiful objects: quartz crystals that glittered in the sunshine, fragrant pine and bamboo decorations that we hung up for the New Year, exotic-looking tools and implements my mother used for preparing herbal medicines, shiny musical instruments like my father's bamboo shakuhachi flute and my mother's one-stringed koto, and a collection of fine handcrafted ceramicware. The house also boasted it's own bathtub, the old-fashioned kind that looked like an enormous iron soup kettle.

My father was the ruler of this little kingdom. He had his studio at home, and he worked there with a few of his many apprentices. My mother learned the traditional kind of Japanese tie-dyeing known as roketsuzome from my father and became a professional in the field. My parents were known for their herbal remedies. People were constantly coming over to ask them to concoct something for them.

My mother did not have a strong constitution. She suffered from malaria and it had weakened her heart. Yet she still had the fortitude and perseverance to give birth to eleven children.

When I couldn't be with one of my parents I preferred my own company to anyone else's. I didn't even like to play with my sisters. I loved silence and couldn't stand all the noise that the other kids made. When they came home from school I would go hide or find some other way to ignore them.

I spent a lot of time hiding. Japanese houses are small and sparsely furnished by Western standards, but they have enormous closets. That is because we store many household items in them when not in use, such as our bedding. Whenever I was upset or uncomfortable about something, or I wanted to concentrate or just relax, I would head into the closet.

My parents understood my need to be alone and never forced me to play with the older kids. Of course they kept an eye on me, but they always let me have my own space.

Yet I do remember wonderful times when the family was all together. My favorite of these were the beautiful moonlit nights when my parents would perform duets, he on the shakuhachi and she on the koto. We would gather round to listen to them play. I had no idea how soon these idyllic interludes were going to end.

But soon they did.