The Street of a Thousand Blossoms

by Gail Tsukiyama

  Aki was nine years old when she lost her mother to the firestorm. Growing up, Haru had stepped in to fill the void of her mother’s absence until she left for college, after which a growing disquiet began to fill Aki’s days. She took refuge in the contents of her mother’s trunk, as if some small part of her had returned. Her subsequent marriage to Hiroshi had brought her some calm, but not long after, he was away much of the time at tournaments or at dinners with sponsors held by the Sumo Association. She couldn’t go out without the reporters and photographers that hovered around their house, frightening her. The birth of Takashi had saved Aki. What she felt for him had taken on a physical sensation, one that provided nourishment and courage. She held Takashi close and whispered, “I’ll never leave you.”

  The Wooden Truck

  It was May and the alleyways outside the mask shop were filled with people enjoying the warm sunshine. Yanaka was once again the vibrant place of Kenji’s childhood. He picked up a block of cypress wood and watched it slowly take shape as he guided it through the saw. In the straight, clean lines, he began to see the shape of the truck he envisioned. Afterward, he would sand it down and paint it a bright blue and green with red wheels. In a couple of years, he imagined his nephew, Takashi, pushing the truck around in the shop on his hands and knees, atop tables and up and down stairs, its wheels rattling across every surface. Kenji smiled at the thought, wishing at the same time he were making the truck for his own son.

  Kenji looked up to see Akira Yoshiwara standing in the doorway watching him. His sensei’s movements were still as quick and quiet as always, though his hair and beard were almost all gray, and as he squinted against the morning sun he appeared older than his fifty years.

  “It’s quite a nice piece you’re making there.” Yoshiwara smiled. “Are you thinking of expanding our business?”

  Kenji laughed. “I think we’d do quite well making toys. This will be the first of many for my nephew, Takashi, when he’s old enough to play with them.”

  “Not to mention the toys you’ll be making for your own children,” his sensei added.

  Kenji nodded. There was always that hope. His respect and friendship for his sensei had continued to grow over the years. “Yoshiwara-sensei, have you ever thought of having children of your own?”

  Yoshiwara laughed. “Who would want an old, one-handed mask maker who can barely take care of himself?”

  In all the years Kenji had known his sensei, he’d never seen him interested in a woman. He never appeared interested in anything but the masks. But since his return to Yanaka, Kenji had seen a softer, gentler side of his sensei that made him feel strangely sad for him. “I imagine there’s a whole world out there who would be fascinated with Akira Yoshiwara.”

  “You always had a vivid imagination, Kenji-san,” his sensei said, shaking his head. “I’ll leave you to your dreams and get back to work.”

  Kenji watched Yoshiwara disappear into the front room. He picked up the wooden truck and quickly made the last cut. He wondered what Mika would think of his toy making. He blew away the sawdust clinging to the wood and ran his fingers across the smooth cut before he placed it safely on the top shelf. It would be ready for painting by the week’s end.

  In Darkness

  Four months after Takashi’s birth, in February, Hiroshi came home late after an evening with sponsors. Aki’s futon was empty and he assumed she’d gotten up to feed Takashi. A dim light filtered through the shoji door to Takashi’s room and something pulled him toward it to check on his wife and son. He stumbled toward Takashi’s room, where he heard a faint, low humming and smiled to think Aki was singing their son back to sleep. The floorboards creaked under the weight of his steps, and when he slid the door open, the singing stopped. “Aki-chan,” he whispered, but she didn’t answer. Perhaps she was afraid to wake Takashi, or angry with him for staying out late yet again. He reeked of stale smoke and liquor, which filled the small, warm room. Hiroshi stepped closer to where she sat in the chair by the window and heard a low moan come from her. “Aki, what is it?” he asked, his own heart suspecting now that something was terribly wrong. He turned up the electric lantern and saw her sitting with the baby in her arms, slowly rocking back and forth. He leaned over and stroked her warm cheek then lowered his hand to his sleeping son. Only when he touched Takashi’s cold, lifeless body under the quilt did he know his son was already dead.

  Requiem

  The night after Takashi died was the first time Aki had seen Hiroshi cry. In the darkness of their bedroom, they lay side by side on their futons, neither of them sleeping. The muffled, throaty sounds came gradually so that she didn’t quite realize he was crying until it was clear and unmistakable. Aki hoped it might strike some deep reservoir in her so that she could cry, too. But as she lay listening to his weeping grow louder, she only felt grief like a seed growing inside of her, stealing away all her tears. It was as if everything else inside of her had dried up. Aki tried to say something to comfort him, to at least turn over and embrace him, but she didn’t want to embarrass him. So she lay still, as a coldness spread through her body like a thin layer of ice across Lake Biwa, fragile and precarious.

  The first week after Takashi’s death was like a swarm of voices and faces, some Aki recognized and some she didn’t. Haru had returned from Nara for the Shinto ceremony. She remembered the sharp smell of incense, the soft chanting of mantras, the ringing of the altar bell, holding Haru’s hand at the temple and refusing to let go. Her sister had led her out of the firestorm; she could lead her out of this death storm, too.

  Reporters and fans descended on the great Yokozuna Takanoyama’s house, the death of his son a tragedy that made the headlines. All the doctors could tell them was that Takashi had simply stopped breathing during the night. There were no other signs of illness, no fevers or rashes, no excessive crying or marks on his body that would suggest anything else. It happened to some babies without explanation. Aki had promised Takashi she wouldn’t leave him, and so he was taken from her. All Aki could think was, what kind of demon would steal the breath from a baby? And how was she supposed to accept that her son died for absolutely no reason at all?

  The days passed like dark shadows, ghosts that lingered in every room. Months after Takashi’s death, Aki’s grief was still something tangible. Even now, she could feel his tiny body in her arms after she found him lifeless in his crib, cradling him, praying he’d just fallen into a deep sleep from which he would awake. She sang to him “The Lullaby of Edo” as she did every night.

  Sleep, baby, sleep,

  Oh, my baby, sleep,

  How lovely, how lovely,

  How nice you are!

  But his body only grew colder, almost waxy to the touch, like a bad dream. Not until Hiroshi came into the room did Aki realize Takashi was really dead, and that she’d awakened to the real nightmare. For days after, the nursery rhyme she sang to him played over and over in her head. When she finally stopped hearing it, the silence filled every crevice of the house. It wasn’t the same as with her mother’s death, when Aki had had no voice. This time she chose not to speak; she was too frightened of what would come out if she did.

  25

  Grief

  1959

  During the four months after Takashi’s death, Hiroshi watched helplessly as Aki grew increasingly remote from everyone and everything around her. She wouldn’t leave the house, fearful of the throng of reporters that waited for her outside the gates. Hiroshi tried to reason with her, his calm words growing steadily angrier, while she sat day after day, blank-faced, staring, his words vanishing into air. She had long ago stopped listening. As much as Hiroshi tried, he knew only Haru could find a thin thread of connection. But her life was in Nara now, and how could he ask her to return yet again?

  As Hiroshi lay on his futon, a rush of blood colored his face when he thought of his behavior the night before. He’d drunk too much sake at the Sakura teahouse and returned late to find Aki sitting silently by the w
indow in their room. Only this time he didn’t have the patience to put up with her silence. “Talk to me!” he had said, at first quietly, then growing in volume when she turned away and ignored him. “Look at me!” he demanded. He realized he was reduced to seeming childish when he grabbed her arm and practically lifted her from the chair. Hiroshi knew he was hurting her, but he wanted a reaction, any reaction. He was the grand champion and her husband, and Aki owed him a small gesture of respect; and still, she remained silent, looking at him with such blank indifference in her eyes that a great roar rose up in him and he pushed her away, watching her fall to the mats, her shoulder hitting hard against the chair. She was as light as a feather, and it frightened him to think how little it would take for him to really hurt her. Hiroshi left the house and didn’t return until the next evening, wondering if she would still be there. He entered the house, embarrassed and filled with shame. His stomach lurched to think Aki might be gone, but there she was, sitting silently by the window as if nothing had happened.

  In the early morning light, Hiroshi lay sleepless. His thoughts spun over and over. As yokozuna, if he could give strength and good health to all the other babies he carried, why hadn’t he been able to do the same for his own son? On the futon next to him, Aki lay quiet. He turned to see the purplish-blue bruises on her arm and shoulder, the fingerprints of anger. He realized then his grief was no better than hers—he had been compelled to strike out whereas she had turned inward. The bruises appeared like scattered islands and he leaned over and kissed her shoulder gently, her skin soft and warm against his lips. Aki turned slowly toward him, her hand rising up, and for a moment, Hiroshi thought she might slap him, but instead her pale fingers traced the scar on his forehead and came to rest on his cheek. When she opened herself to his embrace, he wondered if for just a moment they could forget their loss together.

  Afterward, they’d come to an unspoken truce, the stare-down broken. Hiroshi moved through the house quietly, his steps as calculated as in the dohyo. He no longer wished for an awkward word or two. Like Aki, he preferred a silence that wouldn’t lead to any more hurt or misunderstandings.

  Salvation

  Since Takashi’s death, Hiroshi had missed three tournaments. With the Nagoya Basho added in July, there were now six major tournaments held each year. Though he was secure in knowing he would never lose his yokozuna rank, Hiroshi knew that if he stayed away much longer, he would have to do the honorable thing and retire. But at thirty-two, he wasn’t ready to give up the dohyo. In mid-January, seven months after his son’s death, on a pewter-gray morning that felt too cold to snow, Hiroshi left the house with Aki still asleep.

  It began to snow as Hiroshi entered the front gates of the Katsuyama-beya and he felt the strange sensation of stepping back into the past. In the courtyard, he glanced up at the window in which he and Aki had first begun their courtship. It was empty and quiet now. He hurried toward the stable to begin training for the Haru Basho in March.

  Hiroshi pushed open the wooden door and the familiar stench of sweat and musk, the dank, earthy smells laced with the sweet bintsuke hair wax, rushed at him. All activity in the keikoba paused at his entrance. Tanaka-oyakata and Sadao were the first to welcome him back. A group of lower-ranked wrestlers already in the midst of practice stopped and bowed low. There were new, younger faces Hiroshi didn’t recognize and he searched for traces of greatness in each one of them. Who would be the next grand champion?

  Thirty minutes later, Yokozuna Takanoyama stretched his tight muscles with the series of exercises he’d practiced every morning for the past thirteen years. The pain pulled at the back of his thighs as he leaned forward doing leg splits. He welcomed it all, as if the sheer physical pain could make him forget everything else. He’d lost weight and would have to train hard to catch up with all the aspiring rikishi. Tanaka-oyakata welcomed his return and watched from a distance, allowing him to train at his own pace. He sensed his father-in-law moved around the stable with a quick, busy determination to deaden his own sorrow at Takashi’s sudden death. When Hiroshi finished warming up, he stepped onto the dohyo, his feet touching the cool, smooth dirt for the first time in months. The memory soothed.

  Following him onto the dohyo was Sadao, whom he’d chosen to practice with. Sadao was a sekitori now, thereby refuting the bow twirling superstition, and had risen in the ranks to become a good, strong wrestler. They moved quickly through the preliminaries and squatted down at the starting lines. Hiroshi felt a knot of anxiety in his stomach as his knuckles touched the dirt. He slowed his breathing, his gaze intent. The sudden impact of their bodies was quick and violent. Sadao’s blow to his chest was solid and hard, knocking the wind out of him. There was only a moment before the young wrestler’s next move, but Hiroshi’s instinct and experience kicked in. He moved just out of the way as Sadao charged, grabbing him in a headlock and forcing him to the ground before he knew what had happened. Sadao rose and bowed low to him.

  Hiroshi would later replay those moments on the dohyo, when his mind was fixed on only his opponent and all other life had ceased to be. He was thankful for the respite; those moments of concentrated will that allowed him to forget. But in the midst of his small victory, Hiroshi learned that grief was an opponent he would never be able to defeat.

  Birth day

  It was February again and the wind was blowing. It gusted through the house with a sigh as Aki lit a stick of incense and bowed to a photo of her baby son. Family photos filled the tokonoma as she knelt before them, but only Takashi had been granted so little time on earth. She bowed low to the ground and struggled in her grief to push her body back up, as if all the strength were drained from her. She relented and lay prostrate on the tatami, which was rough and cool against her cheek, the old grassy smell a reminder of when she was young and tumbling on the floor with Haru.

  Time was playing tricks on her. Finally, eight months after the death of Takashi, on what would have been his first birthday, Aki relinquished herself fully to the sorrow of it. While Hiro-chan returned to sumo, she had chosen to remain silent and alone most days. She knew it wasn’t healthy. She would have gladly traded her own life for that of little Takashi. At least she had made some memories in her twenty-three years, while he was never given the chance. Her tears came freely, silently, for all that might have been. She closed her eyes and the wind seemed to turn to voices, soothing her.

  Aki put on a silk padded coat over her kimono, picked up the furoshiki in which she carried fruit, red bean cakes, and rice crackers to place at Takashi’s grave. She had hoped to leave quickly, before their housekeeper, Tamiko-san, had time to talk her out of going, but it was too late.

  “Please, Aki-san.” Tamiko bowed. “Yokozuna Takanoyama will be home shortly. He asks that you wait for him to go to the cemetery with you.”

  “Tell Yokozuna Takanoyama that I’ll be waiting for him at the cemetery.”

  “Then I’ll go with you,” Tamiko said. Her voice rose in fear.

  “No. I’ll go alone,” Aki said with a sharp finality. She saw the distress on Tamiko’s face, and softened. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”

  “It’s too cold to walk,” the housekeeper pleaded.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  Aki slid the front door open and braced herself against the shock of the cold wind. She looked back once and smiled to reassure Tamiko that all was well with her. Then she hurried out to the courtyard and through the front gate without looking back.

  The wind was icy and her face numb by the time Aki reached the cemetery. Even her tears felt frozen. She walked down the stone path to the large, fenced-off plot Hiroshi had chosen, and where they would all rest one day. Now, there was only the tall, white marble marker with Takashi’s name, followed by his birth and death dates written in bold, black characters. Aki stood before it and bowed. “Look what I’ve brought you, Takashi-chan.” She brushed away the leaves, opened the furoshiki, and carefully placed the fruit and food at the foot of his marker. Then
she stood and bowed again. It calmed her to think that her mother, Noriko, and his great-grandfather, Yoshio, were watching over little Takashi. Sometimes, his spirit was so alive in her that Aki still felt the warmth of his small body in her arms. She sat down and laid her head against the cold marble and began to softly sing “The Lullaby of Edo” to him, the words lifted and carried away by the wind.

  The Gift

  Kenji walked quickly down the alleyway, pulling the collar of his kimono tighter against the sharp February wind. He looked up at the darkening sky, which was sure to bring rain before nightfall, and shifted the package under his arm as he walked. Had his nephew Takashi lived, he would have celebrated his first birthday today. Kenji wanted to stop by the cemetery before going home. He recalled the morning he and Mika heard the news of Takashi’s death. If it hadn’t been Hiroshi’s choked voice over the phone, he might have thought someone was playing a cruel joke on him. A stunned silence followed before he was able to take a breath again. After he told Mika, she began to cry, her tears flowing translucently down her cheeks, and he couldn’t help wondering how he could capture those tears on a mask. She leaned against him, and he held her, smelling the lovely scent of jasmine, lilac, lilies; a bouquet of flowers in her hair. He made a pitiful attempt to console her.