The Mask Carver's Son

by Alyson Richman

  She taught her daughter the art of the tea ceremony, and Mother learned how to sit with her legs tucked underneath her with the cloth of her kimono neatly folded over her knees, and her hands positioned before her. She memorized how to withdraw the powdered green tea from its canister and how to whisk it into a frothy foam. With the utmost elegance and feminine perfection, she learned how to slide the ceramic chawan around her cupped palms and imbibe the steaming liquid with one silent swallow.

  She had her mother’s sense of place and her father’s sense of artistry. Her talents were revealed in her preparation of the family meals, in her intricate tying of her obi, and in the ink drawings she made by the mountainside.

  When Grandmother had a stillborn son, Mother had the capacity to grieve deeply, even at the innocent age of three. She had seen Grandmother hold the lifeless baby, pale as ivory, to her breast and cry to the gods to give him back his life. Although she could not grasp the full meaning of her brother’s death, she understood that he was something the family desired from the deepest channels of their hearts. And so, when she wandered into my grandfather’s studio and discovered this great man with his head cupped in his palms, she knew enough not to disturb him but rather to make herself vanish until the darkness had lifted from their home. This personified my mother’s innate sense of duty.

  Mother’s powers of awareness were perhaps her greatest curse. She saw the demon of grief rise from the floorboards of their house. She saw the pain choking the light from her mother’s eyes, and the anger puncturing her father’s veins. At night she dreamed of her little brother, whose tiny form had since vanished to the confines of a small bronze vessel, whose spirit, her father informed her, was now entrusted to the gods.

  In her nocturnal journeys she would travel to his gravesite, bringing with her small fruits and sweet bean paste. She would beg him to eat, she would dig her fingers deep into the earth and beg him to return.

  She saw herself in sacrifice, prostrate in front of the altar, the eyes of the great bronze Buddha beating down into her back. She imagined inhaling the incense, throwing all of her coins at his rounded knees. But it was of no use. The gods would not listen to her. They had ignored the pleas of her mother, the angry cries of her father, and her own childlike but pious supplications.

  As Mother grew into her womanhood, it became apparent that she had inherited Grandmother’s appearance. She had Grandmother’s translucent skin, her wasp-thin waist, and her slight bones. She grew her hair long like an empress, and chose to secure it high above her head with nine combs, for that was how her mother had done at her age, and so she would follow.

  She learned the correct way to walk, she memorized the correct way to bow her head, lower her gaze, and maintain her posture. She fell asleep to the sounds of family legends and believed it when her mother told her, in hushed whispers, that their family name would protect her from evil.

  * * *

  Grandmother wore the family crest on her kimono at the nape of her neck, like a samurai wears his sword. In her eyes, the Yamamoto name gave her protection and she would never leave the house without it emblazoning some part of her robe.

  Proud and stately, she walked the streets of Kyoto with her head high and sandals moving softly beneath her. She had a natural sense of color and her elegance was reflected in the palette of her robes. She chose pastels for summer and vibrant jewel tones for winter. She wore cherry blossom patterns in spring and maple leaves in fall. But regardless of the kimono, whether it was a solid robe in which she had the crest prominently sewn between her shoulder blades, or whether it was a heavily patterned silk in which she had it discreetly sewn behind her neck, Grandmother always had the family’s symbol embroidered somewhere in the fabric.

  She sewed it herself, choosing the thread from her many spools of colored silk. Her careful and steady hand took delicate pains to re-create the ancient family insignia: the mountain inscribed within the circle. For generations, Mount Daigo had been at the center of our lives. It had, in fact, given a deeper meaning to our name. We were the family of the mountain, protected by its enormity, enshrined by its grandeur; Grandmother wore it like a shield.

  * * *

  Grandmother knew it was her husband’s expectation that she inform their daughter of the mask carver’s arrival. She dreaded this. She had lied to her husband, something she swore she would never do. But how could she explain to him that their daughter had affections for another. She shuddered to think of what his reaction would be if he learned of the young man who had captured Etsuko’s attention.

  His name was Kitano Yoshiro and his family owned a tea shop close to Kiyomizu temple. The shop had been there for nearly two hundred years. Grandmother had bought her tea there since she was a young girl. Instructed by her own mother, Grandmother knew the tea at Kitano-ya was the best in the city. As she had learned the ways of running a household from following her mother, she thought it best to bring Mother along whenever she went out on her domestic excursions.

  Aside from the theater, the teashop was my mother’s favorite place. There the scent of the dried tea leaves mingled with the smoky fragrance of the burning wood and the steaminess of the whistling kettle. She enjoyed being enveloped by the smells and loved the fact that her mother and she had such a wide selection of teas to choose from.

  The elder Kitano would appear from behind the navy hemp curtain like a wizened alchemist. He would point to the earthen jars that contained the perfumes of the floral jasmine, the musky ban-cha, the nutty mugi-cha, and the roasted soba-cha. He would often successfully cajole my grandmother into buying more than just her usual green tea.

  While Grandmother searched within her sash for her small purse of coins, Kitano’s young son Yoshiro would appear from the back room. In his youth, young Kitano Yoshiro was round and pudgy, with a thick mop of black hair and long black eyes. He would always appear with a game or a toy in hand, much to my mother’s delight, and the two children would immediately begin to amuse themselves with each other’s company. Occasionally, Grandmother would accept Kitano’s offer of a cup of green tea and allow the children to play for a few moments. Other times, however, she would hold her daughter tightly to her side and inform her that there was no time for childish nonsense. “We must hurry along,” she would say, as they had to meet Grandfather at the theater.

  As Yoshiro grew to be a man and my mother into a woman, the magic shared in their childhood still connected them. He stopped bringing toys, but he still had the capacity to hold her attention with the winking of his eye and the lengthening of his smile. Mother would insist to Grandmother that she could attend to the errands on her own, but Grandmother refused to allow her to make the trip alone. The two women would dress in their Nishijin kimonos, their feet bound in white and slippered in geta, and would elegantly make their journey by way of chair men into town.

  Over the years, old Kitano-san ceased to wait on customers, and his son eventually replaced him at the counter. Grandmother took notice of the extra attention and generosity he lavished on them, and found it strange and uncomfortable. She would watch with a suspicious eye as Kitano Yoshiro scooped the dried tea leaves with his hollow-bamboo shovel onto the scale and consistently undercharged them.

  “You have undercharged me, Kitano-san,” Grandmother told him.

  “For the pleasure of serving you,” he would reply to her in his most polite speech, his eyes traveling down from those of my grandmother and, finally, to the eyes he yearned for, those of my mother.

  She would notice how her daughter reciprocated his gaze, how her lips would turn delicately into a smile, and her cheeks would suddenly flush.

  “He is the son of a merchant!” Grandmother would sternly tell my mother as they left the shop, their packages neatly packed in furoshiki tapping against their sides. “There is no future for you with him!” she would reiterate time and time again.

  Later my grandmother would l
earn to regret her harsh words. She would confide to me how they tortured her, burned her heart, and tore at her insides. But that day, with her young daughter at her side, she thought the girl immortal and forever seventeen.

  * * *

  Indeed, Grandmother was surprised at her daughter’s lack of propriety. There could be no future for her daughter and Kitano Yoshiro. Imagine the disgrace of a Yamamoto marrying a merchant! The bloodline of the great families had to be maintained. Ideally, actors married daughters of actors, and musicians married daughters of musicians. But, as with Grandmother and Grandfather, there were occasionally marriages between the related professions.

  Her engagement with her husband had been an easy one. Both families could not have been happier. Their marriage festivities lasted for three days, and she wore a heavy wedding kimono as fine as any courtier’s. She had always hoped that one day her daughter would wear the same robe. She had pictured her high in the wedding palanquin, her hair piled above her head, her face powdered to perfection.

  Her husband seemed so ecstatic about finding a match for his beloved daughter: a man of Noh and an orphan who could adopt the Yamamoto name. He had done well to invite the young man to their home. Should her daughter consent to marry this mask carver, her daughter might succeed where she had failed, giving the family the son they always wanted.

  She did not know how her daughter would feel about this young man. Arranged marriages were still the norm rather than the exception. But the child was a precocious girl and had always been aware that her parents had defied tradition and married out of love, not obligation.

  Grandmother worried unnecessarily about what my mother’s reaction would be. She should have realized that my mother would have always chosen duty over love.

  * * *

  “Your father has found a man he believes to be a suitable husband for you,” she whispered to her daughter as she awakened her. “You must get up! He will be arriving at three.”

  It was early December and, because of the season, Grandmother chose for her daughter a silk kimono with snow-covered plum blossoms over a pale blue background. After Mother had bathed, Grandmother plaited her black hair for her, coiled it on top of her head, and fastened each gleaming sheet of hair with one of the nine exquisite lacquer combs. In order to reinforce the elaborate coiffure, Grandmother secured the combs with a few thin tortoiseshell pins. Mother’s long neck was exposed, white even before being powdered, as slender as a reed.

  Outside, the wind howled and the first snow of the season arrived. Snowflakes fell cold, pale, and ghostly, dusting the nearby mountain and the carved pigeons perched on the peaks of our house’s gables in a flurry of white. The braziers in the house swelled orange, and the shoji, if only for a moment, caught the beautiful flicker of the two women’s shadows stretched across parchment.

  “Etsuko,” Grandmother whispered, as she raised her hands over mother’s head and smoothed out the stray tendrils of hair, “Father has found a great man for you. He tells me that his carving is as fine as that of the great masters, that he has the promise to be the finest carver of this generation.”

  My mother sat squarely on a silk pillow, allowing her mother to prepare her as though she were a doll.

  “Do not be afraid of marriage. Learn now, and learn this early,” Grandmother continued, “you must not fight marriage or try to escape from it. Because in this life it is our destiny to be the wives of great men. Comfort yourself, as I did, that your future husband is in a position that commands respect. But Etsuko, never forget that a bond is shared among all women, regardless of class or fortune: our duty to our husbands is to give them a son. In this regard, I have failed your father. I have heard that once a woman gives birth to a son, she is finally free. The roles of the marriage reverse and she becomes the one with the power. Of this sort of emancipation, sadly I am ignorant. All I know is that for you, my beloved daughter, I pray you will deliver a healthy son and come to know the freedom I have been denied.”

  Then, with a long razor, Grandmother deftly defined the hair at the base of mother’s scalp, which, when completed, resembled a perfectly formed black triangle.

  * * *

  Later that day, at the o-miai, the ceremony of introduction, my mother sat across from my father with her legs tucked tightly underneath her. Her hands were folded neatly on her lap and her gaze directed at the floor. She sat, flanked by her parents: Grandmother silent and beautiful like mother; Grandfather enormous, mighty, and proud. His face red and his neck strong, he resembled the ferocious, bulldog-like thunder guard positioned at the entrances to our temples.

  Mother did not dare permit her eyes to meet those of the man who sat across from her. Rather, she allowed herself occasionally to glance at the low lacquer table that separated them. There, in the shine of the silky black tabletop, his face revealed itself. He appeared older than she had expected. His eyes, lowered like hers, already had creases at the corners; his face appeared windburned and cracked. She had pictured him stronger and hoped him to be handsomer. She had imagined that he would be tall, that he would have a full, round face and mischievous black eyes. She had wished, when her own eyes were shut tight and her mother was applying her makeup, that her husband-to-be would have the laughter of Yoshiro and the strength of her father.

  She saw the reflection of my grandfather, this mighty man, floating beside that of her intended. How odd they seemed in comparison. She could see behind my grandfather’s eyes that he was already planning the festivities of their marriage and orchestrating the mask carver’s adoption into their family. And believing there was no way she could have refused this man before her, Mother allowed her heart to soften for him. She wanted to warm to him, to love something about him, but she struggled to find it. She strained to catch a glimpse of his hands, which he tucked underneath the table, so that she might see the tools that bore him such fame.

  But to her, he exuded no magic. His pallor appeared dusty and devoid of light. When he spoke, it was in a serious tone, devoid of any humor, punctuated by no points of laughter, and nothing of his soul was exposed in his eyes.

  She thought of Kitano Yoshiro and his laughter. She thought of the sparkle of his eyes, the sweet melody of his voice, and shuddered at the contrast between the two men. She had often allowed her mind to wander, to dream of what it would be like to be alone with Yoshiro. But her sense of duty always overpowered her girlish fantasies. Her mother’s harsh words still echoed in her head: “You have no future with the son of a merchant!”

  Dragging her back from her dreams, she heard the mask carver’s faint voice: “I come with humility and great respect for the Yamamoto family. I only hope that Etsuko will allow me the privilege of being her husband.”

  No longer could she hear her own voice in her head. It seemed so crowded in her mind. And as she lowered her head and agreed to accept my father’s proposal of marriage, she could not help but think of the dream that had recurred throughout her childhood. As she uttered her words of compliance, she saw herself once more at the Buddhist altar, offering herself up in sacrifice, so that, in return for her meager life, her family might be bequeathed a son.

  * * *

  To my grandfather, the o-miai went as planned. My parents were presented to each other, and on the same day, their engagement was announced. He chose the day of their marriage and then welcomed his future son-in-law as his own.

  Grandmother, however, did not respond to the news as she had expected. That evening she lay awake, stray pieces of tatami pricking her like thorns. Her mind and her heart raced. She wanted to wake her husband and tell him to reconsider. It was all wrong. But even in his sleep his noises were loud and furious, and she feared telling him her truest thoughts. So she spent the remainder of that evening sleepless. She would spend every evening thereafter in the same manner: silenced by fear and tormented by her guilt. During the preparation of her daughter’s hair before the o-miai, she had ac
cidentally inserted four tortoiseshell hairpins underneath the beautiful lacquer combs that had been placed in my mother’s bun. The word shi—four—never to be spoken, the number four always to be avoided in groupings; the word whose double meaning was death.

  FOUR

  The preparation of a Japanese bride is much like the wrapping of a splendid present, and Mother was no exception.

  Her dressing would take several hours to complete. First there was the arrangement of five layers of colored cloth around her neck. Grandmother had carefully selected each color. She chose the ukon yellow, derived from the turmeric plant, for its vibrant color; the suou red and safflower pink for their sign of wealth; and a malachite green because it personified eternity. But the last layer that she placed on her daughter’s shoulders was the prized konjyou blue. This dark blue-purple, made from a rare mineral imported from China, was said to evoke dignity and spiritual composure; it was said to symbolize the resolution of the bride stepping into her new life.

  Layer upon layer, Mother was prepared for her waiting bridegroom. The temperature of her body soared with each additional garment. Red underclothes peeked from underneath a white silk robe girdled by a small red obi, and then a thicker white robe was placed on top and girdled with a slightly broader white obi. Grandmother’s colorfully patterned wedding kimono was placed over Mother and allowed to remain open, revealing the multiple layers of robes underneath, and trailing behind her nearly four feet. Last, a fan was placed in the outermost sash. Gold on one side, silver on the other. The sun and the moon. Closed and compact. Neatly tucked at her waist.