The Street of a Thousand Blossoms

by Gail Tsukiyama

  There was the sound of footsteps. “Are you all right, Aki-san?” She looked up to see the towering figure of Hiroshi standing over her, dressed in a white yukata robe. She always remembered him as the tall one who’d found her mother’s body at the river. Now Hiroshi knelt beside her, his large shadow covering her like a blanket.

  “Hai,” Aki quickly answered as she tried to sit up, embarrassed beyond words. She felt dizzy and stayed seated on the ground.

  “Shall I get your father?” Hiroshi asked.

  “No,” she said. “I’ll be fine, I just need a moment.”

  Hiroshi leaned closer and put his large hand on the back of her head. “Does your head hurt?” he asked.

  She shook her head slowly and felt a slight throbbing. No one had to know. She was just grateful to have hit the dirt instead of the pavement.

  He extended his hand and she felt him gently pull her up. His hand felt warm and comforting and she didn’t want to let go. She bowed and brushed at her kimono. “I’m fine. Domo arigato goziamasu.”

  Hiroshi smiled. “Trying to get away?”

  Aki looked down, so he wouldn’t see her smile. “Almost,” she answered.

  “I won’t tell,” he said.

  She bowed again. “Domo.”

  “Just be careful,” he added.

  “Hai.”

  “And use your legs more the next time you decide to slide down that beam. That way, if you lose your grip …”

  “Hai. Domo arigato.”

  They stood a moment longer before Hiroshi bowed and said, “I’d better return to the stable before your father finds me out here chatting with you. No more climbing today,” he instructed, as he turned away.

  Somehow, Aki didn’t mind Hiroshi telling her what to do. She watched him walk back to the stable and remembered hearing her father say he’d just been promoted to the sekitori rank. She wanted to call out her congratulations, but instead, she watched as he moved quickly across the courtyard. Perhaps it wasn’t a bad idea for her to help her father more at the stable. She brushed off her kimono and touched the back of her head to feel her scar. Right near it was a small swelling where her head had hit the ground.

  The Kasutori Culture

  Kenji walked down a street in the Shinjuku district. He knew that a number of new bars and strip clubs had opened in recent years. Every time he walked back from picking up paints, a new brush or chisel, he was drawn by the laughter coming from the dark, cool bars. It was a warm afternoon and he was pleased to have finished a new Ko-jo mask, the old man with distinct, high cheekbones and a flowing white beard. It was his first big commission and his most complicated mask yet. In the tight-knit community of the Noh theater word of his artistry was spreading. To celebrate its completion, he decided to follow the noise into one of the bars he had passed by so many times. His eyes adjusted to the dimly lit room, the wooden tables and mismatched chairs, the dark paintings that lined the wall. He brushed his hand against something sticky on the bar where he stood and wiped it onto his pants. It wasn’t even dark outside yet and already the place was crowded.

  Kenji ordered a glass of kasutori shochu—the alcohol of choice for all the young men and women who embraced the kasutori culture. Since the occupation, artists and writers had been finding solace in the powerful alcohol. Kenji knew it was a culture that had grown out of guilt and grief, and the lies of a weak government that had led the nation into a disastrous war, only to accept the humiliating presence of occupation forces in defeat. While he hadn’t participated, he didn’t disagree.

  The strong, foul-tasting alcohol provided instant gratification. It burned going down Kenji’s throat, harsh and smelling like some kind of fuel. He coughed once or twice and felt the blood rush to his head. Within moments, his entire body grew warm. He ordered another drink. Hiroshi would never believe he was in a bar drinking alone, just as he wouldn’t have believed the incident with Okata.

  Kenji stood steadfast at the bar and swallowed another sip of the kasutori shochu to see what all the controversy was about. He felt the burning warmth again and remembered that two years before at the university, word had spread across campus that the writer Okoto Tamida and his girlfriend had committed suicide. His book became an instant success and Tamida became a symbol of the kasutori culture, fanning the feelings of displacement and rebellion that so many of his classmates embraced. Kenji remained at a distance and thought Tamida’s death had more to do with drugs and alcohol. He wondered if Mika Abe had whispered among her friends and had been devastated by Tamida’s death.

  Japan had changed. Kenji took another sip. Just the other day, when he stopped at a store to buy miso, he’d seen the explicit covers of the pulp magazines sold in respectable shops his obaachan went to, paired lovers, or women in sensual, scantily covered poses. Panpan girls were one thing, but it seemed a nation steeped so long in reserve and modesty had suddenly left its kimono wide open. He smiled to himself at the thought.

  Kenji drank down the last of the kasutori shochu, which seared his throat. Two drinks and he felt light-headed; the room was spinning. He’d never been a big drinker and hadn’t eaten all day as he rushed to finish the new mask. The alcohol burned down to his stomach. The room felt hot and crowded and he began to sweat as his stomach churned, then subsided. Kenji steadied himself and turned away from the bar. He needed to get something to eat. Everything looked bleak, from the shadowy bar to the customers dressed in black clothing, many wearing sunglasses in the already dark room. He walked toward the front door, unsure of his footing as he passed several tables of young people talking and laughing too loudly. Their faces blurred past him as he hurried toward the front door.

  Once outside in the cool spring evening, Kenji felt better. He took a deep breath before his stomach churned again. Then, just as quickly, he felt a sharp clenching pain in the middle of his abdomen. His head began to pound and his heart throbbed. He stumbled forward and had barely made it to the end of the street before he doubled over and vomited.

  Kenji couldn’t remember how he’d gotten back home. Hours later, lying on his futon with a cold towel over his eyes, he was startled to suddenly recall that he’d seen a face he thought he knew. He had stumbled past a table in the bar where two couples sat, and only now did he realize that one of the young women resembled Mika Abe. He couldn’t help but feel slighted that she had never visited his shop. All she’d had to do was inquire. There were only so many mask shops in Tokyo. Now it bothered him to think that it was Mika sitting at a bar with a group of people who had no direction, who went to excesses in the name of art. He wished he could return to the bar to see if it was really her, but he could barely sit up without the room spinning, his head still throbbing. It couldn’t be Mika, he convinced himself. As far as he knew, she wasn’t part of the katsutori culture. But what did he know anyway? Besides exchanging greetings, he’d never really talked to her, and it wasn’t any of his business how she lived her life. Still, it left an unpleasant taste on his tongue that wouldn’t go away, no matter how much water he drank.

  He returned to the same bar several times afterward, but the woman he thought might be Mika never reappeared. He began to get used to the taste of kasutori shochu and welcomed the light-headed feeling it gave him. When his head began to throb and his stomach burned, he always managed to find his way home to collapse on his futon.

  Kenji awoke. The rhythmic pounding sounded like the drum used by the yobidashi, the ring attendant at Hiroshi’s sumo tournaments; one, two, three…one, two, three …At first, he thought it was the throbbing in his head, the katsutori shochu still playing havoc. Kenji opened his eyes slowly and didn’t know what time it was. He turned toward the window, sunlight slicing through the parted curtains, and realized then that the pounding was coming from outside.

  Very slowly, Kenji pushed himself up from his futon and shuffled to the window. He didn’t have the strength to face whoever it was. He leaned against the windowsill and raised the window with all the energy he c
ould muster. Someone was still knocking on the door of the mask shop downstairs.

  The window scraped open. He closed his eyes against the sound and sunlight. “What is it?” his voice growled, his mouth filled with wool, as his ojiichan would say.

  “Hello?”

  It was a woman’s voice. Kenji leaned forward and cleared his throat. It took a moment to focus on the young woman looking back up at him.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  The young woman, dressed stylishly in Western clothing, lifted her dark glasses and stared up at him. “I’ve come to see how you’re feeling this morning,” she said. She bowed formally to him.

  Kenji rubbed his eyes and looked again. It was Mika Abe standing at his front door.

  17

  Resurrection

  1952

  Fumiko Wada stepped out of the kitchen and into the courtyard. It was her favorite time of day, a clear, balmy May morning before the heat of the afternoon became too oppressive and suffocating. She breathed in the fragrant scent of her spring garden. Her beloved lilies of the valley were in full bloom, their sweetness a conjurer of memories, a reminder of a lifetime of living, resurrected every spring from the same earth they were almost buried under.

  She knelt beside the lilies she had also planted in the front courtyard where Yoshio spent most of his days. In no time, the white bell-shaped flowers would turn into hard red berries. One life would evolve into another. She had a great deal to be grateful for. Her family was now thriving in a world free of war. Not only had they survived the devastation of the war itself, but also the seven difficult years of American occupation that followed. It had finally ended last month, in April, just as the green quill-like shoots of her lilies pushed their way to the surface.

  Unlike Yoshio, sixty-nine-year-old Fumiko had had her doubts as to whether she’d live to see Japan find her footing again. The devastation wasn’t just of their country, but of their hearts and minds. How could they ever find their way back? But Japan did survive, moving quietly and steadily forward, limping along after the war. The Japan she saw now was no longer steeped in militarism, but strived for economic stability and for a life of abundance. It wasn’t unlike her garden, which Fumiko had slowly resurrected from the ashes. Each year the lilies returned, the stems grew stronger. After all, it was the cycle of life and something Yoshio had always tried to place her trust in.

  For Fumiko, it was time to move on with their lives, though regaining their independence had not been without more violence. From the radio blared the news of the May Day rally, which had left hundreds dead and injured, but this time, the Japanese people were fighting among themselves, divided over the U.S. seizure of Okinawa, remilitarization, and the U.S. military bases, which would remain in the country. After all they’d been through, it was yet another tragedy. Still, a great weight had been lifted from Fumiko’s shoulders, and in its place was the light breeze of freedom, which left her buoyant, lifted from the ground.

  Her grandsons were the future. She saw Japan’s rebuilding and Hiroshi’s sumo career rise simultaneously. She and Yoshio never dared to say anything, for fear of bringing bad luck. At twenty-five, he had just reached the esteemed rank of sekiwake, only a year after becoming a professional, upper-ranked wrestler in the Makuuchi Division, and he was rumored to be the next sumotori to reach the champion rank of ozeki. Hiroshi’s name was becoming indistinguishable from the sport of sumo itself. Every time Fumiko saw him in the dohyo, so big and powerful, she could hardly believe he was once the little boy who sat so still next to her, listening to the stories about his parents. During every tournament when Hiroshi walked down the hanamichi, the flower paths leading from the east and west down to the dohyo, he looked up into the audience, his way of acknowledging them. The first time Fumiko stepped into the new sumo stadium in Kuramae, she was filled with pride. Above the dohyo hung a Shinto-style roof, and even higher still were the large portraits of past tournament champions. It was an amazing spectacle she wished Yoshio could see. “I can see it all,” he’d told her, “through your descriptions.”

  She was equally proud of Kenji, who had opened his small mask shop two years ago, not far from the one that once belonged to Akira Yoshiwara. While his first two years were difficult, the past few months had finally brought her younger grandson some success as a mask artisan, along with a new friend, Mika-san. He now made masks for several up-and-coming Noh actors. He was still very young, and like that of all good artists, she knew his reputation would grow with time. She looked forward to the day when both her grandsons would be settled and have families of their own.

  Fumiko stood up slowly, brushed the dirt from her kimono. She’d lost track of time as she worked in the garden. If she hurried, she could still make it to Ino-san’s to buy miso for Yoshio’s lunch. They’d become minor celebrities along the bustling streets and alleyways of Yanaka. “Tell Hiro-chan we know he’ll be the next champion!” storeowners and neighbors alike would yell out to Fumiko as she walked down the street. She smiled and bowed, both proud and honored by her grandson’s accomplishments.

  Fumiko weaved down the crowded alleyways, voices coming from every direction, women carrying baskets filled with fruit and vegetables. Stores once again had merchandise on their shelves, as the smell of dried fish and fresh sembei rice crackers wafted through the air. Fumiko paused when she came to the storefront that used to be Ayako’s bakery. In old times, she would be visiting her friend, stopping in for a cup of green tea and the latest news. Fumiko glanced in the window. A bakery again, with lovely smells drifting through the air. The door opened and closed, a warm fragrant air embracing her, but she couldn’t bring herself to step inside. So many years gone, and Ayako-san’s absence still felt like a raw wound, a throbbing just under her skin. She would never get over the loss. Having so many innocent people simply disappear would always be the cruelest aspect of the war for her.

  She looked around the busy street. Remnants of the war and the suffering were slowly disappearing. Still, she couldn’t imagine how anyone who lived through it would ever be able to forget. In her heart, Fumiko hoped the war and devastation would never be forgotten, so that future generations would learn from the futility of it all.

  The Mask Maker

  As Kenji guided the chisel across the wood, he saw the contours of a face take shape, each defining feature slowly emerge from the depths of the wood. He carefully hollowed out the eyes to the O-akujo demon mask. Soon he would fill the sockets with brass eyes, flare the nostrils, and paint the teeth a gleaming gold. In the dark theater, it would frighten and mesmerize. In the quiet of his shop, each mask made Kenji feel more alive in the world, the ground at last solid where he stood. Could the boy ghost have finally materialized into a man? He smiled to think so, his gaze moving toward the empty doorway.

  His thoughts turned from the masks to Mika. The events of the past few months were like miracles to him. He woke up every morning hoping it wasn’t all a dream—Mika Abe knocking on his door, saving him from the kasutori shochu, which he might easily have come to depend on. Unlike those restless, lost souls who replaced art with alcohol, the sharp, burning warmth that flowed down his throat gave him courage and made him forget his loneliness, his fear of failure. Kenji heard again his obaachan’s constant worries. He was too thin, his hair longer than she liked. He tied it back like those artists did. He needed to get out more. She always said he looked like one of those displaced young people of the kasutori culture. But Mika had roused him from his stupor, made him get up, open the door, and let her in.

  “I decided it was time to visit your shop,” she had said, her voice calm, matter-of-fact.

  He remembered squinting to see the perfect lines of her face. His head pulsated with a dull pain. All she had to do was look at him to see he was hungover, his thoughts scrambled. Had Mika been at the bar? He wanted to ask what made her decide to visit him that morning. But Kenji felt as if his head would explode. Instead of answering, he leaned against the ta
ble and struggled not to close his eyes against the glare of the sunlight. What if he opened them again and she was gone? He nodded his head without saying a word.

  Since November, Kenji had been seeing Mika Abe steadily for six months. He had gladly traded the kasutori shochu for her. And apparently she was more interested in him than the dark bars and strong liquor. Now it was her touch that spread warmth throughout his body, thawing every last fear.

  Kenji heard the front door open and close but took his time in the back room, making the last few strokes of the large chisel before he moved to a smaller one for the more intricate details. He didn’t expect Mika until late afternoon. When Kenji stepped into the outer room, he saw a man examining one of his masks on the shelf, his back to Kenji. He was dressed in an expensive silk kimono with a white diamond pattern, which seemed faintly familiar.

  “Konnichiwa,” Kenji said.

  It wasn’t until the man turned around that Kenji recognized it was Otomo Matsui standing before him. He’d aged in the past ten years, his hair all gray now, which gave the great Noh actor an even more distinguished presence.