I sat there in my father’s studio for what seemed like hours. The idea first crept into my mind like a small spider that slowly begins to weave an elaborate web. I could not stop thinking of the freedom these masks could afford me.
Unlike my father’s masks, these masks could bring me a large sum of gold. I knew that they were worthy of a collector’s eye and I had heard that Westerners were buying our antique treasures at unheard-of prices. It struck me as an exchange. I could learn their artistic traditions and, in return, they could learn from mine.
Indeed I was thinking with the complete selfishness that only the very young can truly have. I was not concerned with bitterness or regret or the complexities of conscience. I could not shake from my mind the idea of all the money these masks could bring! My self-absorption shames me now. My father’s ashes had barely been swept from the funeral pyre and I was planning to sell something my family had treasured for generations.
I tried to ease my mind by convincing myself of the sacrifices I had already made by giving the last mask my father carved and the remaining ones I discovered to Iwasaki-san. But these! No one knew of these masks, and with the money from the masks and the selling of the house, I could realize my dream. I could take control of my destiny.
The idea had been brewing inside me since I first discovered that I would not receive the education I hoped for in Tokyo. If I could only travel to France. There I would be able to study with a great master, just as Kuroda Seiki had done. There I would have the artistic freedom that I was denied in Tokyo. I could forget about learning the coloring techniques of the Tosa and Korin schools and, instead, focus on the techniques of the great Renaissance masters and the modern theories of the Impressionists. There I would be able to take advantage of the vast museum collections and the work displayed in the salons.
The excitement of my decision was overwhelming. I needed to open a shoji to let the crisp mountain air into the room.
How I wished that Mother or Grandmother were alive. Surely they would have understood my conflict. Noboru too. How I wished he could be here with me to ease my conscience, assuage my guilt, and share in my excitement. I wanted to pack my bags and rush back to Tokyo to be with him. To confide in him my plans. Would he join me if I went to Paris? Could we together realize our dreams and learn to paint from a true European master? All of this excitement rushed through my veins. But I had to control my urges; I still had almost three weeks left in the mourning period, and I had to find a buyer for both the mask collection and the house.
I promptly decided that the following morning I would contact someone outside the immediate circle of the theater to assist me in making the appropriate contacts. But I was back in Kyoto, and, once again, could not escape the circle into which I was born.
* * *
Mitsutani Hiroyuki met me at the tea shop near Yamamoto Dori. I had not spoken with him at the funeral, and we greeted each other with informal nods.
Mitsutani was the son of my mother’s cousin who had married an actor within the Kanze family. We were bound by shared blood from our mothers’ side and by the bond of Noh. He had lost both of his parents several years before and had carried on the family tradition of acting, even though there had hardly been much of a following since the beginning of the Meiji era. He was far lower in rank than Iwasaki or any of the other elders of the theater, but still I made him swear that he would not utter a word of my plans to a soul.
In between the sips of tea, I informed him of my intentions. He was the closest family member I had, and I wished to see if he was interested in purchasing the masks.
“I know their value, Kiyoki, but I do not have that kind of money now. Unfortunately, few people in the theater do anymore.”
I nodded my head, as I understood how the situation had been even when my grandfather was still alive.
“However,” he added, “there is a man named Shimakawa who deals with wealthy foreigners from the West. I have heard that they pay well for anything old and valuable from Japan.”
He promised to inquire about the value of my collection with Shimakawa and we agreed to meet later that week.
In the meantime, I negotiated with the neighbors next door about purchasing the house and a portion of the land.
The several stacks of pine boxes displayed just how sizable my mother’s dowry had truly been. Through their union, my father had gained a house, a household of furniture, lacquer, ceramics, several acres of farmable land, and a secure position in the Noh circle. In return, my mother had gained a husband.
I knew that I would not be able to keep all of these mementos. Aside from Mother’s wedding kimono, coverlet, and fan, and father’s chisels, I would have to sell the remaining objects along with the house. It pained me to know that these objects would soon belong to another. These were the priceless pieces of their dowries, now dusty with age and neglect. They were needy, as I had been. Longing for a touch, aching for words of appreciation. I wiped away the soot and saw my reflection. I remembered the story of how my mother had first laid eyes on Father, how she avoided his stare by gazing into the top of the lacquer table. How she finally saw him in the mask he had carved.
The few of mother’s treasures that did not find their way into pine boxes rested neatly in several bamboo baskets. The smooth blond weave contained all of the objects that for so long had made her tangible to me. But now, with the strength of her spirit infused in my bones, I knew that I no longer had to physically keep these objects to carry her. When I was lost in my drawings, splattered in ink, and damp with paint, she was with me stronger than ever before.
I knew that Mother would gladly have given all of her treasures away had it allowed her spirit to exist freely. To draw more than the belly of the mountain. I felt her protective spirit breathing over my shoulder and whispering to me to go, to travel the seas in order to pursue my dreams. I heard Grandmother’s deep sigh and saw the drooping of her lids, the elegant, resigned nodding of her head in the swaying of the pines. I could no longer linger within the constraining walls of the school in Tokyo. I knew that I must travel the waters that separated me from the art I wished to pursue. I must find myself and my talent in France. This was the path that I chose for myself, and I was certain that my mother would have encouraged me to do what was necessary to achieve it.
I convinced myself of this. So when our neighbor Otama came with sixty large silk purses brimming with gold coins in return for the house and all but three acres of our land, and when Shimakawa arrived with his leather-brown face and large-toothed smile, informing me of the foreign buyer’s interest in my father’s collection, I didn’t feel so guilty.
But in the end the guilt still came. Creeping and pervasive.
“I must examine the masks, Yamamoto-san,” he said, his yellow teeth glistening in the sun.
I went into Father’s studio and brought down the heavy cinnabar trunk. I removed the top and removed the masks from their silk pouches. Shimakawa’s face grew serious, and his nose trembled from the dust. In profile, he reminded me of a Sharaku woodblock print. He moved his face along the horizontal path in which the masks quietly lay. He seemed to sniff as he picked each one up in his hands. He grunted. After several minutes he raised his head to me and said, “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, Yamamoto-san, but I believe this is the finest collection of masks that I have ever seen.”
He paused before continuing.
“The buyer has informed me I can offer you up to seventeen purses of gold, if the collection is of the finest quality. But as you have just suffered a death, perhaps I should urge you to reconsider. This is an outstanding group of masks, and even though I will make money from its sale, I must be honest with you and tell you that it would be a shame for it to leave Japan.”
His frankness surprised me.
“The Mitsuzane mask is particularly rare,” he continued. “I actually believe it was carved by one of
his early apprentices, a carver by the name of Tamashii. Legend has it he carved for only two years under the great master Mitsuzane before vanishing. The seal is different.” Shimakawa pointed to the character me in the signature Deme-Mitsuzane.
I was unsure whether the mask had belonged originally to Grandfather or whether Father had brought it with him on that day when he arrived at Grandfather’s door. But I confirmed Shimakawa’s suspicion.
“It is indeed a Tamashii, and I expect its rarity should be considered when you offer me a price,” I said firmly. My boldness and lack of guilt surprised me, but all I could focus on was the money that would allow me to procure my ticket and sustain myself and my studies in France.
I did not want to think about the grave injustice I was doing in selling the masks to someone outside Japan. Even worse, I was betraying my family. My father. What I was about to do was as terrible as thrusting a sword into his belly. As I had done before I left for Tokyo. Had I twisted the dagger and scalded the blade before piercing him, what I was doing now could not have been more painful to him. To his memory.
But what else could I do?
I was alone in this world now. Yet how was my life that different from when he had lived? Then too I was alone. A small boy surrounded by ghosts. My father had never embraced me, I thought to myself, and my bitterness surprised me. He had never placed me above his carving, showered me with the love he lavished over his masks.
“I appreciate your advice, but I still wish to sell them,” I told Shimakawa flatly. I cast my eyes down at him. He remained, crouching over the masks, his knees pressed to the floor. “I need twenty purses of gold, however.”
“Twenty?” Shimakawa gasped. “I told you I can offer you no more than seventeen!”
“I am sorry, then,” I said firmly, knowing that he would acquiesce in the end.
He paused for several moments, and I saw that his eyes rolled upward, as if he was envisioning an abacus and counting in midair.
“All right, then. Twenty purses of gold. I will visit you tomorrow and bring the gold then.” He rose to his feet and extended a deep, reverent bow.
“Yes, then. Until tomorrow.”
I stood there now alone in our lonely house, having nearly vanquished any remaining feelings of guilt.
I went outside to the engawa and dangled my feet over the ledge. The distant peak of Daigo reminded me how far I was from Noboru. I thought how comforting it would have been to have him here with me. I missed the sight of his small robust body, the smell of sweet red bean paste on his breath. I missed seeing his tiny alabaster hands, as white as polished jade, protruding from his sleeves. Perfect when they clutched a piece of charcoal. Elegant as they grasped the slender handle of a brush. Whisking through the air like emancipated doves. Flying and finally falling on the pedestal of my knee.
I closed my eyes and tried to bring his memory to these hills of my childhood. To mingle here with me and my ghosts. To stroke my empty body. To fill me with his laughter. With him.
THIRTY-THREE
It was difficult for me to imagine that, if I indeed traveled to Europe, Noboru might not be able to join me. His companionship in Tokyo had made me feel stronger and more whole. The boy I had been when I left Kyoto had returned a man. Noboru had awakened me. I had become aware of my desires and myself. He had enabled me to believe that I had the talent necessary to pursue a life of painting. He had listened to me as a friend, lover, or father might. With open ears and a kind heart. Giving me the space to dream, to confide, and to love.
If he was not at my side, I could still imagine him. I could call him up from the recesses of my mind, the ventricles of my heart. I carried him as I carried my ghosts. With the same reverence, but with the ecstasy that he lived and breathed. That he was truly my friend. That he lived and touched. That he spoke and laughed. That he looked deep into me, with black pupils trimmed in orange light.
When I spoke to him of my desire to paint, he listened with the intensity of a priest, his eyes looking intently into me. I recalled Noboru nodding and smiling, agreeing in the silence of my Tokyo room.
“You and I share the same dreams, Kiyoki,” he replied, his gaze glimmering in the twilight. The sight of our two faces next to each other. White as stars. All of our hopes binding us to each other. His fingers running through my hair, as I had always imagined those of my father. The sensation somewhat unexpected. Different. Yet welcomed. The embrace I had always yearned for. But now the smells were not of cypress and steely blade, but of turpentine and dark black ink. Swallowing me. Swallowing me whole.
* * *
The wind rustling through the naked trees awakened me. I felt the lonely sweep of darkness across the garden and pulled the cloth of my robe tighter across my form. I could not imagine going to France without Noboru, and yet I knew I would have only enough money for my own passage and my own expenses there.
I would not have enough to take him along. But now that I had found him, I knew I did not have the strength to leave him.
He had become my sustenance. I could not pack him away and sell him off as I had done with my memories and my ghosts.
* * *
February 3, 1896, marked my fiftieth day of mourning for my father and, as custom dictated, the last day of my official grieving period. Having negotiated the sale of our house and Father’s mask collection, I prepared myself for my return to Tokyo.
I walked out of our gate for the last time and swept my hand over the sagging wooden fence. I bowed my head as I turned once more to gaze at the small carved pigeons on our roof’s peak, and tilted my chin upward to meet the white crest of the mountain.
I had many more boxes and satchels with me than when I arrived almost two months before. Now, when I boarded the train at Kyoto station, I carried with me Mother’s kimono, Father’s chisels, and their wedding coverlet. And the mask with only eyes.
THIRTY-FOUR
Noboru met me at the station. I smiled when I saw him standing there. He was wearing his navy blue kimono, his hair black and oiled sleekly away from his face.
The two of us must have looked rather strange in our extremely somber robes. Noboru, so small that he could have been my son, helping me with my bags.
“You look tired, Kiyoki,” he said tenderly, his voice floating over me, light and delicious like jasmine.
“It has been a long journey, but it is good to be back.” The sound of the locomotive’s engine retreated into the background.
“School has been quite dreadful without you,” he sighed. “I imagine you will have a lot of catching up to do, but don’t worry, I’ll help you as best I can.”
I smiled and relished the sight of him at my side.
“You must come back to my room for tea,” I insisted as we loaded my satchels and furoshiki into one of two rickshaws that he had paid to wait for me.
I saw the eyes of Father’s unfinished Ishi-O-Jo mask peeking through the cloth wrapping.
“San no ichi Higashi Terauchi cho!” Noboru called to the man who was to carry us. The driver’s strong back arched in front of us as he began a quick trot into Tokyo’s bustling streets. The wind rushed in our hair, and our kimonos billowed behind us.
* * *
Ariyoshi was out in the garden when we arrived.
“Hello, Yamamoto-sama!” he hollered to me as I withdrew my packages and handed the fare to the driver. “It has been a long time. I hope you had a pleasant journey. A good return to you!” As I walked closer, my mourning robe still cloaking my slender form, he whispered “My deepest regrets regarding your father.” I nodded to him, acknowledging his sympathy with the slight bowing of my head.
Noboru held two of my furoshiki and nodded to Ariyoshi as we passed through the inner gate and into the inner hall.
“I’ll make us some tea,” I said to him as he placed the parcels on the dry tatami floor. Noboru always complimented my o
-cha, saying that he could close his eyes and imagine the cherry blossoms of Tetsugaku no Michi, the splendid road speckled with sakura, the only memory he had of Kyoto. A vision not his own, but stolen from a page of one of his mother’s books. An image captured by the hand of a woodblock artist. And one that he had tried to re-create time and time again with his own brush and paper.
I was happy that I had brought back some of my favorite tea leaves from Kyoto, since I had already exhausted my initial supply several months before. I prepared the water, making sure that it was hot, but had not quite reached a boil, and then poured it over the small mound of tea leaves piled in my ceramic teapot.
Noboru was sitting neatly on the tatami, his legs folded squarely beneath him. I brought the two cups of tea over to where he was seated.
“Noboru,” I said, as I slid the tea over the table and positioned myself across from him.
“Yes.” He was so happy to see me. His face was shining like a winter moon. His lips curled over the rim of the steaming cup, moistening his skin with small crystal beads of condensation.
“I have something to tell you . . . Something quite serious.”
His smile vanished.
“With the death of my father, I now have enough money to pursue my studies in France. But I cannot envision myself without you. It is a journey that we should make together.” I paused, hoping to hear some sort of sign from him. But he remained silent. “I have decided to wait, Noboru,” I said solemnly, “until you have enough money to accompany me.” I tried to feign a smile. “Then we will go to France together!”
Noboru, however, did not react as I had anticipated.
He avoided my gaze. His eyes now focused on the steaming tea, the floating leaves, the greenness of the water; his lips curled. His chin remained flat to his chest.
The Mask Carver's Son Page 19
