She was scheduled to return on the evening train so Kenji had purposely stayed late at the shop, eaten a bowl of noodles with Yoshiwara-sensei, talked about the masks in hopes of containing his anticipation. He hoped to return and find her already home. In a canvas bag, he carried all the masks he had carved of her during the past ten years. Until now, he’d kept them to himself. He wanted to enter the warm house as if he’d been the one away, to show her he was fine with her gone, as long as she returned to him.
Instead, the house stood dark and empty. He moved quickly from room to room, turning on all the electric lamps so that the house blazed with a warm light. “I’m here, I’m here,” each one seemed to say as he snapped the lamps on. And just as his fingers found the switch on the last lamp in an upstairs room, he heard the gate creak open. Kenji stood a moment and thought he heard her wooden sandals click-clacking across the courtyard. He imagined the smile on her lips at the sight of all the bright lights guiding her home, and he could already hear her rush of words telling him about the trip. He thought about the sound of her voice, the smooth song of it, and hurried downstairs to meet her.
30
Thirst
1964
Kenji sat at the kitchen table in the dark. He only drank after work, wrapped comfortably in the darkness, not so others couldn’t see him but so he wouldn’t have to see himself. He reached for the bottle of whiskey and almost knocked it over, catching it before too much spilled. He laughed to himself and the raspy sound resonated through the cold, silent room. He stopped to listen when he thought he heard someone entering the courtyard, but it was only the wind. The wind. Just like the night three months ago when he thought it was Mika coming home, only it wasn’t, because she and her father were 2 of the 161 passengers killed in the train crash at Tsurumi, outside of Tokyo. Kenji drained the glass in his hand and stood up, grabbing the edge of the table for support, wavering.
He arrived at the shop later each morning, his head throbbing through the afternoon. He’d been working on the same mask for weeks. He saw the worried look in Yoshiwara-sensei’s eyes, while Hiroshi made daily visits. He hated the way they spoke to him, in quiet tones as if he were a child to be soothed. “Come stay at the house with us,” Hiroshi pleaded. Yoshiwara-sensei agreed and added, “You shouldn’t be alone now.” They meant well, but he knew it wouldn’t change anything. His life was like a landslide that he couldn’t stop from slipping away, taking everything along with him. Only when he sat in the dark, drinking, did he feel better. For a short time, he stopped thinking Mika was dead and that he would never see her again in this world.
But tonight Kenji couldn’t forget. The power of memory even brought back Mika’s sweet jasmine perfume, which still lingered upstairs in the closet filled with her kimonos, sewn from the brilliantly colored fabrics she had designed. Sometimes he stood looking at them, breathing in her scent, stroking the silk and cotton fabrics, the particular spiral patterns that came to define Mika’s designs. He knew the colors would remain, but soon her scent would fade and the thought of her leaving him again brought tears to his eyes.
Kenji grabbed the bottle and walked unsteadily down the hallway, pausing every few feet to grab on to something to stay upright. He needed to get to the lacquer cabinet where he had stored the canvas bag the night he came home to wait for Mika. He’d just remembered it, like a child who suddenly remembers hidden candy. When he finally swung the cabinet door open, there it was; the canvas bag with Mika’s masks in it. He grabbed the bag and stumbled out to the courtyard, a dim light shining from the house next door. The cold February air was icy and sharp, which revived him a little. He smelled the wetness in the air.
Kenji took each mask out, one by one, his fingers moving over Mika’s still features as he stacked them on the flagstones. His eyes burned and he wiped his nose on his sleeve. He drank down a mouthful of whiskey from the bottle and poured the remainder over the masks. There wasn’t any reason to keep them. Mika was gone. There would be no children or grandchildren to show them to. And he didn’t need the masks to remember her face; she was burned into his memory.
From his pocket, he retrieved matches, lighting several before one caught; the small spark of flame was warm against his fingers. He looked up to the sky and let the match slip from his hand onto the masks. But instead of igniting, the flame went out by the time it touched the wood. He knelt, trying to keep his balance, and struck another match, which the wind blew out. Then another. And another. When he struck the next match, he blocked the wind with his hand and the alcohol caught fire. Within seconds the fire erupted, the courtyard alight as Mika’s face came alive in the flames. It was as if she were staring up at him accusingly. In that moment, Kenji awoke from his stupor and realized what he was doing. “No! No! No!” he yelled, his hands smothering the fire without thinking, smoke rising to taunt him as he stood, barely feeling the sting of his singed palms. He stepped back and lost his balance, falling backward to the ground, the back of his head slamming against the flagstones. He lay there stunned, his head throbbing, moving in and out of consciousness. For an instant he was Kenji the ghost again, invisible, not of this world. His eyes fluttered open and he felt a raindrop on his cheek as soft as a kiss, and for a moment it returned him to the real world. Then Kenji closed his eyes, only wanting to sleep and never wake up.
Clarity
Aki relished the moments when the world around her was as clear and lucid as glass. For the past ten months, ever since she’d seen The Damask Drum, she’d felt lighter and more in control of her life. She spent more and more time with Haru and Takara, and had even taken her daughter to Kenji-san’s mask shop in Yanaka to see her uncle. Kenji looked tired and had lost so much weight since Mika’s death, she hardly recognized him. Since his accident, he remained quiet and subdued. But he always smiled widely when Takara was visiting, and it was the least she could do for him. And there was also her selfish wish of wanting to see firsthand how the beautiful masks were made.
While Kenji stayed with Takara, she wandered into the back room and stood quietly to the side watching Akira Yoshiwara paint the intricate features onto a mask. With bold, confident strokes, he transformed the static into the living.
“Have you always wanted to be a mask maker?” she asked. Her voice sounded timid and childlike.
Yoshiwara-san stopped painting. He looked up at her and smiled. “I believe so. I can’t imagine what else I’d be good at.”
“Your masks are beautiful,” she said, hoping to keep his attention a moment longer.
The mask maker bowed to her. “Kenji-san and I are honored that you would think so.”
Takara’s and Kenji’s voices filtered in from the front room. Aki felt fortunate to be spending time with Akira Yoshiwara. He had the reputation of being the greatest living artist of the Noh theater. Aki never imagined she would be having a conversation with him one day.
“Actually, Akira-san, I was wondering if I might buy a mask from you.”
He paused for a few moments in thought. “I don’t sell my masks outside of the theater,” he said.
Aki blushed, afraid she had offended him.
But Yoshiwara continued, “I do give them to friends.” He went to the shelf and stood a moment until he reached up and brought down an Onna mask, a young woman mask. “I would be honored if you’d accept this mask as a gift from me.”
Aki paused, not knowing what to say. “I can’t accept such a valuable gift. It’s too much, Akira-san.”
Yoshiwara laughed. “It’s only an illusion, a finely shaped piece of wood, but still a piece of wood.” He placed it in her hands.
Aki marveled at its lightness, at the careful details that made the mask come alive when she held it up. She marveled to think how real it could appear with an actor wearing it, and how lucky they were to be able to transform themselves into someone else, if only for a short time.
The Letter
Akira carefully opened the envelope and pulled out the letter. Every
month or so, he received a thin, blue-colored envelope from Kiyo-chan, who still lived in the village of Aio with her husband and three children. Since her visit last year, their years apart had been gradually recaptured. He smiled to think of the restless young girl he’d known now having a growing family of her own. Her husband, Toroshi, was a builder and she had two sons and a daughter. After Emiko-san passed away, she was left the praying-hands house, and Toroshi had done a wonderful job repairing and remodeling it. “You wouldn’t recognize the old place now,” she wrote. “The main room is filled with light from all the windows Toroshi has put in.” Akira tried to imagine the light-filled praying-hands house, but he somehow found more comfort in remembering the dark, safe, high-ceilinged room where he’d spent so much time sitting with Emiko-san by the hearth.
He skipped to the end and read the familiar closing. Kiyo-chan never failed to end her letters with an invitation for him to visit. “My family would be honored to have you visit. After all the stories I’ve told them about you, they keep asking when they’ll meet you. Needless to say, your visit would bring us all much happiness.”
Akira put the letter down. He had never thought of himself as bringing happiness to anyone. There seemed so little to show for a lifetime lived. He picked up a block of wood and held it in his hand, mulling over whether he should start another mask or wait until tomorrow. He smiled to himself and put the piece of wood down on the table.
He still walked down to the river several times a week. He loved the water in the same way Kiyo loved the mountains. They both held something sacred. He cleaned up, put on his jacket, and locked the door to the mask shop. As he sauntered down the alleyway, a cold wind blew and he drew his jacket closer. Winter was just around the corner in Yanaka, and Akira’s memories returned to springtime in Aio and how the ice appeared like glass when it began to melt, cracking like a heart breaking, the entire world fragile and beautiful in the sunshine. Streams of wood smoke rose from the hearths and tinged the thin, sweet air. It caught his breath, even now, to think about it. Perhaps it was time for Akira to step out of his safe, dark room and into the light, after all.
31
Decisions
1965
Every morning a car picked Hiroshi up to train with the other sumotori at the Katsuyama-beya. At thirty-six, he had to work harder before each tournament, willing his body to do the things he could so easily do fifteen years ago. No doubt he had slowed, but his strength and experience still made up for it. Most of all, he hoped to set a good example for the younger sumotori.
As Hiroshi prepared for the May Basho, he found it difficult to concentrate, to stay focused on winning. It was as if his eyesight had dulled; no match was as sharp, as important. The past year had been difficult. He worried about Kenji, who was finally on the mend after staying with their obaachan until he had gained back his strength. Hiroshi still believed something ghostly had brought him to Kenji’s house that night. He wasn’t expected to visit, but it was as if a voice had led him there. It was raining when he entered the gate and found his brother lying in the courtyard next to a pile of masks, a few charred. He couldn’t begin to understand what had happened. Hiroshi carried Kenji back into the house, lifeless, his skin cold to the touch, and called a doctor. There was a bump that swelled on the back of his head, but fortunately, though the burns on his hands would hurt for a time, no major damage was done. Hiroshi remembered thinking of Haru, of how her hands had been so severely burned during the firestorm, and how she always hid them beneath the folds of her kimono. It was one of his first memories of her. He had stayed that night with Kenji, refusing to leave him alone, even when his brother awoke, his hands bandaged, embarrassed about the condition Hiroshi had found him in. Kenji stopped drinking after that night and went to stay with their obaachan.
Hiroshi’s thoughts wandered as the car moved slowly through a crowded intersection. Thankfully, Aki had been doing so much better this past year. He found himself wanting to spend more time with her and Takara; he was tired of training and traveling for tournaments and for business. Most sumotori would have already retired, but though he knew the time was right, he wanted one more year. He was still doing reasonably well and had won seventy-six of the ninety bouts he’d fought last year. It was an impressive and hard-earned achievement. Takanoyama would go down in history as one of the greatest sumo wrestlers after World War II. Japan was again strong. He was adored by fans and the media and no longer had to worry about money. Wasn’t that what he had always wanted? It was by all accounts a full, fruitful life. The gods had been good to him.
These thoughts raced through his mind as the car turned down the road toward the stable. By the time they stopped in front of the gate, his thoughts of retiring were put aside. Hiroshi stepped out of the car just as Haru emerged through the front gate, wearing a Western-style skirt and jacket.
“Haru-san,” he said tentatively. While he saw her often at the house because of Aki and Takara, they had rarely spoken for more than a few minutes since the geisha incident, neither of them ever mentioning it again.
Haru bowed. “I was just leaving to see Aki-chan and Takara before my class.”
“Thank you for taking such good care of them.” He bowed back. “Let my driver take you.”
Haru bowed again and accepted his offer.
“Can we speak for a moment?” he asked.
“Yes, of course.” Haru stopped.
Hiroshi hesitated, not knowing where to begin. A cool April wind blew. “Aki-chan seems to be doing better.”
“She is.”
“And Takara is growing like a weed,” he said, only to laugh at the bad example he’d chosen.
Haru smiled, relaxed. “She’s flowering.”
He missed these conversations with Haru, the only person who understood his family, perhaps better than himself. “And you, Haru-chan, how are you?”
“I’m doing well, happy to be teaching again at the university.”
“Good, good.”
She looked past him at the idling car. “I should go, or I’ll be late,” she said with a smile.
Hiroshi wanted to say more, but knew she was in a hurry.
Haru walked toward the car, paused, and turned back to him. “Thank you, Hiroshi-san, for arranging for the teaching position at the university for me. It feels good to belong somewhere again.” She bowed low and disappeared into the car.
The Rutted Road
The air was still thin and cold in late April as Akira Yoshiwara walked the last stretch up the mountain from the village of Aio, following the deep ruts in the road that would lead him directly to the praying-hands house. The road was saturated; the last remnants of the melting snow ran down in smaller rivulets that would be etched into the dirt road come summer. It felt wonderfully prehistoric; nothing had changed, the same pine trees watched ominously over him as years before. He stopped to catch his breath, a sharp, quick burning in his lungs as the smell of wood smoke drifted over the top of the trees and Akira watched it rise into the sky and disappear.
Just around the bend and up the road, Kiyo and her family waited for him. But it was Emiko-san he longed to see step out on the road to greet him. It was her calmness that was so similar to his, the need and loneliness that lay just beneath the skin, that had drawn them together and then apart.
“Akira-san!”
He looked up at the sound of his name and squinted against the light to see Kiyo standing there, holding the hand of a little girl. He waved to them.
“Akira-san, we’ve been waiting for you,” she said, her voice rising in delight just as it had when she was a girl and had found some small gift he’d hidden for her.
He smiled and walked faster up the road toward them as if each step brought him back in time. Over twenty years later, a mother and daughter once again waited along the same rutted road to greet him.
The Masks
Kenji swept the last of the wood dust from the floor of the back room, covered the saw, and stored away
all the paints. With Yoshiwara-sensei away for the next few weeks visiting Kiyo in the mountains, he thought it was about time to do some traveling himself. At thirty-five, Kenji had barely been out of Tokyo, only to the countryside during the war. It was something Mika had wanted them to do, travel more, and now that she had been gone for almost a year and a half, he finally found himself wanting it, too. Her shadow was always there, trailing him, pushing him forward. Now, she was the ghost.
It was a difficult year after Mika’s death. The drinking, the burns on his hands, the few months he stayed with his obaachan, healing. He smiled to think of her. At eighty-three, his grandmother was fragile but still formidable.
On his first morning staying with her, she brewed a strong tea and set it down on the table before him. “Drink this, you’ll feel better.”
Kenji didn’t dare look directly into her eyes, afraid of what he’d see. So instead, he watched her hands, thin and heavily veined; the hands that had carried him as a baby and picked him up when he fell. He lifted the cup of tea with his bandaged hands and sipped; it was bitter on his tongue, hot and soothing down his throat. His neck was sore and the back of his head ached where it had hit the flagstone.
The Street of a Thousand Blossoms Page 41
