The Street of a Thousand Blossoms (52 page)

Hiroshi looked his coach in the eyes. “Hai, I understand,” he answered.

Tanaka-sama nodded, bowed, and turned to leave. But he stopped long enough to add, “Hiroshi, just remember, if and when you become champion you’ll be able to have anyone and anything you want.”

Hiroshi bowed again. If he once thought of sumo as a way to restore pride to his defeated country, he now also saw Aki as part of the prize. He trained hard and stopped his daily walks through the courtyard. As the days passed, he focused on the flow and strength of his moves. The only eyes he allowed himself to concentrate on were the hard, narrow ones of Kobayashi and the other wrestlers he would face during the stare-down.

Kenji loved spring best. It promised the warmth of summer, yet still held the freshness of winter. When he was a boy, it was always the season of anticipation for him, one in which his limbs seemed to stretch out after a long sleep. He smiled at the thought. Since Yoshiwara-sensei’s return, followed by his marriage to Mika almost a year ago, Kenji felt as if he’d finally materialized, Kenji the ghost disappearing for good. For the first time in his life he felt anchored.

Kenji awoke just before dawn and couldn’t sleep. He watched Mika, the dark outline of her body illuminated by the moon. She turned over, murmured in dream state, and then fell back into a deeper sleep. He rose quietly from their futon into the dark early-morning chill and made his way back to the mask shop as he always did when an idea kept him awake.

The sweet smell of the cypress wood rose in the sawdust as he guided the wood against the blade of the saw and shaped the curve of the forehead, something he did with the ease of repetition. He paused and glanced up at the ceiling, afraid the quick drone of the saw might have awakened his sensei upstairs. Kenji felt the clean edge of the wood and blew the sawdust away. Very carefully he began to chisel out her eyes, the deep, dark pockets and thin brows he loved. He smiled, still not quite believing that he and Mika were married, that the smooth touch of her skin was his alone. There was one ritual he would always keep—every year of their marriage he would carve
a mask of Mika—slowly capturing each nuance of her face as it changed from year to year. One day their children and grandchildren would be able to see her gradually age before their eyes, even after she and Kenji were long gone from the world.

Kenji stopped working when the milky first light of dawn entered the shop. He stretched and yawned, finally feeling tired as he carefully wrapped the mask in a piece of cloth and tucked it away in a cabinet. If he made his way back home, Mika might not even know he was gone. He smiled to think of her dark hair spread out like a fan against the white pillow, her eyes dazed with sleep, taking a moment before they focused and really saw him. Or perhaps she was already up, waiting to welcome him back to bed.

“I thought I heard someone down here.” Yoshiwara-sensei startled him.

“Sumimasen
, I’m sorry, I couldn’t sleep.” He bowed. “I thought I would come back and finish some work.”

Yoshiwara smiled, waved his arm in the air to dismiss his apology. Kenji still expected a hand to emerge from his sleeve like the magic tricks he’d seen as a boy. A year after his return, his sensei had finally said, “It was an accident of nature.” The explanation came from out of nowhere and Yoshiwara never looked up from the mask he was working on. “It was a bright and beautiful day after the snows and she just wanted to play an innocent game. But nature and fate had other plans.” Kenji listened intently. He wondered who the “she” was but kept quiet. Before then, he had had his own explanations, that it was a war wound, a stray bullet, an explosion or fire that took his sensei’s hand as he fled from the
kempeitai
or the American planes. Only once did Yoshiwara tell Kenji anything about his whereabouts during the years he was gone. “In the village of Aio, all the wood was made into charcoal. The masks felt very far away.” In time, Kenji thought, he would hear the entire story. Until then, he was grateful for the bits and pieces Yoshiwara shared with him. His sensei’s past was like a puzzle that would eventually all fit together. For now, the most evident change in the once taciturn Yoshiwara was how his words flowed more freely. His calm voice filled the room in unexpected bursts, as if to cover up some need or loneliness.
Kenji recognized the hard kernel of grief and how, strangely enough, they had traded places over the years.

Since Yoshiwara’s return, Kenji had listened and learned more about the masks, corrected the bad habits he had developed on his own: how he gripped the chisel too hard, or didn’t step away from the mask enough to gain perspective. “See with the eyes of the audience,” Yoshiwara told him. Kenji was an apprentice in training all over again. While his sensei could no longer chisel out the details of a mask with only one hand, he directed, taught, criticized, and still painted each mask with the precision and artistry that had made him the best mask maker in Japan.

After Kenji left the shop to go home, Akira Yoshiwara stayed to watch the morning light fill the mask shop and set it aglow. He was proud of the man Kenji had become, traces of the boy he once knew almost gone. His marriage to Mika-san had given him the courage and security he’d been searching for. Akira smiled to think that sometimes life was generous.

It was still early, but he’d been wide awake for hours listening to Kenji’s dull movements downstairs, punctuated by the short, sudden bursts of the saw. As he lay on his futon, he saw in his mind’s eye the curves and lines that took shape from a block of wood and felt a dull ache at the stub of his wrist where his left hand had been. He longed to guide the wood through the whirling blade again, feel the drone move from his fingertips up through his body. No one could understand—except for Kenji—how alive it made him feel.

When Akira walked into Kenji’s shop two years ago, he was still determined to make a mask from beginning to end. He worked late at night after Kenji left, or early in the morning before he arrived. But one-handed, the balance wasn’t there. His forearm couldn’t replace his hand making the precision cuts, chiseling in the rough facial features, and hollowing out the back of the mask. Piece after piece of cypress wood was ruined and discarded. Kenji stacked new
blocks of wood every day without saying a word. After a few weeks, Akira gave up. It was one thing for a man to want something; it was another to admit he couldn’t do it. Hadn’t desire and regret colored so much of his life already?

From the shelf, Akira took down an unfinished devil mask. He neatly lined up the jars of paint he needed across the table and concentrated on the things he could do. He devoted himself to sanding each mask until it acquired the smoothness of skin. Then he lacquered the back and made sure each intricate feature was painted. Yesterday, he had applied six coats of whitewash to prepare the devil mask for painting. His finger swept across the raised cheek to make sure the whitewash was dry. He would also need the box of brass balls used for eyes and teeth to complete the mask. The quiet of the room was soothing. As Akira opened each jar, the sharp smell of the paints greeted him like old friends. It was always the time of day he loved best, when work allowed his thoughts to roam without judgment or recourse.

He reached for the red paint. Akira’s sleep had been troubled lately, dreams he barely remembered when he awoke, though he carried lingering memories of Emiko and Kiyo into the day. Kiyo must be a young woman of almost eighteen now, someone he might not recognize, perhaps thinking of marriage and a child of her own. He smiled and carefully mixed the red paint with just a touch of brown, though it still appeared as bright as blood. And what of Emiko, had she found someone to share her praying-hands house with? He dipped the brush into the paint and spread it quickly and steadily across the mask, in even strokes. Aio was so remote. He imagined Emiko sitting by the hearth, accepting her life as it was. The red paint covered the ghostly pale wood, bright and glossy. When it dried, Akira would outline the eyes, lips, and horns in black and gold, draw in the intricate dark eyebrows with a fine brush. He stepped back to see the mask from a distance. In Aio, he used the hair from a horse’s tail to fashion the eyebrows and a beard for the
Okina
mask. He’d left Emiko and Kiyo a note saying he had to leave, that something urgent had called him back
to Tokyo. He was grateful to them for his life in Aio. Even as memory, the words returned to him empty and hollow. He looked up when he heard the faint stirrings of noise coming from the alleyway. The day was beginning. He found solace in knowing that Emiko had Kiyo, someone who would always care for her. Akira sighed, carefully picked up the red devil mask, and set it on the shelf to dry.

Hiroshi, still sweaty from his morning practice, sat on the tatami mats and watched Sadao pour him another cup of green tea. He rubbed his knee out of habit and leaned toward the low table where a bubbling pot of
chankonabe
waited for the upper-ranked wrestlers. He ladled spoonfuls of the chicken and vegetable stew over his bowl of rice. Hiroshi felt stronger than ever, having gained muscle weight while maintaining his speed. Even his skin felt different, stretched tightly across his hard stomach and the taut muscles of his thighs and calves.

“Are you ready to scale the great barrier?” Nishagawa asked. He’d just been promoted to a
sekitori
wrestler in the Juryo Division. The term
ozeki
meant “great barrier” and it was a formidable obstacle every
sumotori
hoped to conquer.

“As ready as I can be,” Hiroshi answered, swallowing rice from his bowl. “The rest is up to fate.”

“Ah, our elusive fates, the perfect remedy for avoiding upset,” Nishagawa said and laughed.

Hiroshi grunted in reply, trying not to give in to what he really felt, the uncertainty of his future. “Until you can think of another,” he added.

If Hiroshi could scale the great barrier and reach
ozeki
rank, sumo life would become easier. He’d no longer be demoted with just one tournament loss and could win and lose with a greater margin, while still maintaining his champion rank. The decision for promotion was made by the Sumo Association based on a wrestler’s winning record from recent
basho
, along with his moral character and sense of sportsmanship.

“I propose a toast to overcoming the great barrier, the dream of so many men!” Nishigawa raised his glass of beer.

Normally, Hiroshi would raise a glass in a toast. It was already a warm day and he would have usually downed several beers with his meal, but through the years he had developed certain rituals he followed as the
honbasho
days approached. Three nights before each tournament, he ate only chicken
chankonabe
and drank pots of green tea and no alcohol. He recalled the story his
ojiichan
told him, how no wrestler ate beef before a match. “And do you know why?” his grandfather had asked. “Because cows walk on four legs and chickens walk on two legs. And a
sumotori’s
goal is to always remain standing on two legs.” He could hear his
ojiichan’s
voice as if he were in the room, see him stroke his chin and smile. It was a gesture he’d seen since he was a little boy and he deeply missed it now.

Hiroshi raised his cup of tea and drank it down.