The Street of a Thousand Blossoms (15 page)

Yoshio leaned against the wooden post of the tower, sucked on his pipe, and let the smoke drift, floating upward into the wet April evening. Since the “Sacred War” showed no signs of coming to an end, he only smoked once in a while now, usually after dinner. Tobacco, along with everything else, was almost impossible to obtain, even with ration coupons, or when possible through the black market. It was a luxury, usually hoarded and kept in a tin can with a box of matches beneath one of the kitchen floorboards, along with Fumiko’s wedding ring, her silver pin, and pearl earrings wrapped in a silk scarf. He inhaled again, tasting hints of vanilla and cinnamon on his tongue, savoring it.

For the past week, Yoshio had been living his life completely in the dark, though he kept it to himself, not wanting Fumiko to worry further or to disrupt the boys’ lives any more than the war and rationing already had. He took another puff from his pipe, remembered the scatter of glowing lights from neighboring houses, the night air filled with floating voices. Blindness mattered little, since the blacked-out windows and air-raid curtains scarcely let a sliver of light seep out. His face turned upward to the wide canvas of dark sky. He mourned the absence of moonlight. Since February, he’d strained to see any faint glow that might be a star, any remnant of moonlight. Now he could no longer see if there were stars in the sky, something he’d once loved to do with Fumiko when the boys were
little and asleep. She loved stargazing. “They never leave,” she had whispered to him. “They may hide behind the clouds but I know they’re always there.” For Yoshio, those stars would forever hide behind the clouds and he would have to learn to believe with the same faith that Fumiko had. They were there.

Now that Yoshio was completely blind, it made less difference than he expected. In many ways it was easier; he no longer struggled to make out the faint shadows around him, but simply gave in to the darkness. And by doing so, his other senses became more acute. Or perhaps he just concentrated on them more. It helped that he was blessed with a vivid memory—the fifteen steps leading up to the watchtower from the kitchen, the one hundred and eighty-three steps from the front gate to the bar down the street, the two-inch scar on Fumiko’s lower right side from when she had had her appendix removed as a girl. In fact, there were times when Yoshio preferred to follow his memories rather than the calculated steps through this world gone mad. Not that he could ever voice such unpatriotic thoughts aloud; what with the neighborhood associations keeping watch on their every move and the National Defense Women’s Association on each corner, the smallest indiscretion might bring the
kempeitai
to their doorstep.

It had been a difficult day and his thoughts simmered. Since the rumors of heavy Japanese losses at Midway and Guadalcanal, followed by the destruction of the entire Japanese convoy at the Battle of Bismarck Sea, which he learned about through a letter his friend Taiko had received from his son, Yoshio felt that the tide had turned for his country, even as radio broadcasts proclaimed otherwise. It was just a matter of time, he thought.

Okata from the neighborhood association now came by once a week, expecting each household to donate anything that would help with the war effort. Rumors circulated around the neighborhood that the Okata household lacked for nothing—there was always ample rice on his table; payment for his scavenging for the military. And each week he seemed to be more aggressive. Yoshio had never liked Okata; he was the kind of man who always needed to be noticed.

So when Okata came from down the street at noontime today, Yoshio was already agitated. He was glad the boys were at school. His neighbor’s insistence upon coming in somehow frightened him. Okata immediately bragged about the Buddhist temple bells and altar brass that were donated to him just that morning for the metal drive, and how the authorities would be pleased.

“Yes,” Yoshio had said. “And we know how important it is to please the military.”

Okata had let the remark pass; without a pause, he’d added that Oda-san down the street had donated his entire tool set.

In that same moment, Yoshio remembered Fumiko had forgotten to take off her gold wedding ring. He had felt it when he brushed across her hand at breakfast. Usually, she removed it every morning in case there was a surprise visit from Okata, but she liked to put it back on when they went to bed. “It’s hard to sleep without it,” she’d said, just last night.

Okata had caught sight of it, too. “Ah, your gold ring, Fumiko-san! You must be so proud to be able to serve our nation by donating it.” Yoshio could hear the greedy smile in Okata’s voice. “Every little thing will lead to our nation’s victory.”

Yoshio heard a whisper of reply from Fumiko, the sharp intake of breath as she twisted the ring off her finger, followed by the slow release of air, as if she were deflating.

“Okata-san,” he said quickly, without thought. “I’m sure one small ring won’t do much to help the nation.”

In the silence, he felt Okata staring at him, judging him, deciding what this meant for him to oppose the neighborhood authorities.

“Yoshio-san is just being a sentimental old man,” Fumiko interjected. “What does a ring matter, a small piece of metal that can be easily replaced when our nation is victorious.”

Then Okata laughed loudly, “Yes, Yoshio, this is not the time to be sentimental. Our nation needs all our help until victory is achieved.”

Yoshio remained silent, barely able to swallow. It was Fumiko who bravely carried on, giving Okata another iron pot and a silver hair ornament, her voice light and animated, never once revealing her grief.

Standing high in his tower, sucking on his pipe, Yoshio let go of the day’s difficulties until he felt as if he were far away from all that troubled him. A mild wind stroked his face; he closed his eyes to his memories. Their story, Fumiko’s and his, had begun with a dance. He smiled at the thought of his body once being so limber, so full of power and vanity. He had grown up on the sea coast of Hokkaido—in the port town of Hakodate—and Fumiko, in the larger city of Sapporo. Yoshio always believed people who lived by the sea carried within them a lighter, more fluid water spirit. His father had been a fisherman and Fumiko’s a shopkeeper, humble people who never wanted more from life than to provide for their families. Still, Fumichan had always been a big-city girl in his eyes.

Fumiko had an aunt, uncle, and cousin who lived in Hakodate and she spent several summers there with them. Yoshio first saw her at the Bon Odori during Obon, when everyone in town gathered together to dance in honor of the spirits of the dead. The raised platform of the
yagura
was set up in the middle of the dance grounds, a
taiko
drum on it. Men, women, and children danced around the
yagura
to the rhythmic beat of the drum, the clicking of bamboo sticks, the raised fans, the simple, repetitive steps, each executed in the pure expression of joy, free of their usual shame or inhibitions. Yoshio had begun dancing at the Bon Odori as a little boy, adapting to the steps with ease and grace. Every year he joined the circle and felt the lightness of the spirits inhabit his body.

And the colors. Once again they soared through his darkness—the red, green, and yellow lanterns strung from the
yagura
high above their heads, matched by the patchwork kimonos and the round bamboo and parchment fans that floated in the air like white masks. The first time he saw Fumiko was the summer she was fifteen—a white blossom in her black hair, wearing a yellow
yukata
kimono, walking carefully on her cloglike wooden
geta
. Seeing Fumiko struck him like a bright flash of lightning, a surge of energy. The lanterns cast a bright glow over everything as he watched her across the circle. The rhythmic beating of the
taiko
drum began,
each
step-beat, step-beat
became his heart pounding. At seventeen, he was frightened and astounded. So, this was love. Yoshio followed Fumiko in the dance around the circle, trailing the yellow of her kimono, the white flower that peeked in and out from the crowd, the beckoning of her fan—the
step-beat
that he still felt now. She moved as if she were floating, as if the lightness in her step reached up and met his. Four years later, he had saved enough for the gold ring, even before their families sat down for the marriage negotiations.

Now he heard Fumiko down in the kitchen cleaning up after their meager dinner, the flow of water echoing against the hollow kettle, the clinking of rice bowls in the hot water, her low, soothing hum that still gave him comfort after forty years of marriage. Yoshio turned toward the sounds and smiled in his new sightlessness. Then carefully, with a calm assurance, he took the first step back down to her.

Fumiko poured the rest of the boiling water into the sink to rinse the last of the bowls. Her thoughts rose with the steam, which clouded her vision, and her soft humming became a choking sob. Did Yoshio think she was a fool? That she wouldn’t know he’d completely lost his sight? They had been married so long that she knew what he’d do even before he did it. It was as subtle as the arrangement of stones in a garden—the increased time he spent alone up in the watchtower, the way he no longer looked but tilted his head to listen, even the way that he touched her felt different, as if he were seeing with his hands. She knew. It was a marriage that hadn’t faltered in forty years, despite the heartache of losing Misako and the raising of their grandsons. They had lived two separate lifetimes together, nurtured two families, and even with the hardships of war and rationing, she never felt their family strength waver. But the moment she slipped the ring off her finger and handed it to Okata, Fumiko experienced a shiver along the back of her neck, the breath of a bad omen. In that instant, she knew Japan would never win the war
and that even greater sacrifices would follow. If even a small sliver of gold from a ring was needed, what hope was left?

Since midday, a silent rage had smoldered inside of her. She tried to calm herself by sewing the padded head coverings they were instructed to wear during air raids, and writing or embroidering their names on the inside of their clothes in case of an emergency. She was thankful her husband couldn’t see the look of pleasure on the bastard Okata’s face as his sweaty palm closed around her ring. Yoshio would have struck him, just as she had imagined herself doing a hundred times since Okata left this morning. What stopped her was his connection to the
kempeitai
, and the fear that he might suspect Hiroshi of stealing from him. Quite unexpectedly, Okata had spoken of Hiroshi the last two times he’d come to the house. “Fumiko-san, your older grandson is becoming quite a young man, so tall and strong.” And just this morning, “Perhaps Hiroshi has thoughts of joining our emperor’s Imperial Army?” Coincidence? Fumiko shook her head and knew it wasn’t. Okata never said anything that didn’t mean something else. In the end, the ring wasn’t important, but the well-being of her grandsons was another matter. For the first time, Fumiko realized she would kill for them.

She looked up when she heard Yoshio coming down the stairs, rubbed her eyes so he wouldn’t know she’d been crying, then remembered that it was the quality of her voice she had to control now. Could she find the right balance between fear and hate? She watched him pause at the bottom of the stairs, and then take the five steps to his chair by the table.

“Tea?” she asked, her voice steady and controlled.

He nodded, looking pale in the dim light. “It’s a calm night.”

“Best to enjoy them while we can,” she said, regretting the ominous undercurrent.

Yoshio looked at her, squarely in the face, as if he could still see her. “They are numbered,” he agreed.

After a moment of silence, Fumiko said, “Perhaps we should discuss Reiko-san’s offer?”

“Hai,”
he answered quietly.

Fumiko knew that a number of families from the neighborhood
had begun to evacuate to the safety of the countryside to wait out the war. But until that moment, they hadn’t spoken seriously about sending the boys to his niece and her family outside of Nagano.

“It’s something to think about,” he added.

“Hai.”
Fumiko heard the unexpected rise in her voice as she agreed.

She poured tea into a clay cup and placed it in front of Yoshio. But before she could turn away, he reached for her hand, his familiar warm grip holding tight.

Hiroshi pushed his shovel with ease into the muddy ground, which was still saturated from the April rains. Murky puddles stood at the side of the road as he and his classmates Mako and Takeo began to dig. Digging trenches was far from the work in munitions plants or airplane-parts production they had hoped to be doing to help their nation’s war effort. Soon, their clothes would be covered in mud. He knew his
obaachan
would shake her head when he returned home, take the small amount of fuel they had and hurry him to bathe, while she soaked his clothes in a tub of water.