In his moving tale of a gray-eyed geisha, a first-time novelist explores the heart of historic Japan

By HANNAH BEECH

eneath the concrete layers and behind the flashing neon signs lies a memory of another Japan, one defined by scented fans, mannered dances and the haunting echo of a shamisen stringed instrument. Arthur Golden, author of the evocative Memoirs of a Geisha (Knopf; 434 pages), offers readers an entry to this bygone era. Never mind that Golden's debut novel actually takes place in a country rapidly industrializing for the coming World War II, a society where cleansing tea ceremonies and crimson lips on a rice-flour face seem increasingly anachronistic. Like a geisha who has mastered the art of illusion, Golden creates a cloistered floating world out of the engines of a modernizing Japan. And this sleight-of-hand is what draws us into the book and keeps us thoroughly absorbed.

The story begins in a rickety fishing village, where a somber, gray-eyed child named Chiyo is busy trying to keep the stench of salmon guts and the sickly odor of her mother's cancer out of her home. When Chiyo's mother dies, her father sells his daughter to an elite boardinghouse, where she will train to become a high-class geisha.

And so the eight-year-old Chiyo makes her entrance into Gion, the heart of Kyoto's "water trade." Here, 800 perfectly painted women rustle past in brocaded kimonos, their wooden sandals leaving tiny imprints in the snow. But underneath Gion's lacquered finish is a cruel core. A jealous mentor named Hatsumomo sets out to ruin Chiyo, clawing at the youngster's future with the desperation of a woman who knows she will be eclipsed when the gray-eyed girl blossoms. The only touch the hungry and homesick Chiyo feels is when "Auntie poured a bucket of water over my robe to make the rod sting all the more, and then struck me so hard I couldn't even draw a breath."

As she grows older, Chiyo learns that a geisha's success hinges on her mastery of understated sexual allure. Indeed, Chiyo--soon to be known by her geisha name, Sayuri--learns to flash a glimpse of her delicate wrist as she pours tea or to leave a slice of unmade-up skin barely visible at the base of her hairline. Soon Sayuri delights in making a noodle delivery boy trip over a curb as he strains to look at her graceful figure. And when two men bid for Sayuri's virginity, her stunning eyes and charming tearoom banter drive the fee up to a record price, more than a laborer could make in a year.

Golden, an American scholar of Japanese history, based much of his novel on extensive interviews with Mineko Iwasaki, who was a real-life geisha during the 1960s and 1970s. The meticulous research makes Gion come alive: Hatsumomo slathers on facial cream made of nightingale droppings, and geishas burn one-hour incense sticks to keep track of how much to bill per night.

It's a shock then, when Japan embraces all things Western in the go-go postwar years, and Sayuri must confront a world of bawdy American G.I.s, jet planes and, in the final years of her life, a luxury suite at the Waldorf Towers in New York. Even Gion's borders are buffeted by urban sprawl, and many geishas trade in their kimonos for miniskirts. At this stage, Golden's spell weakens, and the clarity of his narrative fades. And finally, as the edges of the floating world strain too much, we lose grip of the illusion that kept us entranced for so long.