She eyed him closely. “There aren’t many visitors to Aio who stay. Why have you stayed?”
He laughed out loud at her directness, so unlike other children he’d known. He thought of Kenji and how shy he’d been the first time he took him back to the shop.
“I enjoy it here in Aio,” he answered her. “And I’m not totally alone, I have a cat.”
The girl took a step forward and bowed slightly. “Then, if you’re staying for a while, my name is Kiyo.”
He bowed low and with great ceremony. “And I’m Akira Yoshiwara. And now that we’re no longer strangers, I think you should go home. Do your parents know you’re out in the cold without a coat? You must be frozen.” He glanced down at her feet.
Kiyo looked away. “I’m used to the cold.”
They both turned their heads at the scraping sound of a door sliding open in the distance. Before Akira could say anything else, Kiyo whispered, “Sayonara,” and turned to run back toward one of the old pitched-roof houses, disappearing inside so quickly he wondered if she had really been there. From the stone chimney, a great billow of smoke rose up into the sky.
Afterward, Akira saw Kiyo on his walks several times a week. She sometimes waited for him, but all they did was exchange a few words and she disappeared again, or she walked with him a short distance before turning around and heading home. He began to look forward to seeing her. He loved her quick questions that enlivened his long silences. Then one day in March when he came up the dirt road, he saw her standing beside the house with a slender woman, dressed in a plain brown kimono, her long, dark hair pulled back.
Akira bowed upon reaching them.
“Akira-san, this is my mother, Emiko,” Kiyo said.
He bowed again.
“I have heard a great deal about you. I hope Kiyo-chan hasn’t been bothering you,” Emiko said and bowed.
“Not at all.” Akira recognized the eyes as soon as he looked into them. No longer bent over a wooden box, a scarf around her head, she appeared younger and quite attractive. “The turnips,” he said.
She looked down shyly. “I wondered if you’d remember.”
Akira smiled.
“I wanted to thank you for being so kind to Kiyo. She can be quite talkative.”
“It’s a pleasure to have her as company,” Akira said.
“I told you,” Kiyo piped up. “I told you he doesn’t mind.”
Emiko shook her head at her daughter and invited Akira in for tea. Inside the steep-roofed house, he was reminded of pictures in a book of fables from his childhood. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, a large, open room with high rafters came into focus. Emiko followed his gaze and said, “They used to house silkworms in wooden boxes up on the rafters a long time ago. The heat from the fire rose and kept them warm, before wood charcoal became more lucrative.” She hurried to the irori, the large hearth in the middle of the room, and set more wood on the small fire. In its tentative light, Akira glimpsed the sloping thatched roof above the rafters, the smoke-darkened wooden walls, and the spare furnishings.
“Have you lived here long?” he asked Emiko. Kiyo had disappeared to a back room.
“The house has been in my husband’s family for more than a century.”
Akira turned away from the blackened kettle hanging on its rusty hinge above the sparse fire. Flickering flames made the lines of Emiko’s face waver between young and old.
“My husband has been dead for several years now,” Emiko went on, “and it’s difficult to keep up …” Her voice faded.
“I’m sorry.”
Emiko bowed her head. “Forgive me, I’m feeling sorry for myself. The war has been difficult for everyone.”
Akira nodded. “Hai,” he said softly.
As they sat in silence, the smoke made his eyes water, his throat close. He looked up, glad for the ringing voice of Kiyo as she thumped back into the room.
From that day on, Akira was often a guest in that house, and in the spring of 1945, he helped the widow Emiko and Kiyo run their small farm, chopping wood, planting turnips and carrots, and harvesting whatever they could. Although they were safe from bullets and bombs, they suffered from the winter cold and gnawing hunger that left the entire village listless. The land, either parched or frozen, grew miserable turnips and carrots, weak and small but edible. Once in a while, Emiko went down the mountain to trade turnips at the dry-goods store for miso or a half-cup of rice. One afternoon in mid-March, she returned with the news that firebombs had destroyed much of Tokyo and killed more than one hundred thousand people. Akira was stunned. So many lives lost, while there he was, tucked safely away in the mountains. He hoped that Kenji and his family had somehow survived.
Throughout the spring and summer, bombs continued to drop. More deaths than Akira dared to think about. In August, Japan surrendered and was soon occupied by American soldiers. But by the time autumn came again, Akira wanted no part of the occupation, just as he hadn’t wanted any part of the war. Even if he could return to Tokyo without repercussions, what of his old life was left for him there? Aio was a forgotten place, which suited Akira just fine. At least in Aio he had Emiko and Kiyo, the widow and her daughter, and he was content to know that he helped them in small ways. It wasn’t exactly happiness, but something close enough to it.
11
Ashes
1946
By the end of April, the courtyard was alive again with colors Haru had never paid attention to when she was young. Now, it was her favorite time of year; blooming shades of green, purple-blue lilies, pink azaleas, the yellowish green unfurling of buds. If Haru were to look back and search for the defining moment when she came to love the mysteries of plant life, it would be just after the firestorm, with the world around her desolate, mirroring just what she felt inside. All she saw for months and months were shadowy tones with a black edge, as if she’d gone color-blind. The air was filled with gray ash that found its way onto every clean surface and into every crevice. Like an endless winter, the lifeless sky reflected a blanket of dingy snow that covered the ground. There was so little Haru could do, and so little hope left. She knew it was exactly what grief looked like.
Still, every day after the firestorm Haru went outside, a scarf covering her face and mouth, her hands bandaged, hoping the world might have returned to the way it was. In her mind, she played I See, a game she and Aki had played as small children. I see a cat she began, which was followed by Aki’s I see a cat with black, black eyes…I see a cat with black, black eyes and a long, bushy broom tail…I see a cat with black, black eyes and a long, bushy broom tail that sweeps the floor…It went on and on until Aki couldn’t remember any more and became silly, or gave up, her attention already focused on something else.
Haru looked at the devastation around her. I see a world covered in gray ash. I see a world covered in gray ash with flecks of white bone. I see a world covered in gray ash with flecks of white bone of all those who will never rise again … She walked around the sumo stable seeking signs of life, thinking in her twelve-year-old mind that not until she found it would she believe things could return to normal.
Several weeks after the firestorm, in April, she spied a thin green stem between two cracks in the courtyard pushing its way up toward the light, a tiny speck of color in an otherwise sullen world. Stabbed by the surprise at her discovery, she felt a fragile connection to the green speck—if a living plant could rise from the ashes, then her hands would heal, Aki would be okay again, and their father would rebuild his sumo stable. It wouldn’t ease the grief of losing her mother, but it seemed like a promise that life would continue. It was all Haru needed; a thin thread of hope that filled her with joy.
The Invitation
Since the occupation, all sumo tournaments had been canceled, but when the weather warmed and the May days grew brighter, Hiroshi received a note from Tanaka-oyakata inviting him to the Katsuyama-beya. Hiroshi and his ojiichan tried to keep track of the sumo news that trickled out to the p
ublic through the radio or neighborhood gossip. Grand Champion, Yokozuna Futabayama had officially retired in 1945. Hiroshi’s grandfather shook his head angrily when the Kokugikan, the national sumo stadium, was taken over by foreign troops and renamed “Memorial Hall.” Its offices were now used for administrative personnel and the arena turned into an ice-skating rink.
Hiroshi reasoned the invitation was the oyakata’s way of thanking him for finding his wife’s body after the firestorm. Still, he was excited to see the stable. He tossed and turned all night and awoke late to a faint hum of voices rising from the kitchen. He unfolded the dark blue raw silk kimono that had once belonged to his father and fingered the three white wood sorrel crests. His obaachan had given it to him to wear on special occasions. At nineteen, Hiroshi had finally grown into the kimono. It was still loose around the stomach, but it now fit his shoulders and its length was right.
“Are you going to try out for sumo wearing that?” Kenji joked when he stepped into the kitchen.
Hiroshi ignored him.
“You’ve grown so tall, Hiro-chan,” his grandmother fussed, pulling at the kimono and tightening the sash.
“I knew he would be,” his ojiichan added.
His obaachan laughed. “Even when you could see, you never paid attention.”
“Only to you,” his grandfather said, smiling.
Hiroshi laughed, too, said his goodbyes, and slid open the front door. Outside, he could still hear his grandparents’ teasing voices.
It had been more than a year since the dark day that Hiroshi first visited the Katsuyama-beya. Now, as he approached the sumo stable, he felt a knot tighten in the middle of his stomach, a reminder of the sadness he had carried with him through the gate the last time. When the smoke from the firestorm had finally cleared, people seemed to hold their breath in stunned silence as Japan surrendered. Then little by little, life found a way back. The first signs came when the birds returned, circling tentatively before landing on the charred remains of buildings or tree stumps. Every morning Hiroshi listened for their singing and squawking before he allowed himself to believe that things might one day be all right.
As he passed through the gate of the sumo stable, Hiroshi was astonished at the transformation. Signs of life were everywhere. Leaves had sprouted from branches, birds whistled through the air, and the skeletal frame of a new building was up, reminding him that this was once the sumo stable where Yokozuna Kitoyama trained to become grand champion. Hiroshi paused to catch his breath and tightened his sash, wishing his ojiichan were there with him.
“Are you here to see my father?”
Hiroshi turned around. He knew this young girl. She was with Tanaka-oyakata the last time he was there. Only now she was taller and her hands were free of bandages. At twelve or thirteen she also seemed more self-assured. Next to her a younger girl stood quietly by, with strikingly beautiful iridescent black eyes. Both girls were dressed in light blue cotton yukata kimonos.
Hiroshi bowed. “Hai, I’ve come to see Tanaka-oyakata.”
The older girl shifted from foot to foot, eyeing him closely as if just recognizing him, her hands tucked in the folds of her kimono. “You were here before,” she began, but then looked at the younger girl and stopped.
“Hai,” he said. “A long time ago.”
The girl appeared thankful he didn’t say more. She paused and then pointed toward the wooden building across the courtyard. “You’ll find my father upstairs in his office.”
“Domo arigato gozaimazu.” He bowed low, then straightened and added, “My name is Hiroshi Matsumoto.”
A faint smiled crossed the girl’s lips. She looked up at him. “I’m Haru Tanaka and this is my sister, Aki.”
Aki bowed but remained silent, her eyes darting up at him again.
“You’d better go,” Haru added before he could say anything else. “My father doesn’t like it when his rikishi are late.”
Hiroshi smiled to himself. She thought he was a sumo wrestler. He bowed once more. When he reached the building, he glanced back to where they stood, still watching him. Haru already poised and graceful, older than her years, while Aki was the most beautiful little girl he’d ever seen; he could already see her resemblance to her mother.
Hiroshi pulled open the wide wooden door and stepped into the cool darkness of the building, inhaling the smell of smoke and earth. He felt a soft dirt floor underfoot, looked up at the row of narrow shoji windows above the wood-paneled walls. Pale streams of light fell on the white outlines of the dohyo in the center of the large, open room. This was the keikoba, he thought. To one side of the practice area was a tatami platform where viewers came to watch practice. He walked carefully around the dohyo, behind which wooden stairs led to the second floor.
Tanaka-oyakata sat at his desk in the small, warm office. The door was open and Hiroshi was surprised to see he had shaved his head, which made him look just a bit more intimidating. His whole presence seemed to fill the room.
Tanaka-oyakata looked up and stood, greeting him with warmth. “Matsumoto-san, I’m happy you could make it.”
Hiroshi bowed. “Thank you for your invitation.”
“Please sit.” Tanaka sat back down in his chair and cleared his throat. “I hope all is well with you and your grandparents?”
“Very well.” Hiroshi was surprised the oyakata remembered he lived with his grandparents.
“Ah good.” Tanaka lined up a stack of papers on his desk. “Let me tell you why I asked you here. During the past year, my greatest hope has been to rebuild Katsuyama-beya again. As you can see, we’re proceeding slowly. About half a dozen of my old rikishi have returned since the occupation. They’re helping me to rebuild with what little we have. We’ve also begun training again on a regular basis.”
Hiroshi sat up straight, his fingers numb from gripping the arms of the chair, his heart racing at what this might mean. He heard footsteps on the stairs and saw Haru carrying a tray with tea. She poured a cup for her father and one for Hiroshi, glanced in his direction, and left without a word.
“How can I help you?” Hiroshi asked.
“I have seen the way you move, Matsumoto-san,” Tanaka said, his voice low and calm. He sipped his tea. “It was disappointing that you weren’t able to join the stable before the war when you were a boy. So, I’m asking you now, as a young man, if you still feel you have what it takes to be a sumotori?”
At nineteen, Hiroshi hadn’t yet thought of himself as a man. Men were Tanaka-sama, or his ojiichan, or his father standing tall and determined in the black-and-white photo in the receiving room. But there was never a moment when he hadn’t dreamt of being a sumotori. He stood and bowed to Tanaka-oyakata. Without hesitation, he answered, “Hai.”
The Scholar
Kenji dreamed of the masks once more. The war had nearly deadened his need for them, but when the surrender came, his imagination returned full-blown. He walked down the alleyway on his way back from school, the June sun pressing warmly against his back. Everything around him was a reminder of the masks—the curve along the table became the jaw of a Kinuta mask; the shape of the moon, a Ko-omote mask; a caterpillar, the brows of the Warai-jo mask. Nothing escaped his wonder and longing for their faces. And with the masks, his thoughts returned to his sensei. Kenji wondered where Akira Yoshiwara was, or if he was still alive. He turned down another alleyway, tracing the steps he had taken almost every afternoon for three years to the mask shop. The war had changed him. Before, he would have assumed his sensei was alive, but now he presumed him dead. At seventeen, Kenji sometimes found it easier just to accept the inevitable.
Kenji stopped in front of the vacant mask shop and looked into the window, but through layers of grime, he saw no sign of the colorful masks that had drawn him here so many years ago. During the bombings, as he sat in the dark, dank air-raid shelter fighting his fear of being buried alive, all that kept him calm was his vision of the masks.
Even now, the memory of that dirt hole made
him shudder. The humid air was thick and stale with their labored breath as planes rumbled overhead. He tried not to breathe in too much air so his grandparents and Hiroshi would have enough. He had so much to say to them but didn’t speak—no one did—for the lungful of air it would cost them. Instead, Kenji closed his eyes and focused on the Egyptian death masks worn by pharaohs he’d read about, made of gold and embedded with priceless jewels, the high, straight nose, the closed lids so serene and beautiful in death. Would there be anyone left to make such a mask for him?
Kenji wiped the window with the palm of his hand. The pane he had shattered with the rock had been boarded over. He peered into the deserted room and saw the rock still lying on the floor. He used to imagine he’d go back one day and Yoshiwara-sensei would be at work on a mask as if nothing had happened. Yet, every month since the war ended, he returned to find it was all a foolish dream.
Kenji was finishing his last year in high school. When classes began again in early 1946, he was happy to return to his old life as a student. He studied hard, and to his surprise, he scored the best in his class at the end of the year and won an academic citation that brought his grandparents great happiness. His ojiichan took to calling him gakusha, the scholar, which made Kenji uneasy. He knew his grandparents always wanted him and Hiroshi to have good educations, but now that his brother was training to be a sumotori, it was up to Kenji to finish school. He swallowed his dreams of carving masks and tried to live up to the title of gakusha.
Yet while Kenji focused his energies on his studies, the masks still haunted his dreams. Even if he should venture to open his own mask shop after graduating from school, could he possibly make a living? No matter how he tried to justify giving up college for becoming an artisan, he couldn’t.
Kenji turned away from the mask shop and hurried back down the crowded alleyway. He knew his obaachan worried if he wasn’t home by dinner. Now, as Japan stumbled, then crawled and learned to walk again under the Allied occupation, Kenji also had to find his way. Ever since Hiroshi had moved to the Katsuyama-beya, Kenji missed his brother more than he could say, but he knew his grandparents were delighted. Proud. Everyone was proud of Hiroshi, and so was he. That was the way it had always been, but every once in a while, Kenji felt something in the back of his throat, the bitter taste of jealousy. He hated himself for it, knowing he would never love anyone as much as he did Hiroshi. Yet he couldn’t help but wonder why life always fell into place for his brother, while everything was such a struggle for him. Since they were boys, Hiroshi was always the hero, Kenji the ghost.
The Street of a Thousand Blossoms Page 17
