Akira threw off his blankets and reached under his cot for his set of chisels, turning each one over in his hands, sharp and clean to the touch. Once a week he used a rag and oil to make sure they remained in perfect condition. He had avoided finishing his last mask, afraid that, if and when he did finish it, it would be the end of his mask-making life. He smiled and shook his head at his own superstition. He would carve hundreds of masks in his lifetime, and, should he decide to grow old in Aio, he’d have blocks of Japanese cypress sent to him. He looked through his bag, finding the unfinished Okina mask, unwrapped it, and slowly, carefully, began guiding the fine blade against the soft, smooth wood. When he next looked up, it was dark outside, glints of white snow still falling against the window.
Chonmage
As the winter cold seeped into the drafty heya, the rikishi shivered through morning practice, stretching and working through colds and fevers, their bodies moving in quick, jerking movements to keep warm. Hiroshi was grateful his hair had grown long enough to cover his ears, and when it grew to touch his chin both in front and back, Tanaka-oyakata asked a tokoyama, the stable’s hairdresser, to come in and style his hair into a chonmage, a sumotori’s identifying topknot.
The tokoyama, a short, stocky man named Tokohashi, gave a quick, loud laugh. He was a friend of Tanaka-oyakata’s and the longtime hairdresser for the stable. Like other sumotori hairdressers, he told Hiroshi, the first part of his name came from his adopted profession, but “hashi” came from his own family name. As he talked, Tokohashi laid out his assorted picks and combs and a tin of bintsuke wax on a dark piece of cloth with a peony pattern on the edge. He combed through the knots in Hiroshi’s hair without restraint, ripping through it in quick jerking movements, bringing tears to his eyes, until the wooden comb sailed through his hair with ease. Then Tokohashi pulled it tautly upward before applying the bintsuke, a special wax derived from soybean, to stiffen and keep his hair in place. Hiroshi felt the sharp pull along his hairline and at the base of his neck. For a moment, he wondered if the hairdresser’s sole job was to inflict pain. Tokohashi tied his long hair securely at two different sections with white strings. The sweet, flowery smell of the bintsuke was intoxicating.
“I’m warning you, Hiroshi-san, many think the scent of bintsuke is an aphrodisiac. The young women will never leave you alone again!” Tokohashi teased. He leaned back to make sure there were no stray hairs sticking out.
Tanaka-oyakata laughed. “I’m afraid, Hiroshi, it’s the fate of all sumotori.”
“You should have seen all the women Tanaka-sama had to fight off,” Tokohashi added.
“Yes, but it was Noriko-san who saved me,” Tanaka said. Her name hovered in the air for a moment.
“Hai, Noriko-san.” Tokohashi lowered his head. “The Sakura was—”
“One of the finest teahouses,” Tanaka finished.
“Noriko-san—”
“Was the most beautiful …”
“Hai.”
Hiroshi listened as they reminisced in abbreviated sentences, the way friends of many years often do. He immediately liked Tokohashi for his humor and candor. The two men paused in a moment of silence, giving respect to Noriko-san’s memory. Hiroshi glanced up at his stable master’s cleanly shaven head, so like the monks he saw moving quietly through the Buddhist temples, a stillness emanating from within each one of them.
When Tokohashi was finished with his topknot, Hiroshi sat perfectly still and gazed into a mirror. His hair was pulled tightly back, folded back and over again, lying smooth and flat against the top of his head, just as samurai had worn their hair. His pulse quickened with pride. Without a word, it told everyone that Hiroshi Matsumoto was a sumotori. And for the first time, he felt like one.
12
A New world
1947
Two years after the surrender, Fumiko watched Japan slowly waking to a new world. Shops began to reopen, food became more abundant, the rhythms of daily life returned to an almost normal pace. At moments, it felt like old times with the sweet smell of sembei crackers and incense wafting through the air as she walked past the Kyo-ou-ji temple on her way home.
So it was still a surprise for Fumiko one afternoon, when she looked up to see a panpan girl rushing down the alleyway toward her wearing dark glasses, Western clothing, and high heels, a cigarette burning between her fingers. All at once, she was reminded of just how much had changed. She felt her blood rise, the beat of her heart against her chest. On occasion, she’d seen these young women from a distance, gathered in twos or threes like a flutter of birds on the streets. She’d heard how they entertained soldiers, these “women of the night.” But now it was broad daylight. She imagined how Yoshio would make that clicking sound with his tongue and tell Fumiko to remember that everyone had his or her own story. It was not for her to make judgments.
The clacking of the young woman’s heels grew louder as she approached. Fumiko tried to avoid looking, but the bright red lipstick and nail polish drew her gaze. In an instant she spied something familiar in the woman’s face that all her garish makeup and sweet perfume couldn’t disguise. The panpan girl who passed by without so much as a fleeting glance was her neighbor Okata’s oldest daughter, Junko-san. Fumiko touched her empty ring finger. Although Okata had been despicable as the head of their neighborhood association and had taken advantage of so many in the name of the kempeitai, Junko had always been a sweet, quiet girl who loved to read and studied hard. But a year after the surrender, rumors spread that Okata had fallen down while drunk, hit his head, and was never the same again. Fumiko knew he and his family were simply casualties of the war. She turned to watch Junko disappear down the alley, her hips swaying in her tight dress. Fumiko cringed with the knowledge that so many decent young women like Junko were reduced to this in order to survive.
It was the younger generation Fumiko worried about most. She breathed in deeply and exhaled slowly, terrified to think she could lose her own grandsons to this new world. Hadn’t they already been lost once as babies, when their parents died? She remembered how her heart had raced with the responsibilities of raising two baby boys. She hadn’t thought much about the difficulties they’d face as young men. So many young people were drifting away after Japan’s defeat, wandering in the darkness and despair of surrender and occupation. They fed on escapism and decadence. Fumiko heard through neighborhood rumors that many pursuits weren’t healthy, the drinking and drugs, the strip clubs, the aimless suicides. These restless young people called themselves the kasutori culture, after some kind of alcohol they drank. Fumiko sighed, relieved that Yoshio couldn’t see what Japan had become.
Fortunately, Hiroshi had settled into his life as a rikishi apprentice. He had dinner with them at least once a month, and she smiled to recall how tall and strong he’d become. When he complained of the long hours and hard work, Yoshio was quick with an answer. “Do you think a champion is made out of thin air? It’s through the hardships you endure that you’ll gain real strength.”
They were no less proud of Kenji the scholar, as Yoshio called him, who had been accepted into Tokyo University. Yoshio was thrilled that Kenji was studying architecture, though Fumiko was fully aware he had chosen it for their sake, not his own. She knew he’d have been much happier spending his life carving Noh masks, lost in the magical world of the theater. Still, it wouldn’t harm Kenji to be an artisan with an education. For Yoshio and her, the past was past; the future belonged to their grandsons.
The Rikishi
Hiroshi helped Fukuda put the last of the equipment away, and then swept the practice room while his young friend gathered the rest of the towels. While Fukuda chattered on about what kind of stew they would be having for lunch later, Hiroshi still felt Tanaka-oyakata’s impatience at practice that morning, his sharp, terse scolding that cut through the thick air of the room. “No, no, no, keep your knees bent!” he had yelled at Hiroshi. Even Daishima had kept a low profile.
The first postwar profession
al sumo match was held in the gardens at the Meiji Shrine in western Tokyo. Hiroshi had easily won his matches, though it felt no different from the practice rounds he’d been doing for the past year. The wrestlers were novices and young. The next major tournament of the year, the September honbasho, would take place in a few months’ time. It was an important one for several of the young wrestlers, including Hiroshi. If he fought well, he would be in line to advance to the next level, the Jonidan Division. But this particular tournament carried another kind of pressure: Hiroshi would be wrestling a young sumo named Kobayashi from the nearby Musashigawa-beya. As Tanaka-oyakata drummed into him during practice, Kobayashi was an up-and-coming wrestler who shared many of Hiroshi’s distinctions: the same upper-body strength and the ability to move quickly. A wrestler of such caliber would test Hiroshi’s skills and they would both be watched closely. Tanaka had barely paid attention to earlier matches, confident his sumotori would win. This time, Hiroshi felt his oyakata’s anxiety, tied to his own hopes of raising his ranking and making Tanaka-sama proud.
“What do you think?” Fukuda’s voice interrupted his thoughts. As always, his conversation each morning was centered on food. “What kind of chanko do you think Haru-san has made today?” he asked again. He hadn’t suffered as much from the severe food shortages during the war as everyone else had because his father was a farmer who had hidden away some of his rice crop when the war began. Every year, he stored away the same amount so the military wouldn’t be suspicious. It was his hope that his son could stay healthy and strong and become a sumotori.
Until there were enough sumotori at the stable to do all the chores, Tanaka’s older daughter, Haru, prepared some of the food. She was fifteen, very pretty, and already accomplished at the things her mother would have done as okamisan of the stable. After she cooked the chanko in the main house, Hiroshi or Fukuda would carry it over to the stable. Hiroshi would never forget the first time he’d seen Haru and her bandaged hands. Although she seemed fine now, she still hid her hands in the folds of her kimono or the pockets of her jacket. She always seemed shy around him.
“I think Haru-san’s making you a special Mizutaki chankonabe, with lots of fresh fish and tofu, onions, cabbage, shoyu, sugar, and plenty of sake,” Hiroshi teased, shaking away the morning’s practice. Food was still scarce during the occupation and Mizutaki was Fukuda’s favorite. Hiroshi remembered playing the same game with Kenji during the war when there was so little to eat that they filled their stomachs with talk and dreams.
“Mitzutaki chankonabe over steaming bowls of rice,” Fukuda added, rubbing his round stomach.
Hiroshi threw a dirty towel at him and laughed. “You need to finish all the laundry first.”
Hands
Haru chopped the last of the turnips and threw them into the chanko. Even in the heat of summer, she liked cooking for her father’s wrestlers. And though it was only temporary, just during the school break until classes began again, it gave her something to do each day. She had volunteered for the job when the young wrestler who had done the cooking suddenly decided last month that the rigorous training and difficult life of a sumo weren’t for him. Haru stepped in before her father assigned cooking duty to either Fukuda or Hiroshi, who both already had enough to do.
Haru looked down at her hands. The skin on her fingers and palms had thickened as they healed, and now the only sign of a scar was just below the thumb on her left hand, where the soft pad of skin and flesh puckered to a small rise. She couldn’t help touching it with her other fingers. It was the only telltale sign of the fire, and barely noticeable if you didn’t look closely, which only Haru did. She opened and closed her hands, felt the skin pull tight. She had to look hard to find the lines on the palms of her hands that should tell whether she had long life, good health, love, or fortune in her future. Sometimes she wondered if this meant her very life would be forever shrouded and obscure, unreadable by even the best of fortune-tellers.
At times, Haru still felt a sharp burning in her palms and the tips of her fingers, and suddenly the three years disappeared and she was twelve years old again, hooking her arm through Aki’s as they ran and ran, their eyes stinging, lungs burning, running through the thick, acrid smoke back to the stable, running fast so that her little sister wouldn’t see the burned bodies writhing in agony, pleading for water. Haru dragged Aki along, heavy as an anchor. All the while, the burns on her hands were so painful she could barely stand it.
When they finally reached the sumo stable, Haru slumped onto the step at the front gate, her raw hands raised as if she were begging. Yellow pus oozed from the burned flesh, caked with mud where she had soothed them in the dirt of the trench all night. Aki ran back and forth, trying to find something that might comfort her, water or a blanket. The fire had consumed part of her father’s sumo stable, though the house and the building that housed the keikoba still stood.
“It’s my fault, it’s my fault,” Aki repeated over and over, touching her singed hair, the raw patch on the back of her head.
Haru shook her head, her words stopped by unbearable pain, thinking, How could this war be your fault? But she didn’t have the strength even to whisper the words.
When the smoke had cleared, Haru heard her sister cry out, “Otosan!” and run to him as he appeared through the wall of smoke. Haru looked up but she couldn’t stand. So she waited, palms throbbing, and watched as her father, covered in black filth, picked Aki up and held her tight. Then he saw Haru and knelt down in front of her, his eyes like two bright stars in the dark night. “Haru-chan,” he whispered, pulling her close. At last, Haru allowed herself to cry.
It took months for her hands to heal from infections, first on one finger and then another. By the time the bandages were removed, most of the nerves had been affected, leaving her hands numb. Since then, Haru had felt distant from everything in her life, with the exception of her father and Aki. The fire dulled her vision, too. Nothing would ever be as hot and bright again. Even though Haru excelled in her studies, she didn’t really feel connected to the pencil that touched the paper.
Haru looked up when she heard Aki sliding the door open to let Fukuda in. She smiled to think how much food the rikishi consumed in one sitting: the chankonabe, which was a mainstay stew made from a variety of ingredients, as well as the many bowls of rice, the beer, the tea. Before the war and occupation, her mother had shopped with the wrestler on chanko duty, stopping at one market after another. Now, Haru went by herself or with Aki, buying whatever was most reasonably priced, mostly root vegetables and an occasional piece of salted fish. In earlier, more prosperous days, the stew pot was filled with generous pieces of beef, chicken, or pork; squid, crab, or shrimp. There would also be side plates of pickled vegetables, fried fish or chicken, sashimi, sweet potatoes, and salad. Today, however, they would have a broth instead of a stew.
Haru’s hair clung to her sweaty forehead. She lifted the lid from the big iron pot and added a dash of shoyu for taste, and then hesitated before adding more. She watched as the vegetables bubbled in the thick, fragrant broth.
“Fukuda-san is here for the chankonabe!” Aki called out. Haru knew her sister would bow and smile and then return to their room, to flip through her magazines or read a book. At twelve, Aki had become too self-conscious to watch the big boys practice at the stable, and except for going to the market with Haru, she kept mostly to herself.
Haru turned back to the pot of chankonabe and dropped in a fistful of udon noodles to fill up their stomachs. In the past few weeks, food had become more abundant and reasonably priced. If she were lucky, maybe she could buy half a chicken, or perhaps even a whole one at the end of the week.
Fukuda came lumbering down the hall into the kitchen. The young wrestler filled the room with a playfulness long missing from the stable. Hiroshi, who was older and more serious, made Haru feel less comfortable than did Fukuda, who was closer to her age. Fukuda seemed more like a brother than one of her father’s sumotori, more eas
ygoing than the others.
“A soppu dakki chankonabe, with udon,” she told him.
Fukuda bowed. “We’re lucky to have you cooking for us, Haru-san,” he said.
Haru smiled. She took down a bowl and scooped some noodles and broth into it. “Here,” she said, knowing he would be eating last, after all the other rikishi. “Just a taste.”
Fukuda bowed again, a smile on his wide, open face. He balanced the bowl in both of his hands, blew on it, took a few measured sips, and then slurped the noodles down.
Hair
Aki sat at her desk and touched the small bald scar on the back of her head where the hair no longer grew, a reminder of the firestorm that had caused worse hurt than this scar. No one ever noticed it now, since her long hair covered the spot, but to Aki, it was like an open wound. The imperfection felt hard and smooth, about the size of a small prune plum.
She turned the page of her magazine, unconsciously feeling for the hairless patch. Haru often teased her about the habit, saying that she’d only make it bigger if she continued to pick at it. But Aki thought otherwise. Despite its traumatic origin, the scar provided her a strange reassurance of her survival, and she couldn’t stop feeling for it, making sure it was still there.
The summer heat was stifling. Aki wondered how Haru could stand being in the kitchen every day, cooking chankonabe for her father’s wrestlers, but then her sister did everything without complaint. Aki could never keep up, ichi, ni, san … always three steps behind. She tried to quash the flicker of discontent and keep it from becoming a point of meanness. She loved her sister, she did, but with Haru busy every day with shopping and cooking for the sumo stable, the summer seemed endless, each day blending into the next. Sometimes Aki dreamed that her mother was still alive, that it wasn’t her body that Hiroshi had found by the river after the firestorm. That it was all a mistake and her mother would one day return to them. It made Aki feel better to imagine that, to touch the smooth patch on the back of her head and hope that when her mother returned to them, her hair would grow back again in the same spot.
The Street of a Thousand Blossoms Page 19