The Mask Carver's Son

by Alyson Richman

  Still, I would find the voyage a long one. My nights were spent longing for the company of Noboru.

  The package he had given me lay on a chest in my cabin. The wrapping paper and thin, flat cord concealed its contents, but I marveled at the delicacy of its surface. I imagined him wrapping the small pine box with care.

  As I fell into my first sleep at sea, I dreamed he was with me. He emerges, sitting on the carpeted floor in a cabin adjacent to mine, a scroll of rice paper stretched out before him, a long, thin brush in hand. His back is curved. His crossed legs extend like the small silver wings of a Japanese beetle.

  I recognize the nape of his neck shining in the moonlight, the thin raised hairs parting over the topmost bone. I sigh at the sight of his white arm extending from his sleeve, slender as a stick of bamboo, grasping a horsehair wand soaked in pigment, dancing with the brush in hand, his entire body swaying over the paper, the thick strokes of black ink exploding over the parchment.

  I awakened, my body covered in a cold sweat. Outside my porthole, I could no longer see the shores of Japan. Only a long blanket of water that stretched and wrapped the world in liquid blue. And the breath of my friend slipped farther from me, replaced by the smell of salt and the musk of the distant Mediterranean.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Loneliness can overcome almost any person who journeys across the sea. The water underneath you becomes your cradle. The sun through your porthole, the dial by which you mark your day.

  My mind during those weeks at sea, after the Asian ports and before the Suez, became both my best friend and my worst enemy. A constant dialogue between us. My conscience pitted against my passion. My hope mingled precariously with my bouts of despair.

  I thought of Father as much as I did of Noboru. Perhaps even more, as he was now elevated, like Mother, to the supreme power of Ghost.

  Some nights, I’d uncover Father’s unfinished mask from the several layers of cloth in which it slept. I’d bring it to my bed and stare into its nearly featureless face, its round container of two shining eyes.

  * * *

  On our day of arrival, I awoke at sunrise and went out to the ship’s bow to get the first glimpse of Marseilles. The ship appeared big and full of energy, smokestacks breathing hot, white air into the sky, the heaving sounds of anchors being dropped and chains being pulled. The steamship’s horn announced our arrival with a loud and heavy blast, blowing our greeting into the brown docks that waited only a few hundred meters ahead.

  I went to my cabin. My bags were already packed, but I had not yet opened the gift from Noboru. It still looked the same way it did on the day he gave it to me. The white paper remained without the slightest trace of a fingerprint, the corners still neatly wrapped and bound with a thin, flat cord. I sat on my bed and opened it reverently, making sure not to tear the paper. I would save everything—the paper, the cord, and the thin wooden box.

  I could not tell what the gift was at first. But when I lifted the box’s cover, I saw Noboru’s only set of oil paints. Each tube was perfectly white, its bottom rolled and its cap tightly screwed on. My heart sank to think of him without these. They were his most valuable and cherished possessions. His parents had saved for over a year to buy them for him.

  As I held one of the small tubes out into the sunlight, my eyes fell upon a small smudge in the lower corner. It was one of Noboru’s fingerprints, a pale shade of yellow, pressed ever so faintly into the foil. As I had done with the shard of plum wood my father gave me when I began my journey, I picked up this gift and pressed it close to my heart.

  * * *

  The station for the train to Paris was filled with passengers. Several Western couples waited farther ahead, where the first-class cars would be arriving, the women in their fur collars and their husbands in their round bowler hats. As for me, I still could not believe I was standing on European soil.

  The porters bustled through the station, maneuvering their loaded carts through the crowds, whistling melodies my ears had never heard before. They wore uniforms of red and navy with shiny gold buttons.

  Here I was, Yamamoto Kiyoki, in France, my black eyes now only beginning to see.

  The train arrived. Its massive black wheels rolled over the tracks, and soon an entire symphony of whistles and brakes sounded through the air. I boarded my designated carriage and arranged myself comfortably in a seat next to the window. I spent the remaining ten hours on the way to Paris with my face pressed to the glass. Avignon, Arles, and Orange—the heart of Provence—passed before my eyes. I gloried in seeing my first field of sunflowers, endless rows of yellow, pitted by dark brown, stretching far into the plains.

  The houses seemed to be made out of clay, painted either a saffron yellow or a pale lotus pink, their tiled roofs in soft waves of terra-cotta. An occasional farmhouse appeared with a rustic exterior of stone-studded walls. The rooflines varied; some rose as high as church steeples and then leveled off almost in midair. Animals grazed behind low stone walls, the sun-baked remnants of Roman glory. Flowers blossomed within gardens, fenced in by small white planks, displaying colors of the richest purple to the most fiery red.

  What contrast to our rice paddies, the wet green swamplands that define our farmland. Instead, I saw shimmering fields of wheat, like soldiers of gold standing tall in the autumn sunshine. There were no women with their backs bent and broad bamboo hats pulled over their eyes. Rather, I saw men with fair hair and red faces pausing from their work to watch the train hurry along the tracks.

  I saw all of these beautiful things, although none of them noticed me. The ones who did see me, who studied me, shared the same side of the glass as I. They were the men who wore dark gray suits with crisp white shirts. Men who had thin gold watches with chains dangling from their vest pockets. Men who smoked short-stemmed pipes and adjusted their wire-rimmed eyeglasses every time the sun changed. Women who wore feathers in their hats and silk from their collars to their ankles. Women who nudged their husbands for an answer to the questions they had failed to whisper as quietly as they had intended.

  I was trying my best to look inconspicuous and fit in. The man at Takashimaya had assured me that everything in his department was imported directly from Europe. My collar was pressed and of the finest cotton, my cuffs were turned upward and fastened with real cuff links, and my shoes were leather, tied tightly and polished diligently. What possibly could they find so extraordinary?

  I knew what they found strange. My eyes were carved like recessed almonds, their irises the color of coal.

  I could disguise myself in a fancy, dark Western suit, but my eyes would always betray me.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Stepping onto the platform at Paris, I instantly caught sight of another Japanese, who, unlike me, was dressed in tweed. We exchanged glances, and it was clear by the raising of his brows that he suspected I was the man for whom he was waiting.

  As I knew I was competing with the roar of the locomotives, I made my voice unusually loud: “Takada-sama?”

  He came over to me immediately, and we extended a mutual bow to one another.

  Takada was shorter and rounder than I expected. He had clearly bought his tweed jacket a long time ago, as it no longer seemed to fit him. The lapels spread like strained wings over his upper chest, and the tortoiseshell buttons struggled to contain his bulging belly. His white shirt was crisp and elegantly tailored, but his cravat was awkwardly tied. He seemed sadder and more uncomfortable than I had imagined. Almost like a small boy who had grown too fast, not yet fitting into his skin.

  Underneath the Western clothes, Takada was still very much a Japanese. During our initial introduction, we exchanged formal greetings and referred to each other in the most polite language possible. I feigned not being exhausted, just as he pretended that picking me up was not an inconvenience. Under this shared stage of common culture, but against the backdrop of this new and foreign city, we
walked toward the station’s exit.

  As soon as we left the station I was struck by the extraordinary lights of Paris. It had become dark already, the sun having set almost two hours before, so all the boulevards were illuminated by gaslights. The heavy white stone of the station’s exterior, the tall, narrow apartment buildings with their small iron balconies filled with potted plants and ivy, dappled with the most magnificent shadows. It was not at all the type of shadow that appears on the side of one our wooden buildings or on the translucent paper of our shoji. Rather, it was warmer, unequivocally more magical. More splendid than I could ever have imagined in my dreams.

  “Your hotel is conveniently located near the Beaux-Arts,” Takada informed me. He too had stayed there when he first arrived in Paris, but he now chose to sublet an apartment closer to the Sorbonne. “You’ll be able to rent a room there for an extended period, if you like it. If not, I’ll help you make other arrangements.”

  “You’re far too kind, Takada-sama,” I replied, as we walked through the narrow streets draped in hanging geranium leaves and textured by shuttered windows. I craned my neck, my mouth agape, struck by the newness of my surroundings.

  “Here we are!” Takada announced as we arrived at the corner of the Rue de Buci and Rue de Seine. The hotel where I would be staying was nestled in a small alcove amid a myriad of small street cafés, art galleries, and tiny food shops.

  Takada went directly to the hotel’s reception area to speak with the concierge, while I waited close by with my bags in hand. From the corner of my eye, I could see the concierge’s bright red vest. In profile, he looked grandfatherly—silver spectacles and powder-white hair. His hands were spotted brown. Brown, as Father’s had been when I held them in my palms and washed them with care. As I watched the Frenchman inscribe his register with the information Takada gave him, I was struck with a sudden sense of melancholia. Was Father watching me as I began my journey as a foreigner in a distant land? Or had he abandoned me, as I had done to him when I left the first time, our crafts dividing us into eternity?

  “Yamamoto-san,” Takada called, interrupting my thoughts. “The owner says he can offer you either a room facing south or one facing east. Which one would you prefer? Perhaps you want the one facing east? It may remind you of Japan.” He was smiling at me, and his eyeglasses sparkled in the hotel’s lamplight.

  “Actually,” I murmured, “would it be possible to have the one facing south? The light will be better that way, and if I decide to paint at home, it might be helpful.”

  “Of course. That would be best, wouldn’t it?” he said as he turned his back and resumed his conversation with the concierge.

  After several minutes he returned and handed me the key.

  “You must be very tired, Yamamoto-san. Why don’t you get some sleep and we can meet tomorrow afternoon? There is a good café around the corner if you want to get breakfast in the morning, and I can assist you with the bank if you need it.”

  “You’ve been ever so helpful,” I said, bowing deeply to him.

  “Don’t mention it, my friend,” he said nonchalantly. “And as far as your studies are concerned, I have a friend in the Beaux-Arts, a man named Hashimoto, who might be able to recommend a teacher for you.” He took a pen and small leather notepad from his breast pocket and wrote himself a short note.

  “I’ll see if I can arrange a meeting between us.”

  My eyes were beginning to betray my fatigue. I took out a handkerchief and dabbed at my forehead in the hope that it might invigorate me somehow. I did not want to appear rude or ungrateful.

  “You have been most kind, Takada-san. I hope that someday I might return your hospitality.”

  Takada smiled. “It’s been my pleasure. Since you are an artist, Yamamoto-san, perhaps someday you will give me a painting that resembles the way that I see Paris. Perhaps my strange vision of this city can be painted only by another Japanese.”

  “Should I ever produce a canvas of merit, you will be the first to receive it, Takada-san,” I promised. “However, in the meantime, won’t you accept this simple gift as a token of my appreciation?” I handed him a small box of dry tea sweets and bowed in reverence as I bid him a good night.

  * * *

  The next morning I awoke at sunrise. The room had two windows overlooking the street, and the daylight penetrated the flimsy green drapes much as it would a shoji. I found my quarters quite spacious and comfortable, but beginning to show signs of age. The paint was chipped and peeling in paper-thin strips around the ceiling’s perimeter. The walls, once covered in pale yellow, now had a sort of grayish dinginess that reminded me of my tatami back in Tokyo. Two cigarette burns peeked through the crisp linen like hollow eyes. But still, I was in the city of endless splendors and artistic inspiration, the land of the great masters and the greatest museums. I opened one of the windows and allowed the morning air to enter the room. I stood in my cotton yukata, the sunlight warming my face and body.

  The light was golden and translucent, like the dappled skin of our autumn pears. How I imagined it would radiate on my canvas, enabling even the simplest objects to glow in its soft, illuminating light.

  I would begin painting with Noboru’s gift as soon as I got settled.

  But first, I sat down and began a letter to my beloved friend.

  After I sealed the letter, I set out to find the café that Takada suggested for breakfast.

  I discovered it between the Rue Jacob and Boulevard Saint-Germain. There amid wicker chairs piped in gleaming brass and mirrors etched in floral arabesques, I savored my first basket of croissants and a steaming cup of coffee.

  With nearly two hours before my meeting with Takada, I decided to walk down the Rue de Seine and then follow the river until I came across the Pont Neuf, where I saw the Louvre for the first time.

  There it was: an explosion of grandeur, carved from what seemed like a mountain of marble, an enormous monument housing thousands of the most beautiful works created by the hands of man. I trembled when I saw it. The museum seemed endless; stretching farther than I had ever imagined, it was adorned with countless glass windows, what seemed like a sea of eyes, all gazing down at me.

  I walked through the gateway, felt the cloth of my jacket being brushed by so many rushing tourists eager to enter.

  I paused in the middle of the Cour Napoleon and felt tiny pearls of perspiration forming over my forehead and around my collar. I was swimming in an artistic ecstasy that benumbed my senses. It was too much for me.

  I did not enter on my first day. I would come back and dedicate several days to roaming through the extensive rooms. Instead, I walked toward the second courtyard and then toward the Orangerie. There were so many people out for a midday stroll, and I wanted to be around people now. I wanted to see how the French lived. I hoped that if I studied them in their environment—in their work and leisure, as lovers and as families—I would become more comfortable in this new and strange city.

  * * *

  I met Takada on a corner near the Avenue de l’Opéra, and we set up a bank account for me. It was a sum that I hoped would subsidize my studies and my living expenses for five years. After that, I would have to return home.

  “Unfortunately, money goes fast here, my friend,” Takada mused after we had left the marble halls of the bank. “If you’re hoping to be here for a while, keep a careful watch on your recreational expenses.”

  “I confess, I have not been known to be particularly social, so I doubt I will have much of a problem being thrifty in that regard. Paints and instruments are usually my greatest expense.”

  “I see,” he said, smiling. “Well, then, we shall limit ourselves to one coffee today.”

  Outside, the afternoon sun beamed rays of gold onto the sidewalk. I found myself nurturing, if only for a brief second, a ridiculous fantasy that my hair too was as flaxen as theirs. The color of sun-bleached
wheat. The sight of my new companion, however, reminded me otherwise. I saw the reality of my reflection in the shiny black mirror of his eyes. I noticed the fastidious manner in which he dressed, for it was the same way I had dressed on my voyage to France. We styled ourselves as Europeans, but in such a flawless manner that, in the end, we tried too hard and failed. I realized much later that we had succeeded only in looking more Japanese, and more out of place, than ever. We slicked our shiny black hair back behind our ears, with not a strand out of place, using a pomade whose smell was as foreign to us as were the ingredients—coconut oil and sandalwood. Still, we continued to buy it for the same reason that we bought our dark brown suits and our matching foulards and handkerchiefs—because we so desperately wanted to fit in.

  We failed to realize that we could never escape the reality of our foreignness. Not because we were Japanese, but because we were and would always be self-conscious men.

  THIRTY-NINE

  For the first time in my life, I was completely free. Takada was a contact, but he knew nothing of my earlier life. He knew nothing of Father. Of my relationship with Noboru. Of the collection of masks I had traded for gold.

  Before my studies consumed my mind, I walked through Paris until my feet burned and my toes grew callused. I found joy as I stood among the crowds and watched the street mimes. With their painted white faces and ruby red lips, they juggled bright yellow pins in the air, while men with their children balanced on their shoulders cried loudly and threw a few sous into a large round hat.

  The first time I saw the rose window of Notre-Dame, I nearly died from the sight of such splendor.

  That glorious window whose radiant cobalt and azure panes glowed in the midday sun. All around me were symbols I did not understand. This house of worship, whose god was not depicted in the form of Buddha but in the tortured image of a bleeding man with a spindly crown of thorns. His mother, with long brown hair and blue robes, knelt at his anguished side, her fingers entwined like vines.