The Mask Carver's Son

by Alyson Richman

  I listened as the crowds filed through the ribboned channels around the room.

  “Such a lovely face she has,” one woman whispered to her husband, her tightly tied bonnet veiling her face.

  “Celestial!” one man exclaimed to his friend, who might have been a journalist, for he carried with him a small leather-bound notepad and a pen.

  Others criticized the fierce brushwork. “The brushstrokes are far too ferocious for such a delicate creature,” a wizened old painter of the Academic tradition mused hoarsely.

  “Yes,” his gray-haired companion agreed. “And have you ever seen such trees in the Bois de Boulogne? Never!”

  Around three o’clock, after I shook hands with some of my fellow students from Collin’s atelier, I spotted Eva and Hashimoto entering through the west entrance of the room.

  Eva was dressed from head to toe in viridian green, her russet hair aflame against the bright color of the cloth.

  “Yamamoto,” she cried over the crowd, “we were so excited to come!”

  Behind her, I caught sight of Isabelle, a striking figure cut in deep crimson.

  Hashimoto reached back to usher her forward. He was beaming as he made his way through the throngs, a dashing figure dressed in black, escorting two radiant females.

  “Which one is yours, old man?” he chirped.

  Before I had a chance to answer I saw the once florid complexion of Eva suddenly turn pale.

  She had already turned to Isabelle, who was not blushing as I had imagined. Her smile was radiant, her expression proud and determined. In her carmine robes, she looked beguiling.

  “Why, of course it is me,” she said to her friend. “Do you not remember that night I wore a costume of a faun.”

  “I daresay,” Hashimoto said as he nodded at my canvas. “It certainly is a bold work of art.”

  “Thank you,” I said, embarrassed at the commotion between the two girls.

  “I am honored to have inspired such a masterpiece,” Isabelle said as she came forward and offered me her hand to kiss.

  “Indeed you did,” I said. I was now a far deeper shade of scarlet than her overskirt.

  “You will be the talk of the town, Isabelle!” Eva cried, and I wondered if there was a tinge of envy in her voice.

  “There is nothing wrong with that,” Isabelle said playfully as she undid her bonnet and shook out her deep red curls. She withdrew a tiny ivory fan from her purse and fanned herself.

  With a few succinct movements, she seemed once again transformed. “My only regret is that you never called on me to pose again, Monsieur Yamamoto.”

  “Had you left me an address, I surely would have, mademoiselle.”

  She smiled and her teeth flashed like her fan. “Well then, you should make it up to me, my dear Monsieur Yamamoto! How about a night on the town? Perhaps tonight? As a small gesture of gratitude for the good fortune I have bestowed on you, for I suppose I had a little something to do with your magnificent painting, The Fairy Faun.”

  “Indeed, that sounds like a marvelous idea,” Eva mused. As usual, she had answered the question before I even had a chance to open my mouth.

  “But we have a previous engagement, dear one,” whispered Hashimoto, his arm draped protectively around his beloved’s waist.

  “Such a shame,” Eva said with a pout. “It would have been such fun.”

  “But you and I can still go,” Isabelle said coyly.

  I stood there silent, my eyes bewitched by her beauty, my heart beating so loudly, I could hear its rhythm in my ears. She had the capacity to make me feel dizzy in a way I hadn’t felt since Noboru. Even all these years later I have never encountered another woman, another being, quite as beautiful, or as beguiling, as Isabelle.

  * * *

  That night we dined near the Bois de Boulogne. We ate raw oysters and drank three bottles of champagne. One week’s worth of my allowance, swallowed in a matter of hours, but how glorious it was!

  Isabelle was wrapped in yards of bloodred taffeta, her complexion as creamy as meringue. Her piles of copper hair, released by the plucking of a single hairpin, fell languidly over her shoulders. Her porcelain-white hands were open and majestic, as if inviting a monarch butterfly to sleep in the valley of her palms.

  Even now I can close my eyes and see her there, her back pressed against the velvet cushion, her eyes drawing me into an imagined embrace. Gone, for the moment, is my devotion to Noboru, my passion for painting. Evaporated is my ambition. My only desire is to be near this beautiful creature, to nestle and sleep deeply by her side.

  And these feelings are confusing to me because they are so different from the ones I hold so deeply for Noboru. The ones that are interlaced with a shared love of painting and with my yearning to be loved by the one who escaped me.

  Yet tonight she, Isabelle, lay in my bed, her crimson robes strewn on the carpet, her petticoats unabashedly removed. And I hold her without entering her. Because I still am devoted to Noboru, and because I am unsure that I can love her that way. Yet I allow her to wrap her slender arms around me as she falls into a deep sleep, her auburn hair spreading like marmalade over my stark white sheets. Bringing with her the smell of the forest. Clinging to her is the heavy fragrance of cedar. Damp, like mulching maple. High and green, as familiar as the scent of cypress.

  Behind the screen lay my canvases, some finished, some just begun. But I hardly think of them. For the smell of Isabelle’s perfume, her heat, and her thin curve of smile are ever so satisfying. For this woman, who could be mistaken for a faun, lay here in my bed with me, her limbs soft and slender, her neck arched like a swan’s.

  And I imagine Father, as he lay entangled in the arms of Mother. His beloved. The only rival to his craft, for even I, his son, lacked the power to bring him back to the world of love.

  His struggle revealed to me his division over two of the purest truths: the truth of love and the truth of wood. Each vying for his spirit. And when love came and left, it was the recurring words of his master that saved him: “Love only the wood.”

  And I realize that I am a product of such words. I knew that Isabelle would rise and leave. That after this night I too would return to my old self. That, once again, I would be consumed by my craft.

  But I was just as certain that the mask carver’s legacy would end with me. For should I have a son, I would fear the cycle would be repeated, with yet another artist forced to choose between his craft and his love.

  * * *

  The next morning, Isabelle awakened, stretched her lovely bare limbs, placed her bare feet on the floor, and walked unabashedly through my room retrieving her undergarments.

  “You’re a strange gentleman, dear Yamamoto,” she said as she smiled and placed each leg into the center of her petticoat. “You must find women a distraction to your work, non? Not that I mind, since you have already immortalized me on your canvas.”

  “It was you who immortalized my canvas,” I said.

  She beamed and I blushed.

  “Well, my young painter,” she said with a tinge of exhaustion. “I know you will not call on me. Your work is your mistress, but I must tell you I’ve enjoyed myself.”

  “As have I,” I said quietly.

  “Tell me something, Monsieur Yamamoto. I have the feeling you left someone at home to whom you are still very devoted. Am I right?”

  I stood there quietly, my face flushed and my mind racing. Finally I managed to answer her. “Yes, you are quite right.”

  “She is a lucky woman, if I may be so bold as to say so. Not many women have a man who stays faithful for nearly five years.”

  I smiled and remained silent as she reached for her evening bag and pushed her curls up into her bonnet.

  “Well, I hope we meet again,” she said sweetly, as she leaned over and kissed me on the cheek.

  I bade her a
n uncomfortable farewell, with a slight bow and a grazing of my hand on her left arm. The sound of her heels echoed in the stairwell, resonating for only a few moments before fading into a hushed silence.

  Unable to rid my head of her memory, I took out a sheet of paper and began a letter to Noboru. He had not written to me in so long. Noboru who, I prayed, had not yet forgotten me. And in my heart I knew I had to begin making preparations for my return.

  FIFTY-THREE

  During my four and a half years of studying under Collin, I had exhausted almost all of my funds. The few francs that remained in the bank would barely cover my passage home. So, in the spring of 1901, I seriously began my preparations to return to Japan.

  The years in Paris had often been difficult for me. In the end, I succeeded in mastering the techniques I had traveled so far to learn. But, more important, I had discovered a style of painting that was uniquely my own. I had completed nearly forty canvases. Still lifes, portraits, landscapes, and nudes. I tried my hand at all of them. Whereas I had thought myself a landscape painter when I arrived, upon my departure I knew that it was portraiture, particularly my series of self-portraits, that best revealed my strength as an artist.

  My favorite was Self-Portrait in Violet, one of the last canvases I completed before my return to Japan. My head, painted in a deep palette of violets and dark, Prussian blues, sits on top of a body cloaked uncomfortably in a suit. The long, lavender fingers clutch a closed fan, its wooden spine strangely resembling a shard of knotted wood.

  My eyes stared out to the corner, my mouth caught between a stiff smile and a cry. It is me, carved out of thick impasto. The markings of my knife embedded in the paint.

  I recall Dürer’s Self-portrait with a Thistle, the painting that had moved me to tears as a child. That image of the young artist, with the silk cords pulled tightly across his chest, the pale flower clutched between his hands. I knew that I had finally expressed something that cried from deep within me. That I too had captured the angst and the peace that mingled in my soul. I was taking the first steps toward making amends.

  * * *

  The week before my departure, I realized that I had neglected to inform Master Collin of my return to Japan. I remained behind after our Monday class. As the other students slowly packed up their satchels, withdrew their arms from their white smocks, and rearranged themselves in their black waistcoats and silken ties, I lingered over each and every one of their movements. It had been my routine for four years, but it would all too soon become another memory. I tried to savor the sight of the dirty water jars being cleaned and replaced, the sound of the turpentine top being screwed tight.

  For those are often the things we later forget.

  “I will be leaving Paris shortly, Master Collin,” I informed him. “It seems that I have only enough money left to carry me home.”

  He looked down at me, his tall frame and dark eyes hanging over me like a shadow.

  “So soon a departure? I was hoping for another year with you at least!” He let out a small laugh that helped to diffuse the seriousness.

  “Monsieur Yamamoto, you have proven yourself well over the last few years. You are no longer just a painter. You are now an artist.”

  “Thank you, Master,” I said. “I am all that I am because of you.”

  “Nonsense!” he bellowed. “Go back to your people and breathe life into their veins. Pierce their eyes and hearts, and fill them with color!” He was shaking my hand with vigor.

  “Good luck, Yamamoto,” he said. Then he added, “You should be proud.”

  That word, strange and unfamiliar to me, made me feel odd. Perhaps even sad. Once again I thought of Father, and lamented that he had never uttered it to me. Had I never merited such a compliment from him?

  “Good-bye, Master, and thank you,” I whispered. “You have been like a father to me.”

  “It’s an honor to have known you, and should you return to Paris, please call on me.”

  We stood face-to-face for the last time, our shadows stretched over white plaster walls. And then I bowed to him. Ensuring that my neck was straight and my back flat, I bowed deeply out of respect for my beloved master.

  And to my surprise he bowed to me in return, his fluff of white grazing the floor. “Go on, then,” he said, as he smiled. “Go gather your things.” And with those last words, he pressed his hand on my shoulder and turned his black-suited back to me. The sound of his walking stick echoed on the marble. Tap, tap . . . Tap, tap . . . fading into the sound of Flora’s calls.

  Now I was alone. The four walls surrounding me were to house me no longer, so I removed all traces of myself from his studio. I cleared my sketchbook from the student racks and retrieved all of my remaining work. I rolled up my canvases and wiped down my tubes of paint. I wrapped my brushes in newsprint and tightly closed my flasks of turpentine and linseed oil.

  As I walked out into the Paris evening, the iron lanterns already lit, I inhaled one last deep breath. And, strangely, the memory of that afternoon with my father, when he took me to find my first cypress tree, returned to me. That day I had also wanted to savor the smells of the musky forest floor. So that afternoon I had concentrated so hard that I knew I’d never forget. And now, as I placed each foot on the cobblestones, I found myself once again remembering the sensation of earth beneath my sandals. The sight of the red temple gate above my head. And I knew that I was ready to return.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  Noboru sent a telegram informing me that, because of a school-related function, he would be unable to meet me upon my ship’s arrival. It was the first communication I had received from him since I could remember and, as it was a telegram, the message was painfully brief.

  Although I was saddened and disappointed by Noboru’s message, I was not particularly concerned. I knew that I would be able to find my way, for I was returning home, not arriving in a foreign land. What I had not expected, however, was how much different the Japan that I had carried in my memory for nearly five years was from the Japan to which I returned.

  It would be wrong to deny that I too had changed. As I traveled on the steamship home, I spent what seemed like hours studying myself in the mirror. Only twenty-six years of age, yet I seemed far older. Gray hairs were emerging from my scalp. My skin was sallow. Fine lines were appearing underneath my eyes, at their corners, and around my mouth.

  Would Noboru recognize me? I did not doubt my internal transformation; I realized that my experiences had forever changed me. But by my outside—by my mask—I had been betrayed. Now I had a body and a face that mirrored its age. Old before my time. As Grandmother had said, “Who would have known a man could grow ancient in a day?” The same words that she once used to describe Father could now also describe me.

  I fanned my fingers over my eyes, my pupils peeking through the space between my knuckles like slats of a bamboo fan. It was strange that I would do something so vain. It seemed like something a woman would do when she approached her twenty-fifth year. When she was no longer a hana zakari—a flower at the peak of its bloom.

  I imagined Noboru as he had been when I left him. Memories that one carries never seem to change to accommodate time. I saw him wrapped in the same navy blue kimono, I knew in the back of my mind that it would now be worn and faded to a pale gray, but I still imagined him dressed in it. The color sharp and intense. His small round face shining like the inside of an oyster shell.

  Hold me, I thought to him. Of him. Because returning was frightening. And my canvases, my experiences, and my memory were now all I had. But what I was to learn was that one should never keep memories of the living. For the living can change.

  * * *

  Tokyo, 1901. I hardly recognized you. Whereas I grew old, you grew young and new. The wood of my youth had been replaced by stone and tile. You approached your transformation into the modern age with solid structures and an affirmative air. Th
e Meiji architecture, begun before my arrival in Tokyo as a young art student, now dominated the city. The Ministry of Justice in Kasumigaseki was complete, echoing the architecture of the French court. French and Venetian motifs decorated the facades of Tokyo mansions. Brick and mortar. Stone and stucco. Shoji and shadows disappearing from view.

  My luggage would follow me in two weeks’ time. So, with only a small satchel containing my bare essentials, I wandered through the streets that were once familiar to me, and eventually found my former boardinghouse where an older woman was tending a small garden of wild eggplant outside the genkan.

  “Excuse me for my rude intrusion,” I said. “I used to rent a room here from a man named Ariyoshi.”

  “Ariyoshi Togo died three years ago. I am his sister.”

  “I am sorry for your loss. I remember him as a dear and honest man.” She nodded in agreement, her head bent like that of an aging peacock.

  “If you do not have a vacancy, can you suggest another place for me? I have just arrived after a long and difficult journey from abroad.”

  “We are full here,” she said sweetly. “However, the house on the corner has a vacancy. Ask for Suga-san and tell him that Ume sent you.”

  I bowed deeply and thanked her for her graciousness, again offering her my sympathy.

  Upon my arrival at Suga’s boardinghouse, I was shown a small but clean room. The spring light was shining through the shoji, and outside the street was lined with sakura trees whose buds were just showing the first signs of pink.

  “Is the bathhouse on the next street over?” I asked.

  “You are familiar with this area?” Suga-san seemed surprised.

  “Yes. Nearly six years ago, I lived in the Ariyoshi house.”

  “So much has died in these parts in such a short time. It is hard for an old Oji-san like me to keep up with the times.”

  “It is hard for everyone,” I said comfortingly. “I have never known change to be slow.”