The Street of a Thousand Blossoms (8 page)

His mother was no more sympathetic. “He is your father,” she told him over and over, “and you must do as he says. The factory is yours to inherit as the eldest son, but instead of rejoicing, you find fault with a life that has brought our family such good fortune!”

“Give the factory to Shintaro,” Akira said, “or Suki. I’d rather be penniless than spend my life working in that cannery every day.”

The sharp sting of his mother’s slap startled him, taught him to watch his words and keep silent, even though his feelings grew in strength and conviction over time. And as much as he loved his younger brother, Shintaro, and sister, Suki, he knew they didn’t understand him any more than his parents did.

Akira knew he was different. He excelled in school and enjoyed art most, saw beauty in things most boys took for granted—the curve of a branch, the different shades of green in the grass, the shape and texture of stones. The life he imagined for himself had to do with beautiful things. He began taking the train to Tokyo, visiting galleries and then art studios, until one day he stumbled upon Yutaka Wakayama’s masks. They were like nothing Akira had ever seen. As soon as he met his future sensei, he knew that he wanted to be a great mask artisan. At the time, Wakayama was near fifty and well known in the theater world. If Akira hadn’t had the courage to leave his home and family at fifteen to become Wakayama-sensei’s student in Tokyo, he might still be back in Yokohama, canning fish. He remembered boarding the train before his parents awoke to find him
gone for good, feeling both exhilarated and frightened. As the train pulled away from the station at Yokohama, he began to laugh, which brought tears that didn’t stop until he reached the Kawasaki station.

His father had disowned him twenty years ago. His parents were dead now, his brother and sister a long-ago memory from another life. But even now, whenever he passed a fish shop, the smell transported him right back to the hateful years of his youth.

Akira glanced at the ivory cat sitting on another shelf, the gift from Otomo Matsui, an acknowledgment of his talent and the success he had achieved in his art. Still, there was something he couldn’t find in the book of masks, or the intricately carved cat, or in his beloved masks themselves. He missed the touch of another man. The first time Wakayama had stroked him tenderly across the cheek at seventeen, it was like a startling welcome through his body, and something, something Akira knew he had been searching for all his life, had finally come true. Since Wakayama-sensei had died ten years ago, there had been no lasting relationship in his life, only a series of mistakes, quick, empty encounters that had left him dazed and discouraged, and worst of all, the young writer Sato, who had left him heartbroken. Three years had passed since he’d left, and Akira still felt Sato’s smooth body pressed against his back, his quickening breath, followed by the flicker of his tongue on his neck. Like a ghostly presence, it haunted him at the most unexpected times. It wasn’t the close paternal comfort that he’d had with Wakayama, but a flash destined to burn itself out, leaving ashes.

Over the years, actors and artists came to his shop, revering him and hoping that he would consent to make them a famous Yoshiwara mask. If he let himself, he might find one who would return his affection, relieve his loneliness for just one evening as he’d done before. He thought of Otomo Matsui and felt as if all the air had been pulled out of him, then pushed the silly thought from his mind. Matsui had been linked to the most famous geisha in Kyoto, Hanae Mitsuhara. It was rumored he was her
danna
, her patron, and they had a child sent away to boarding school in Europe. Besides, Akira Yoshiwara knew it wasn’t for himself that Otomo Matsui, or any of them, visited his shop. It was for the masks—the one thing he could hide behind.

Ever since he was a young boy, Hiroshi’s
obaachan
had told him that each person’s life was made up of one defining moment, that instant when he would understand his
unmei
—his destiny and direction in life. “Whether you step toward it or not is up to you,” his grandmother added. “Just remember, it will follow you no matter where you go.”

But the more Hiroshi thought about what his grandmother had told him, the more he began to worry. What if he missed his moment? Would he have another opportunity?

“But how will I know it’s my destiny?” he asked his
obaachan
.

His grandmother laughed. He thought his
obaachan
sounded very young, more like his mother than his grandmother. “Like love, it will possess you, Hiro-chan,” she said. “You can’t help but know.”

Six weeks later, in late October, Kenji attended a Noh performance with Yoshiwara-sensei. He arrived early at the mask shop to find his teacher dressed in a formal black kimono, his hair tied back and beard neatly trimmed as he paced the floor, waiting. Kenji was dressed in his dark blue, double-breasted school blazer and shorts, the only formal clothes he had. He had thought about borrowing one of his
ojiichan
’s kimonos but decided against it. Now, he wished he had, instead of looking like a twelve-year-old schoolboy.

Yoshiwara stopped abruptly. “Ah, you’re finally here,” he snapped.

“It’s still early,” Kenji answered. “We have plenty of time.”

Yoshiwara-sensei smiled and disappeared into the back room. When he emerged again, he was carrying a blue silk kimono with a subtle white wave pattern on it. “Perhaps you might want to change into this. It will be much more comfortable.”

Kenji hesitated.

“It’s much too small for me,” Yoshiwara added. “I was hoping you
might honor me by wearing it. It would be a shame to waste such a good kimono.”

Kenji eyed the kimono and bowed low to his sensei before receiving it.
“Domo arigato gozaimasu.”
The material felt smooth and cool to his touch.

“Go change then,” he instructed. “And hurry, so we won’t be late.”

Moments later, Kenji had shed his blazer, white shirt, shorts, and pulled on the silk kimono, so light and fluid against his body. He tied the sash and glimpsed his reflection in the dirty window. For the first time he felt like an adult, no longer just the younger brother, the one left behind.

Yoshiwara locked the shop and they made their way toward the train station. Kenji’s voice filled the quiet alley with excited questions. How long were the plays? Had he seen Otomo Matsui in this role before? What was the theater like?

“Time stops when you’re watching Noh,” Yoshiwara turned to him and said. “Life pauses. It’s best seen if you clear your mind and let the performance take over.”

As they approached the train station, Yoshiwara told him that they wouldn’t be seeing a full-length program, beginning with the ceremonial
Okina
, the ritual dance of an old man. The
Okina
was usually followed by five Noh plays, with a short Kyogen, or comic play, performed in between. Instead, they would be seeing two Noh plays, separated by a Kyogen play, as ordered by the Home Ministry.

The train station was bustling and noisy; a knot of people gathered around a young soldier who was leaving to fight in China, while the
kempeitai
, the military police, with rifles slung over their shoulders, lingered on the platform, and beggars and vendors pushed and shoved in front of people. Kenji could barely keep up with Yoshiwara’s quick stride.

On the train, Kenji remained quiet the rest of the way into Tokyo center, secretly hoping everything would be as magical as his sensei made it sound. October was still very warm and the train crowded. He began to sweat with the excitement of visiting the theater and seeing Matsui perform. He raised his arms to the back of the wooden
seat in front of him when he felt the dampness, and feared it would leave dark stains on the kimono Yoshiwara had given him.

When Kenji stepped from the train station and out into the afternoon sunlight, he paused to look around at what was once the bustling theater district of Tokyo. It looked tired and stripped of the glamour he imagined. The buildings stood in shadows, looking dark and dingy, the slip of blue sky above, mocking. Many of the shops and theaters had been boarded up and closed since the China war. People lingered in front of the station as if held captive, as if they had stopped and simply couldn’t go on. Kenji felt something sink in the pit of his stomach.

“Kenji.” Yoshiwara’s voice startled him. “Come this way,” he said, and touched his shoulder.

The moment they entered the dark coolness of the Jincho Theater, it was as if he’d entered another world. Time did stop for Kenji. They found their seats up front in the second row. Much to Kenji’s surprise, the theater was almost filled. The soft chanting of the chorus onstage filled the room and mesmerized him. The curtainless stage was simple and bare, covered with a long sloping roof like that of a Shinto shrine. Kenji spied a lone pine tree painted on the back wall. He had read that it symbolized longevity and steadfastness, standing behind a wooden bridge from which the actors entered and departed. He heard drums, and a flute begin to play in the background. Yoshiwara explained that the chorus of eight, called the
jiutai
, sat to the side of the stage and narrated the story.

At first, Kenji was too excited to pay attention to the chanted words that hummed through the room, muted by the beating of his own heart.
Hagoromo
was the story of a heavenly maiden and a fisherman who finds her magical feather robe. Otomo Matsui would appear as the fisherman. When the players all came forward, filling the spare stage, Kenji saw that each step was like a dance. Each gesture meant something, and each word was recited like poetry. Matsui’s every move animated his wooden mask and brought it to life. As he
bowed his head, the fisherman appeared to smile, but with a slight upward tilt the fisherman stood defiant. Kenji studied every one of the great actor’s shifts and moves, and marveled as the mask became part of Otomo Matsui’s own body.

Afterward, he and Yoshiwara-sensei went backstage to congratulate and thank Matsui-sama. A small crowd had gathered around the actor, but he looked up and saw Yoshiwara-sensei immediately. “Come, come,” he announced, “I want you all to know this is the man who creates each of our wondrous masks.”

Yoshiwara hesitated, but Matsui urged him forward and bowed low to him, still clutching the fisherman’s mask in his hand. Kenji had never seen his sensei so happy.

“And who is this with you?” Matsui asked, as he stood straight.

It took a moment for Kenji to realize that Matsui had focused his attention on him. Up close he appeared older, though no less commanding.

“This is the next great mask maker for the Noh.” Yoshiwara turned to him. “Kenji Matsumoto.”

Kenji bowed low to Matsui-sama. It was the first time Yoshiwara had said anything about his work. He felt the blood rush to his head with the suddenness of his sensei’s praise.

“And how did you enjoy our performance?” Matsui asked.

Kenji felt his face burn and he quickly bowed again. For the entire performance, he had felt suspended above his real life—his troubles with the other boys at school, the seed of fear planted in the middle of his stomach since the China war began, even his hunger had suddenly subsided as if by magic. “I found it the most moving performance I’ve ever seen.”

Matsui laughed. “Yoshiwara-san, I don’t know what kind of mask maker this boy is, but he certainly knows how to praise the actor behind the mask!”

With that, the entire group laughed. Kenji swallowed with relief when he looked up to find that attention had shifted and Matsui was already greeting other admirers.

A month after seeing Matsui’s performance, when Kenji entered the warm shop one November afternoon, Yoshiwara unexpectedly stopped working and asked, “What are the two categories of masks?”

Kenji put down his schoolbooks on the table, watched the wood dust rise into the air. It was like a test, he thought, but one he wanted to take. “The two categories of Noh masks are male and female.”

“They are?” Yoshiwara glanced up, eyed him closely and waited.