The Street of a Thousand Blossoms

by Gail Tsukiyama

  Rebuilding

  September finally brought cooler days. With the windows open, a slight breeze moved through the long, narrow studio where the architecture students built their models. Kenji cut a piece of paper into small squares with a razor and drew dark lines to make a grid that resembled a shoji window. When the ink dried, he inserted it into the small wooden frame he’d built and pressed it tightly together with his fingers until the glue held. Later, he would fit it into the house along with the other windows he’d made. This was the one aspect of architecture he liked, creating small models of life-sized designs. It gave him satisfaction and came closest to creating something out of different materials, like the masks. He stood up from his worktable, tall and thin at eighteen. As he tossed his head to the side, a shock of hair fell across his forehead and he pushed it out of his eyes.

  He heard laughter across the room from two young women, whom he recognized from his other classes. They looked away when they caught his gaze. While they’d never spoken to him, he always felt them watching him, or whispering whenever he walked by. He smiled to himself and looked down at his model. He thought of Hiroshi, who often teased him, saying, “I may have the strength in this family, but you, little brother, were blessed with the good looks.” And though Kenji disregarded his brother’s observation, some girls evidently agreed with him. Kenji had little experience with women and, like the frail boy called Kenji the ghost, still felt invisible. What was it now, he wondered, that made him suddenly so visible to these girls? His obaachan said that he’d grown into his body. Then why wasn’t he visible to the one person he hoped would see him?

  She was a girl in his drawing class his first year at Tokyo University. Her name was Mika Abe, and though he’d never been formally introduced to her, he sat two chairs behind her in class and found himself watching her the way these girls watched him. He studied the way she walked, in lovely, even steps. He noted the way she dressed, mostly in Western clothing with little scarves and necklaces, but once she had worn a beautiful kimono to class, deep purple with a white chrysanthemum pattern on it, and the nape of her white neck was exposed when she bent down to draw. It took deep concentration on his own drawing to resist touching that small sliver of pale skin.

  Little by little, he learned about Mika Abe from other students and from a friend in admissions. He knew that before the war her father had been successful in the textile business, which explained the beautiful kimono she wore. She was born on October 15, four months after he, in Tokyo, and had two brothers. He also knew that she was an art major. At other times, he came to his own conclusions. She was studying art, which meant her family had marriage plans arranged for her, some rich industrialist’s son most likely. Art wasn’t a career as much as a pleasure for a young woman to study at a university. Kenji himself wondered how he would make a living. But what did it matter? Mika Abe was much too beautiful ever to pay attention to someone like him.

  Kenji returned to his model and the pleasure of working with his hands. Every afternoon after his last class, he found himself back at the studio working on his model—a comforting reminder of when he had gone to the mask shop every day after school and felt safe from the outside world.

  Now everything seemed in utter confusion. Every day Kenji walked past the burned shells of buildings, past loud American soldiers whose bodies blocked the entire sidewalk, past women and children begging on every street corner. He wondered when life would be better in this new Japan. Since his encounter with Okata, Kenji felt ready for anything.

  Kenji pushed open the wooden gate of his grandparents’ house and paused a moment in the courtyard. This was the kind of end-of-summer evening that he loved most, still warm, with a tinge of regret in the air.

  After dinner he guided his ojiichan out to the backyard. Where the watchtower once stood, his grandmother had planted a vegetable garden.

  “Here, ojiichan, I’ve brought you a gift.”

  His grandfather raised his face and smiled. “Some might say I’m too old for gifts, but don’t believe them. What is it?”

  Kenji put the metal pipe in his hand. “A souvenir. Something they’re selling in the streets. It’s called a defeat pipe, made of machine gun cartridges and anti-aircraft gun shells. I thought it might interest you.”

  Yoshio laughed. His fingers felt the small bowl where the tobacco was placed, the thin metal stem. “I can’t imagine what your obaachan will say if she sees me smoking this. She wants only to live in the present.” He reached up and patted Kenji on the shoulder. “But I don’t suppose there’s any harm in keeping it as a reminder. We should never forget the past.” He fingered the pipe again, smiled, and slipped it into his pocket. Then, as if reading Kenji’s earlier thoughts, his grandfather asked, “And what is the world like out there today?”

  “Complicated,” Kenji answered.

  His ojiichan nodded. “Japan will face many complications before she can fully revive,” he said, very matter-of-factly.

  “How long will it take?”

  “You can’t expect Japan to find balance right away after so many years at war.” He looked up at Kenji from his darkness. “We’re stepping into a new world, and an entire way of thinking must be changed. But the old ideas can’t be easily discarded. Like a pendulum, new ways must swing to the other side before returning. Don’t worry, though, we’ll once again find our place.”

  “Japan certainly seems to be swinging the wrong way now,” Kenji said, discouraged. “It’s terrible. There are homeless people everywhere. And where’s the food they promised? Why do we still have to rely on those vultures that run the black market?”

  “Just wait,” his grandfather said. “Things will improve. It takes time to rebuild a nation. And you, Kenji-chan, will be part of the rebuilding,” he added, smiling.

  “Hai.” Kenji swallowed the rest of his words. He wanted to believe his ojiichan, wished for his patience and optimism, his hard certainty. But unlike his grandfather, Kenji viewed the world on a much smaller scale, intimate and orderly like one of his models. The idea of spending his life rebuilding a whole nation was too large for him to fathom.

  Kenji glanced around the backyard. In the waning light, it looked smaller and shabbier. Just after the war, he and Hiroshi had offered to rebuild his ojiichan’s watchtower, but his grandfather had shaken his head. “What for?” he’d asked. “It served its purpose. Now we must look toward the future.” Perhaps he and Hiroshi were the ones who really wanted the watchtower up again. It had been so much a part of their childhood. Only now, when they reminisced, did they understand how it had shaped their growing up in this house. The watchtower had stood all through their childhood, which ended when it fell. He smiled at the memory and turned back to his grandfather.

  Upstairs, Kenji had grown used to having the small bedroom all to himself now. With Hiroshi at Katsuyama-beya, the house always felt quieter and emptier. His older brother still came home each month to eat with them, but it wasn’t the same. Their lives were also more complicated now, and Kenji wasn’t sure he liked it. He stopped studying and picked up The Book of Masks, carefully turning the pages and studying each intricate face. He never tired of them, seeing something different each time—the delicate strands of hair on the female Zo-onna mask, or the bold, wavelike brows on the Fudo spirit mask. He imagined that he might be carving one now if things had been different. As Kenji closed the book, Akira Yoshiwara returned to his thoughts. His sensei’s absence still left an emptiness that lingered like a sentence never finished. He hoped Yoshiwara had survived the war and if so, that they would one day meet again. Kenji often searched the faces he passed along the alleyways, hoping that his sensei might be among them, but he knew that many people lost during the war would never be accounted for. His obaachan’s closest friend, Ayako-san, had never returned from Hiroshima. Perhaps Akira Yoshiwara died there, too, and had disappeared like ash, like dust into the air. Kenji closed his eyes and placed his hand on the cover of The Book of Masks.

/>   The next afternoon, Kenji walked past the old mask shop, expecting to see the same abandoned and forlorn storefront—the empty, dusty rooms he’d grown used to seeing every week. Instead, he was surprised to see a cart filled with flowers propped in front. Someone had claimed the small space as a flower shop. Bright purple and yellow irises, pink tiger lilies, and white chrysanthemums lit the window from inside. Such vibrant signs of life stunned him. What if Yoshiwara had returned? Digging in his pocket, Kenji pulled out all the money he had and bought irises for his obaachan from the middle-aged woman who owned the shop. Akira Yoshiwara was nowhere in sight. Still, his ojiichan was right; some things were changing for the better. Kenji smiled to think that his sensei would approve; in the midst of all the devastation and confusion of war and occupation, beauty flourished once again where his masks used to be.

  The Tournament

  The months leading up to the September honbasho were filled with anticipation. During off-hours, Hiroshi and the other rikishi kept busy by helping Tanaka-oyakata rebuild his stable. The two-story dormitory, private rooms for upper-ranked wrestlers, and an eating area were finally rebuilt by the end of August.

  Two weeks before the tournament, Tanaka-oyakata called Hiroshi into his office. Tanaka had relaxed, seeing how hard he and all the rikishi were training. Even Fukuda was making a conscious effort. The stable master was half-hidden behind stacks of files and papers and all that was visible was the shiny glint of his shaved head.

  Tanaka-oyakata looked up. “Ah, Hiroshi, come in, come in.” He pushed aside a stack of papers.

  Hiroshi bowed.

  “You’ve been here over a year now, and I’m pleased with your training, your hard work.” Tanaka brushed the top of his head with the palm of his hand. “I’ve been thinking it’s time for you to have a shikona before the honbasho. I’d like you to have the fighting name of Takanoyama,” he said, sitting back in his chair. “Noble Mountain.”

  Hiroshi bowed again, surprised, but proudly accepted a fighting name that already lay heavy on his shoulders, testing him to live up to it. He wondered if that was why Tanaka-oyakata had given it to him. It wouldn’t really belong to him until he had earned it. Hiroshi hesitated and asked, “Tanaka-oyakata, may I ask why you chose the name Takanoyama?”

  A quick smile passed over Tanaka’s face, as if he were revealing a secret. “The truth is, it’s from a story I heard as a young boy,” he answered. “When I was growing up, my mother told me a story about three majestic mountains—each named for qualities she hoped would be instilled in me as a man—Truth Mountain, Courage Mountain, and Noble Mountain. On each mountain was a village where the villagers worked to remain true to their mountain’s name. And one by one, each failed the test. That is, until a young orphan boy came along who didn’t belong to any of the mountain villages, yet held the characteristics of all three mountains.”

  Tanaka paused.

  “How was that?” Hiroshi asked.

  “My mother never ended the story.” He laughed. “Each night she told me a different story which tested the boy’s courage, his sense of truth, or nobility. I believe she wanted me to figure out for myself how one boy could possess all the attributes that the mountains had to offer. Within each story was a lesson. I understood what it meant to have courage and to tell the truth, but as a boy it was always the Noble Mountain that confused me the most. ‘What does it mean to be noble?’ I asked her.”

  Hiroshi cleared his throat.

  Tanaka eyed him closely. “You didn’t know I would be telling you a bedtime story, did you? But you must understand, Hiroshi, that there’s a story behind everything. To be noble, my mother said, was to account for the life you lived, to always account for your mistakes, and to have dignity and worth. I later came to realize it has everything to do with what it means to be sumotori.”

  “Hai,” Hiroshi agreed. “And did you ever figure out how the boy could possess all three traits?”

  Tanaka paused and shook his head. “I suppose the boy wasn’t hampered by the destiny of each mountain. He lived his life the best way he could, thereby achieving all.”

  Hiroshi knew he had a great deal to live up to.

  “Takanoyama,” Hiroshi whispered under his breath. He sat quietly in the locker room before his long-awaited match with Kobayashi and closed his eyes, clearing his mind of all thoughts. When he opened his eyes again, Fukuda was playing cards with some of the other wrestlers. Their laughter and loud voices filled the stale air. Hiroshi pulled his mawashi belt as tight as possible, making it harder for Kobayashi to grasp. He slapped his muscular girth, increased by twenty pounds in the past six months.

  The afternoon before, Kenji had paid an unexpected visit to the stable and given Hiroshi a book of poetry by the poet Basho. “You might find calm in reading his poems before the match,” his brother suggested, slipping it to him quietly, unobtrusively. Kenji never did anything in a pushy way.

  “Domo arigato.” Hiroshi bowed, turning the slim volume over in his hands. Standing so close to Kenji, he was aware of their physical differences; he was now a good hundred pounds heavier than his slender brother. He pulled at his yukata robe. “Do you have time to come in?” he asked.

  Kenji smiled. “I have the entire afternoon.”

  His brother had changed in the past two years; he was lighter in spirit and resembled their mother even more, with his deep-set eyes and the long hair he’d let grow out and tied back like so many of the artisans. Taller and more confident, he was no longer the little boy once taunted as Kenji the ghost.

  He ushered Kenji into the training area, and, for the first time since arriving at the stable, Hiroshi saw everything from his brother’s point of view. Kenji had moved forward into the modern world, while he’d stepped backward in time, living within the confines of ancient rituals and traditions. What must his brother think to see half-naked men training just for a few moments on the dohyo to prove who had the greatest strength? His brother moved slowly around the empty room, asking about Hiroshi’s schedule, the training he undertook every day.

  “Are you ready for the tournament?” he asked.

  “Hai,” Hiroshi answered, without a second thought. “How are your studies?” he asked. “Have you any time for making masks?”

  Kenji hesitated. “Architecture is fine. For now,” he added. “I haven’t really had much time for the masks.”

  Hiroshi knew that Kenji found his greatest pleasure in the Noh masks, an art, much like sumo, that was ancient and revered. It was the masks his brother would always love most.

  “Obaachan always says you can’t run away from your destiny.”

  His brother smiled. “No, I suppose not, perhaps just get sidetracked.”

  “You’ll find your way back.”

  Kenji nodded. “I hope so.”

  The laughter from the other rikishi cut through the stagnant air of the locker room. Hiroshi stopped pacing and dug through his bag, found the book of Basho poems, and flipped through the pages. Each line was short and simple.

  Winter solitude—in

  a world of one color

  the sound of wind.

  He read the characters over and over until the words made him think of moments in time outside himself. He closed his eyes and repeated the lines like a chant until he could feel his heartbeat slow and his breathing become calm again. Even the raucous laughter of the other sumotori seemed far away.

  When Hiroshi entered the sumo arena just before his match, he looked up at the bright lights and thought of “a world of one color.” Unlike the original sumo stadium now occupied by the Allied troops, this sports arena was much smaller. Brightly lit, with a high ceiling, the open room hummed with voices, thick with the heat of too many bodies. He looked up at the blur of faces, too far away, knowing that somewhere out in the audience were his grandparents and Kenji. His heart pounded as he neared the dohyo, following Tanaka-oyakata and other members of his stable. For a moment, Hiroshi felt dizzy, as if he might black out, but
instead, he breathed deeply and found his balance again.

  Across the dohyo, Hiroshi searched for Kobayashi amid a group of other wrestlers waiting for their matches to begin. He’d only seen him once, from a distance, and guessed that he was the tall, round-eyed young sumo gazing back across the dohyo, watching him just as closely. They weren’t even in the ring yet, but already the niramiai, or stare-down, had begun.

  Just before their match was to begin, the yobidashi held up a fan and announced their names in the traditional high-pitched singsong voice. Hiroshi relished the sound of the ring attendant’s voice piercing the air, quieting the entire audience as it reached the highest seats. The five syllables of his new shikona rang out like a poem: Ta-ka-no-ya-ma. A world of one color, he thought, while he stood at the edge of the dohyo. To Hiroshi’s surprise, the wrestler who stood across from him was not the one who had glared at him from the other side of the ring. The Kobayashi he faced was slightly shorter than the other sumo, but muscular and strong, with a good-sized girth that hung over his belt. He had a large, sloping forehead and narrow, piercing eyes that followed Hiroshi’s every move. He and Kobayashi waited for the yobidashi to step off the dohyo, and then entered and bowed to each other before returning to their opposite sides. The air in the arena was warm, thick with the sweet scent of incense and the dank smell of the clay used for the raised dohyo. Sweat beaded on his forehead. The audience had quieted down to a whisper.

  Hiroshi began the rituals he’d been taught from the day he entered the stable, and Tanaka’s voice remained a constant echo in his head. First he clapped, and did two shiko, leg stomps to drive out the evil spirits, then he threw salt to cleanse the ring and again to drive out more of the spirits. At the east and west sides of the ring, Hiroshi and Kobayashi squatted down on their toes in unison, clapped their hands to let the gods know that a match was taking place, then held their arms out to show they had come without weapons and were ready to fight in fair play. After performing the prebout rituals, Hiroshi heard the gyoji, the referee, announce both names again as they stood and approached the center of the ring. Hiroshi and Kobayashi crouched into position at the starting lines, knuckles on the ground, facing each other in the niramiai. His heart raced as he locked his gaze on Kobayashi, at the edge of his forehead that dropped abruptly into his narrow stare, knowing that to flinch now could lose him the match even before it started. “So much of sumo is concentration, in finding your opponent’s weak spot,” Tanaka had drilled into him. “If you can do that, the match will be won.” Kobayashi squinted hard, too, giving no sign of backing down. For Hiroshi, everyone in the hall seemed to disappear and there was only Kobayashi, like a wall in front of him, staring him down, hoping to knock him out of the dohyo as quickly as possible. He felt his adrenaline rising, every muscle in his body ready to push forward, ready or not. “Never give up, never,” Tanaka had said. “Use your instincts to find a way to win.”